When I misbehaved as a kid, my mother told stories of monsters who lived in the dark or under my bed to scare me. She said that sometimes these mythical creatures crept out of the closet to frighten children into good behavior. The measures I took trying not to disturb the dark included leaving the lights on to ensure a good night’s sleep, and making sure my feet were tucked in securely, my head buried under covers while in the fetal position. I was told following these guidelines prevented monsters from finding me.

But what if I told you I still believe in monsters?

The very thought of them makes me a coward, a wimp, a scared little child who jumps at shadows or any bump in the night. I nearly soil my pants when I feel someone walk up on me. I exercise my right to fear well.

And they like it.

Monsters in uniform that prey on my panic-induced adrenaline rush. Creatures of the night dressed in blue, riding in like death ready to Miranda rights my soul. Looking at me with flashlights, making me a suspect, hearing the feedback from dispatch, making me a match.

Will it be a routine traffic stop or a final destination? I know this monster all too well.

“Hand me your license and registration.”

“Sir, place your hands on the steering wheel!”

“Sir, step out of the car!”

Hand on holster, drawn revolver. Being pulled over by the police is a scary story told too often. They like to yell “BOO!” with their guns.

I don’t want to uncover my head today!

Hands over eyes, trying to make the monster go . awayOfficer, I promise I won’t misbehave! I didn’t mean to drive while black today! I didn’t mean for my skin to be the darkness that attracts you. Surely you wouldn’t be here if you saw the light. If my skin was white. But instead my hands and feet are tucked into handcuffs securely. And you are still the architect of my fetal position.

Might as well walk in the woods when walking home at night. There are creatures with tasers for tongues who stalk the streets at night. Their howling sounds like, “Freeze, put your hands behind your head!” In every encounter they let me know they are here to serve and protect white privilege.

It’s a full moon tonight. Lycans travel in packs. And they be Lycan the way I resist arrest when handcuffed lying facedown on the ground. They be Lycan the way I talk back when I say I can’t breathe. They be Lycan the extra beat in my heart when I hear them growling, kicking and beating my Africa under rainbows. They be Lycan when I’m not moving. To them, dark meat is the easiest prey.

The police have been haunting my people for years. Turning lives such as Akai Gurley, John Crawford III, Dante Parker, Tyree Woodson and Tamir Rice into horror stories to keep my people from misbehaving. They know their hate crime will be televised and labeled a closed case because, for a police officer, a conviction is a fairy tale. And this is a horror story with a litany of never-ending sequels. And Chris Thomas could be the next entry.

So, mom, you’ve done it. I’m scared.

One of C. Thomas’s major abilities is how he weaves his emotions into accessible works of art. His poetry proved not only a cathartic experience for him, but for peers and strangers alike. No stranger to the stage, C. Thomas has been a feature for numerous venues including, Save the Arts Community, Sweet and Natural and Spit Dat. Today, he is a host of two venues in the D.C. area by the names of “Mic Check” which he founded and Busboys and Poets 5th and K. From the moment he shared his poem, “I” a piece offering insight in accepting one’s own strength, he has gone on, and will continue to go on to conquer mindsets and stages. Ladies and gentleman, C. Thomas is poetry’s host.

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C. Thomas

Writing since December 2015 · 1 story contributed