They have dreamed as young men dream
Of glory, love and power; 
They have hoped as youth will hope
Of life’s sun-minted hour.

They have seen as others saw
Their bubbles burst in air,
They have learned to live it down
As though they did not care.
– “Old Black Men” by Georgia Douglas Johnson

I know a young man who won’t live to be old.

He tells me so almost every time we speak.

James (not his real name) is 21 and working his first ever job.

With his second paycheck, on Valentine’s day, he bought me flowers. “These are for you, Ms. K. I know you hate this kind of shit,” he said with a devilish smile.

James loves to make fun of me.

I took the flowers, smacked him on the arm with them, and gave him a hug. [I am not a hugger.]

“You should save your money. Don’t spend it on me,” I protested. [Inside I was struggling to hold my emotions in check.]

“Oh Ms. K, what’s the use of saving. I ain’t gonna be here but for a bit.”

I’ve heard these words (in some variation) so often that they now pour off me like water from a shower head. I should be outraged, perhaps. I should feel… something. But I don’t respond anymore. I pretend that I don’t hear the words. I am numb and to be honest I can’t guarantee that he will live to become an old man. He’s young, black, and living on the West side of Chicago. I steel myself for bad news every morning…

I saw an old black man sitting outside a Greystone building in Lawndale last month. I did a double take. I don’t see a lot of old black men in Lawndale or anywhere else in Chicago really. I see some old black women. I even work with some who are active in their local block clubs and churches. But the old black men, they are ghosts…

The President spoke in Chicago on Friday. He said a lot of things and then hours after he left the city four more people were shot (one lethally). As I predicted on Friday morning, judging from social media reaction, most people were disappointed in the speech. I still haven’t watched it. I don’t plan to. It’s not a protest. I just don’t want to.

With good fortune & health, President Obama will live to become an old black man. As he reflects on the opportunities that he had during his two terms in office to speak clearly & honestly about the root causes of violence in the black community, I wonder if he will feel a sense of pride or of shame about his performance.

I’m actually one who doesn’t believe in the black savior model of social change. I certainly know that any President of the United States cannot singlehandedly transform the oppression that black people have and continue experience. But I do wonder what he would tell James if he were to meet him.

What would he say to a 21 year old man-child who constantly says that he won’t live to be old? That’s a speech/talk that I would love to hear. If the cameras were off and it was just the two of them in a room together, would the President acknowledge the ravages of racism to James? Would he talk about his own experiences of being harassed by cops and empathize with how dehumanizing this is for young men like James? Would he admit his complicity in prosecuting an unjust drug war and overseeing a prison nation? Would he say that prison has had a bigger role in expanding “fatherlessness” in the black community than innate pathology or dysfunction? Would he rage against residential segregation and concentrated poverty?

James won’t be speaking with the President any time soon. So I spent this weekend rediscovering the words that I need to say to him when we talk again. The next time he tells me that he won’t live to be old, I pledge to break my silence. I’ll tell him that I love him and would be devastated if he didn’t live until he is (at least) 100. I’ll say that it is my most fervent wish that he meet his grandchildren. I’ll say that the sun would shine less brightly were he no longer in the world. I promise to remind him that he matters to me. I’ll tell him that I am counting on flowers every Valentine’s day until I die. After all, what black woman can resist a black man (even if he is young enough to be her son) giving her flowers, no matter how much she protests. I’ll tell him one more time that I love him and hope that this gets him through the night…

Note: The following is an interactive timeline of 2013 homicides in Chicago.