Yesterday after my son’s performance at the neighborhood arts center, I decided to treat him to a Frosty. “I want a Frosty shake, Dad.” It was Friday so I said what the heck. We enter the restaurant and on a very rare occasion I felt unsafe. Why? Because there were five armed individuals in the store, each of them authorized by the state of Georgia to execute deadly force.
We call them Babylon Bandits. (Full attribution to Barrington Salmon for coining the phrase.) The rest of you call them … the police.
They sat there calmly engaging in cop chit chat and a few minutes later they left. My blood pressure started to go down as the distance between these paid hunters and my son and me increased as they entered their vehicles.
The reality behind raising a son is that as he gets older and taller he inches onto the profile and within the gun sights of these “Urban Cowboys.” As individuals some of these men and women may be cool, but I don’t want to get too close to them to find out.
As the recent settlement between the City of New York and five men wrongfully accused of raping a jogger in Central Park should remind us, unless we are old, gray, and in a wheelchair, we are target practice for a law enforcement and judicial system that still views us as chattel….
Forty million dollars was not enough …..