by Montreal Blakely, San Quentin State Prison, CA
This is a story by a Black father who loses his son. Where a man should always be buried by his son, instead here I am burying my son. Lil’ Treal died December 15th, 2012. He was murdered by another Black Kid.
My son was a seventeen year old football star. He was a senior in high school with a 3.8 average. He had promised his mom and I that he was going to get it up to a 4.0 before he graduated. He wasn’t a perfect son, but he was a great son. He was my Junior. He was my journey.
I sit here, nine years later inside San Quentin, the pain still exists but now I can live with it. I don’t think it will ever go away, but I want others who have lost a child to know that there’s a way to live with it. Lil’ Treal would have been 26 years old now, so I want the youths who are reading this to know that life is short. Stop taking life for granted because you don’t want your parents to cry Black Tears too.
When Lil’ Treal was born, I cut the cord. We were very close. The day that I lost him, I lost something inside of me. Still right now today, nine years later, I can’t express to you fully what I’ve lost. Did I lose me? Did I lose my breath? Did I lose my vision? I’ve often been asked by people how I deal with it. I tell these people, it’s like being in the middle of a fire, and you’re burning up. You can’t outrun the fire. You can’t jump out of the fire. You can’t put the fire out. You accept the burning pain. You live with the pain. Sometimes, you even want the pain to cover up the pain, if you can understand that.
At times, I often wondered how would it be when I die? And the pain I would cause unto other people for my death. I even wish sometimes that I was dead so I can say that I’ve never buried Lil’ Treal.
After my son died, I didn’t dream anymore. When I went to sleep it was just dark for years. I didn’t understand how something being so painful could stop me from dreaming when I closed my eyes.
I called this story Black Tears because my tears seem to be really black. I’m not saying black as a metaphor for Black People. I mean literally my tears are the color black from darkness and depression. I share these tears with other Black mothers and fathers who suffer from the killings in our community.
Over the years, people would ask me to speak or tell them how I felt when it happened. I would tell people that it’s so hard to explain because you just can’t pick words to describe the way I feel inside. It’s like I belong to an exclusive club that no one wants to be a part of.
Surprisingly, there’s not too many people around you in prison who can fully empathize. It’s one of those situations where you can’t go and talk to anyone. As of right now, I’m around hundreds of men, but there’s no one I can go talk to because not many fathers bury their seventeen year old and there’s also not too many people who really care. A lot of fathers of children who die aren’t even around to cry Black Tears.
When my son died, I figured there was no one to talk to. I had friends and family, but it’s hard to talk about losing a part of you. It is nine years later and every December to February my depression level goes up. I’ve asked God over and over again WHY? Why did I lose Lil’ Treal? I’ve found out that no matter how many times I ask why, I’ll never get the answer here on Earth. I’ve also been at war with myself and God. The day my son died I cussed God out. I said the hell with God. I used to not give a damn about a God. If there is a God why did he take Lil’ Treal? Why wouldn’t he take me? I guess it’s one of those things I’ll never get an answer to. It’s taken me some time but now I’m starting to open back up to God slowly but surely. I’m trying to understand again about this man we call God.
So I tell this story from the point of view of a Black man whose lost a Black Boy. I still cry Black Tears.