Please, Be Safe

By Tyhi Conley

Before they arrived, we were laughing, telling stories outside of the convenience store. Over the years, the store’s owner got to know us. He’d sold to us since we were kids buying dollar Arizona’s and 50 cent honey buns every summer day on our way to the pools, courts, or houses of friends whose parents let us in.

The people knew us. They’d stop and talk as they came and went. The older women wondered what we’d do with our lives, and called us handsome. The older men asked us which sport we played, and if we were being recruited. All of them warned us, almost begging that we “stay safe.” At the time, we didn’t understand why our elders used the phrase to say goodbye, or even how they all knew to say it. In hindsight, I’ve concluded it’s something our elders expected we’d need to hear.

See, our elders predicted that they would come, and that when they arrived they wouldn’t see laughing teenagers enjoying their day. They aren’t proud like the older men and women of our community. They’re scared. They hold a false sense of duty. They mischaracterize.

“Look at where they live,” they say while driving by. “What do they have to laugh about?”

“Why are they together?” they question. “Too many of them in one spot is bound to cause a problem.”

As they pull in, our smiles vanish quickly, like a small flame in the wind. We contemplate running, but reconsider, as we haven’t committed any crimes.

“What are your names? Where do you live?” The interrogation begins.

“Here,” we answer. “We live here.”

“Where were you guys last night?” they continue.

Last night, we were doing what regular teenagers do. No, we weren’t selling drugs or breaking into houses. We were with our girlfriends, or playing video games, or working to buy sneakers.

Despite our declaration of innocence, the backup appears. One at a time, until the parking lot becomes crowded and lit with flashing blue lights. Curious about the cause of the cop cars, the drivers passing by slow down, snarling traffic. The people around the store, instead of coming and going, stop and stare and pull out their phones. Our predicament becomes clear.

We understand that we are staring into the face of death; that witnesses don’t matter, and neither do cameras. The crowd is helpless, like an audience watching a horror movie: No matter how much they wish a character hasn’t gone in that room, the best they can do is scream once the violence occurs. At worst, if they decide to act on their fear, our deaths will result in a couple months of paid leave.

We finally discover what it meant when our elders begged us to “stay safe.” The farewell was a reminder to move in a way that would ensure our survival.

“Bookbags?” they say. “It’s summer time; there is no school. You guys mind if we check those?” They frame their commandment as a question.

Knowing things will escalate if we deny the request, we open the bags. In them, are towels or cleats or video game controllers. Not weed, guns or stolen objects. After a few more questions, they grow weary of the harassment and let us go.

Although we’re free, the summer day is ruined. No more swimming, playing basketball, or hanging out, telling jokes in front of the convenience store. We’d rather go home and celebrate the teachings of our parents, along with the blessings that boredom can bring.

We grow, forever moving differently with a newly acquired perspective. Years tread by and we start our own families. Now, it’s our duty to give our children the speech. Now, we’re the elders coming and going from the convenience store, proud to have seen our community grow. Now, when we see the teenagers laughing out front, we feel obligated to tell them, “Please, be safe,” because we know they’re coming, and we know they need to hear it.

Tyhi Conley obtained a B.A. in journalism from Kennesaw State University and is working in Atlanta as a personal assistant. 

Photo credit: Steve Pisano via a Creative Commons license.