The Lost Boys

Boy with June Bug, Fort Scott, Kansas, 1963 © courtesy the Gordon Parks Foundation

inspired by Al Green’s How Can You Mend a Broken Heart

How can you mend this broken man?

How can a loser ever win?

Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again.

When I hold you up against the light you look thin. Despite the illusion of your frame, I see you. Withering, lacking, questioning, fraudulent, imperfect. You aren’t as well-fed as you pretend to be.

“a lot of weight when you’re well”

It would be easy to continue to blame others for your acts of violence. To point fingers at mothers who absolved you of accountability. To shift responsibility onto brothers who will enter graves refusing to see the sum total of your life through your horrid mistakes. To falsely name the damage you’ve caused as growing pains.

There are people who still lose sleep from the nightmares you’ve caused them.

This is all on you.

You are no stranger to hot churches and long sermons. Sweaty pastors and loose conviction. Suits that aid in your illusion but will never actually fit quite right. It is because of this that you know the story of Jesus Christ teaches life after death. That grace is sufficient. That sacrificial love exists. And it is because man is held so closely in comparison to God that so many have sacrificed their sanity at the risk of showing you what it means to have heart. As I have come to know you, through birth until now, I too have faced sacrifice on your behalf. Enough to know that I am not a fan of sacrificial love. Enough to know you didn’t even appreciate when Jesus did it. Enough to wonder how much grace I should continue to extend you before I begin to cause myself an injustice. To rightfully question if it will ever be possible for you to commit to me when you have not committed to yourself. Wonder what it was like to almost die and if there are days you wish you hadn’t fought it.

Your mother told you that you’d inherit the Earth. So it comes as no surprise that her worship has led you to believe that this level of ownership is your birthright. But despite your training and expensive education, you are painfully uncertain and recklessly insecure. Your head may be up and your posture tall, but we both know you don’t know where you’re going.

Would you believe that no one

No one said a word about the sorrow

If you asked me about my top five worst heartbreaks, watching you shrink in your seat as your classmates spoke death over your ability is top of my list. Last summer I wrote you my final sentiments. I reminded you that no one has the power to define you. Urging you to remember you have the power to reject any narrative that suggests otherwise. I am hoping that you no longer slump down in classrooms. That you’ve learned how to sit up straight and fall in rhythm with the beat of your brilliance. You gave my purpose a newfound sweetness. You found me in my confusion. You cleared up every question. You are the kid that made this shit worth it for me.

I teach new boys now. Some of them are just like you. Wide-eyed and protective. Bold but hesitant. Intelligent yet dangerously insecure. They all walk with their head down. And just like you, I know for a fact they can’t see where they’re headed.

How can you mend my, please help me mend my broken heart

I have taught myself that there is no glory in the sacrifice. That men will light worlds on fire and leave right before the stench of smoke. My hope for you is that you find your north without inciting flame to the world around you. That you find yourself without causing casualty.

All I ask is that you be braver than the men I know.

I think I, I believe I, I’ve got a feeling that I want to live and live and live

—

Dedicated to my mother’s father, my father’s father, and my own. With love in mind for my father, my brother, my students, and you. From Morehouse to Massachusetts.