A week ago today Joe went out with a friend. It was the first time he's been out in two years. It was ordinary, it was exciting, it was just a couple of kids hanging out, and it was everything.
They went to Covington Square, you've likely seen pictures I've taken with my family, going for walks there. It's a beautiful place, it's been a filming location in dozens of movies and television shows, most famously the Vampire Diaries and it's related series. It is quintessential America Main Street with a big brick Victorian era city hall, a square bordered by shops and cafes, the sort of place you take out of state friends to visit because it is picture postcard pretty. It also has a reputation for being somewhat queer friendly. It's not uncommon to see groups of Goth kids giddily taking photos at filling locations, drinking slushies packaged like the bags hospitals use for blood transfusions. The weekend crowds tend to be somewhat diverse. It's a busy, bustling, little tourist trap of delight.
Letting Joe go off on his own seemed so perfect, so safe, so ordinary. I was at work and I wasn't even sneaking peaks at Life 360° at work. I wasn't worried.
Around 2:00 the phone in my classroom rang, a call I fully expected to be the office taking roll as part of our multi step system. Another ordinary moment in an ordinary day.
Now imagine my heart dropping fear when instead of hearing Ms Joy's voice on the phone I hear, "Ms Chase, this a paramedic and I'm here with your son". In this space between this sentence and the next I think of all of the times we've been out and have seen people casually walking around with a gun on their hip or even carrying a rifle. I think of the times he was assaulted on the bus and at school both here and in RI. I think, "what was I thinking? Why did I let my son go out, a couple of Black queer kids? Alone. In Georgia. Was he beaten? Has he been shot?
Fortunately neither. He had purchased a snack and was walking around eating it when he had a reaction to what he was eating. Here in my conversation with the paramedic I breathe a sigh of relief. He's in the rescue with paramedics. He's stable. He's safe. He's okay.
He's okay.
He's okay.
I agree to meet them at the rescue, they'll keep him there in case he has a secondary reaction. They'll immediately take him to the hospital in that case, otherwise they'll wait for me to come and sign him out.
He's okay.
I hang up and call the front office, Ms Joy answers and I briefly explain what is happening. While I'm waiting for someone to come to my classroom to relieve me my panic subsides to a more manageable level of normal mommy level worry.
It takes me almost a half an hour to get to Covington. I have to keep reminding myself not to speed, not to let my adrenaline make me reckless. By now I have called my mom and she stays on speaker phone while I'm driving. All the while I'm telling her, and me, he's okay.
He's okay.
I turn into Covington Square and see the rescue parked just off the square. Their lights are flashing but in a relaxed sort of rhythm. I park in the nearest spot and run over, take a breath, and knock. There's my son. He's okay. I talk to the paramedics, sign him out, Joe assures me, he's okay.
He's okay.
On the way home he tells me about his day. About the fun and then about the not fun. If you are thinking, thank goodness for this happy ending, the story doesn't end here. Because my Black queer son who was managing his panic, who was scared, who was feeling his throat close, whose phone battery had died, was turned away from three shops when he went asking for help. Turned away. Was told he needed to buy something if he wanted to use the phone. Yes, even to call 911.
He's not okay.
The fourth shop, a little shop/cafe that specializes in goods made with local honey was different. The women behind the counter sat him down, she called 911 without hesitation. She grabbed him some benedryl from her purse. She got him some water. She sat with him and waited. She reassured him he was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.
She was Black. Why does that make a difference? The other shops were white owned, with white employees, they were hostile. They made him leave. Because he's Black? Because he's gay? Who knows.
He's okay.
He's not okay.
My son has an anxiety disorder and PTSD from the almost innumerable incidents of bullying and beatings and times his life has been threatened. I wasn't go to talk about this incident. Not publicly. But in the least week we have all watched the highest court in the land validate the belief system that is most often the cause of real harm and abuse towards people like my son. Not just my son but to millions of young people.
And we have all watched the gleeful celebration of these "victories" and the promise of more to follow.
He's not okay.
They are not okay.
It's not okay.
