[I’ve been thinking about when to share this. It’s time.]
I will never forget the first day of 7th grade. I was sitting at a breakfast table when the double doors to the cafeteria opened and a hush fell over the gentle roar of a middle school cafeteria.
In walked a new kid; in walked a Black kid. I stood up & motioned for my new friend, Jason Cuffee, to come sit with me. The rest, as they say, is history.
I didn’t know it at the time, but growing up with Jason changed me. He lived in the same world I did. Yet, in so many ways, his experience of it was profoundly different.
I mean, other new kids could hide on the first day of school. Jason could not. He dealt with so many things no one else did. I heard the racial slurs from fans in opposing student sections (and from their parents…). I saw some “good ole boys” make a noose and giggle as we drove away from one local high school. I knew which girls couldn’t date him because their fathers weren’t cool with “those people” dating their daughter. I remember one teacher poking fun at “the only chip in the cookie.”
And I saw Jason face every single day with grace, joy, dignity, courage, and strength. These experiences did not define Jason’s life. But they happened to him, and they never happened to me.
On June 19th of this year, our church hosted a Juneteenth celebration and unity march at our West Side parish. Our country is divided on racial lines. I am convinced that our city & our churches don’t have to be. Racial issues are not political to me. They’re spiritual. And that day, I realized they were personal.
June 19, 2020, was the last time I saw Jason. After the event we exchanged some messages. He said:
“Thank you for all you’re doing! I’ve known you were a real one from the first day at PMS <laugh face emoji> … It was a great turnout. I didn’t know what to expect, but it was a great feeling to see the solidarity.”
I read that message & it hit me. Jason’s courage gave me courage. Jason’s strength gave me strength. And Jason’s grace gave me grace (which I need a lot of). I stood on Juneteenth because Jason stood boldly in seventh grade.
Over the last two months, I’ve wondered where I’d be without Jason.
Without him, there is certainly no Juneteenth celebration on our parking lot. Without him, that parking lot probably doesn’t even belong to us in the first place. Without him, I would see dead Black bodies on the news as pawns in a political narrative. Without him, I would probably be bitter, angry, and divisive in these tense days. Without him, I would be “tired of hearing about race.” Without him, I would see “BLM” primarily as a hostile organization rather than a loving affirmation.
Without him, I would think everyone’s experience of the world was just like mine.
I didn’t share this at Jason’s funeral because, honestly, it’s about me. It’s about how Jason, over the course of 14 years, subtly and imperceptibly changed my life.
Dear reader, these days are hard. They bring out the worst in us. If, for whatever reason, the phrase “Black lives matter” makes you uncomfortable, I invite you to think about my dear friend. His life mattered; his life still matters. And countless other Black kids, just like Jason, deserve to know we see them, we hear them, and we love them.
Jason’s legacy lives on in his family, his children, and in our city. And, as long as I live, the world will know his life mattered. From the grave, still he speaks. With the Father, still he lives.
MB
