Did you read about Kohen?

Did you read about Kohen Wiley? I ask.

Who? Danny replies.

Kohen Wiley, I say, more emphatically, as if that might change her answer.

This is absurd, I recognize. I was in the neurologist’s office yesterday and a woman was there with her elderly mother, and she was doing exactly what I’m doing now. Her words, her voice, crawled right under my skin, like roughly inserted rusty nails. I wanted to shake her. Yelling at your mother isn’t going to change her hearing, or her comprehension, I wanted to shout. But none of my business and anyway, I was too busy simmering in my own medical office waiting room fueled anxiety.

Danny scrunches her face, as if acknowledging my internal dialogue. Well, as much as a face filled with Botox can scrunch. I can tell she’s attempting a look of confusion or annoyance, which means that she’s nearing the end of her three-month period or perhaps, she elected to go with a lighter touch this go around.

Six months ago, I told her that she was overdoing it. I’m that friend, and mostly comfortable in that role. You will not leave my presence with wilted, overoiled spinach or a poppy seed from breakfast wedged in the space just above your incisor- and you will also not make yourself into a frozen doll without a comment. The food in your teeth business will always be remarked upon, but cosmetic commentary is a one-shot deal.

I’m not judging you, I had led with, it’s just that I think you’re beautiful and I worry that you have lost sight of your own appearance and maybe, the importance of some modicum of facial expression.

Danny, as is her way, laughed, and patted my ring laden hand.

I hear ya babe, she said, duly noted.

Anyway, I don’t know whether she’s taken my advice or is weaning off her last cycle, but it helps me read her. I’m tempted to share this thought with her, but that seems to violate my own rules and also, feels condescending.

Danny, I say, modulating my voice as best I can, he’s the one-year-old that was shot in that parking lot in Mississippi.

 The oddest thing happens. Her face turns near expressionless. It’s almost as if the one-week post-injection mark has kicked in over the last few seconds. It’s not just her expression though, it’s her pallor. The bronzer I know she favors now seems to sit on top of what I can only describe as gray slate.

Danny squints then, sans crow’s feet of course.

You know I’m not political, babe. She says this in the way you would tell someone you don’t eat sweets when offered birthday cake, while attending a party. Except that her tone is much more severe. The lightness is just sort of buoyantly floating atop something heavier. It’s a warning, I think. Don’t go there, it whispers.

Yes, I respond, knowing I’m going to piss her off, but I also don’t know when the killing of an innocent child became political. Isn’t that just sort of human-ish?

I dunno babe, she replies, and begins picking at her nonexistent cuticles. I know they are invisible because she’s the kind of woman who swipes cuticle oil on her nail beds with great regularity, often in a way that seems to be inadvertent. So habitual is this ritual, that she doesn’t even realize when she’s doing it.

Swipe.

 I think we should try that new Indian place.

Swipe, swipe.

Also, Danny is a manicure gal. Every two weeks, like clockwork. A pre-vacation manicure chick. A ‘don’t leave home with chipped polish’ gf.

This is one of the many reasons why I’m amazed we are friends. My bare nails do not scream understated elegance, as announced by Refinery 29 or some similar publication, but rather, laziness. Not an inherent sort of malaise-just that which is specifically reserved to that level of self-care slash upkeep.

I’m clean and smell lovely most of the time, but my hair frequently looks like I stuck my finger in a socket, and I have manicures with the same frequency that healthy people have colonoscopies.

Alas, I’m a good friend. Entertaining and loyal and so, this friendship continues.  

Rage is filling my body. Self-righteousness. Also, agonizing awareness. The uncomfortable knowledge that Danny isn’t a solo practitioner in this game of not giving a shit. She’s in good company with so many others.

Others who will point to situations that they feel are similar.

What about this? They’ll ask and point to that time that something else happened. A thing that is not on any planet equivalent and still, I am asked to pretend. Where is your rage for those victims? That is the implication, anyway.

I have answers, you see. I have ways of demonstrating that there is no planet on which there is any kind of parallel to be drawn. Also, all victims should be treated with respect and compassion. There is no comparison needed in a scenario such as this one. Anyway, the other situation is only being brought up to explain why they cannot seem to muster any feelings or energy in connection with THIS situation. In this case, Kohen. I would love to care about a little Black baby, but I can’t, because I’m too busy caring about antisemitism, capitalism, sexism, and everything else. There is a limit for everyone, and I can’t carve out more space for this particular issue.

Except, I want to say, that this issue is the foundation of everything else.

Our apathy, I know, our willingness to leave things be as they are, is what allows the creatures to remain comfortable in their hatred, their inappropriateness, their violence. There is no battle to choose, because when hate is given space to breathe, it very quickly takes all the oxygen in the room.

I don’t know all the facts regarding the killing of Kohen Wiley. There is speculation online and there are preliminary reports, but the news outlets are spotty and inconsistent at best and misinformation seems to be the name of the game these days. But I know that Danny isn’t the only one who won’t care about Kohen. The story of Kohen is easy to ignore in the face of everything else.

However, when we ignore his story, when we decide that the killing of a Black boy is not important, particularly when compared to other “issues”, we create a hierarchy for human life.

And while Danny is all in, I’m not and I won’t.

I toss my nearly empty salad bowl and used utensils in the brown paper bag placed between us. I stand, crumpling the top between my tense fingers.

Right, I say.

As I walk away, I can almost swear I hear her, voice small and tinny: what the fuck?

X

L.