He Called For His Mom.

For Tyre Nichols. May you forever rest in joy.

Like many who are desperate for help. Like those whose options have been exhausted and who’ve lost sight of any source of hope. Like the inevitable end of an unavoidable confrontation, he turned to his permanent source of refuge.

He called for his mom.

As men who pay their bills through our work, using gear bought by their community and uniforms purchased by their neighbors. Using their badges to serve and protect themselves while abusing their oath to wreak havoc on a man who loved photography and kickflips and stood no chance against their barbaric determination to end his life.

He called for his mom.

As his ancestors wept, reliving their encounters with heartless merchants, slave patrollers, poll watchers, and those who’d pick and choose which laws to enforce. Wishing they could protect their lineage from five lawless men who’d dishonored theirs.

He called for his mom.

Because when those batons crashed down on the face his mama gently kissed when he couldn’t sleep at night. When those batons violently slammed against the ribs that were perfectly created in his mother’s womb. When the fists of five violent criminals reigned down on his body over, and over again, incapable of doing anything but wait for sirens and pray for silence.

And as he lay in that hospital — fighting, hoping to catch one more California sunset with his son, he cried out to the first woman who gave him shelter and the very life he clung to in that moment. A sanctuary that protected him from the cruelties his mama knew were all too prevalent for a Black boy like hers.

With his freedom slipping and his soul preparing its return. In his final breaths, he cried out for his permanent source of refuge.

He called for his mom.