When Everyone Else Comes Home

What’s up, my Eaters!

I hope your summers are progressing in the way you need them to—the vacations, backyard barbecues, weekend trips, and time with the people you love.

My intention this week was to talk to you about charcoal grilling.

However, that conversation will have to wait.

This week, I need to step outside of my usual lane and address something deeply personal—something that has affected me at a guttural level since hearing about the death of 18-year-old Nolan Wells in Mississippi.

I did not know Nolan. I do not know his family or his friends, and I was not there. I only know what I have seen and heard through the media.

But I know what his story awakened in me.

I grew up in the rural suburbs of South Jersey, in a predominantly white community that, in many ways, reminds me of Coweta and Fayette counties. My family was one of only a few Black or minority families in our town. During the 1980s and 1990s, you could almost count the minority families in our school district by name.

For the most part, I had a good childhood. I did not grow up believing that every white person was against me or that every environment outside my home was dangerous.

But there was still a conversation that took place in our house.

My parents came to this country from Jamaica. They worked hard to create a better life for their family, and part of protecting that life meant preparing their children for realities we were too young to understand.

We were taught how to behave not if, but when, we were stopped, questioned, or confronted by the police. We were also taught how to carry ourselves when we were the only brown-skinned people in the room.

These were not casual suggestions.

They were marching orders not to be deterred from.

Remain calm. Be respectful. Watch your tone. Be aware of your surroundings. Know who you are with. Pay attention when the atmosphere changes. Understand that behavior dismissed as foolishness in someone else could become dangerous for you.

We did not necessarily walk around afraid every day.

It was more like an underlying knowing:

Carry yourself this way because it could be the difference between coming home and not coming home. Between being hurt and not being hurt. Between being heard and having your future changed before you ever get the chance to explain yourself.

So when I first heard Nolan’s story, before I saw the photographs, one thought immediately entered my mind:

Please do not let this be a young Black man who was the only one in a group of white friends.

Then I saw the pictures.

My heart sank. On a weekend celebrating freedom, Nolan did not come home.

Not because there is anything wrong with a Black child having white friends. Most of the people I grew up around were white. Many of my closest friends did not look like me. Friendship, love, and loyalty do not belong to one race.

But friendship and familiarity do not erase every difference in how the world may perceive us.

When I saw Nolan’s face, those conversations with my parents came rushing back.

Did his parents give him the same marching orders? Did he feel safe because these were his friends and this was his community? Or was he simply 18 years old—young, trusting, enjoying Independence Day, and believing he would return home like everyone else?

I want to be clear.

I am not blaming Nolan. I am not saying that he caused his own death or that following a particular set of rules would have guaranteed his safety. Being young is not a crime. Trusting your friends is not a crime. An 18-year-old should be able to spend time with friends and return home safely.

But Nolan’s death forced me to confront something I have wrestled with as a father.

I am a Black father raising Black children in the rural South. My children are only 5 and 8 years old.

There have been times when I have felt convicted about beginning these conversations with them so young. I do not want to raise fearful children. I do not want them to enter every room suspicious of the people around them or to see color before character.

I want them to lead with humanity. I want them to see people first, love freely, build diverse friendships, and move through the world with confidence.

But I also want my children to come home.

That is the tension many Black and minority parents carry. We want our children to experience the freedom and innocence every child deserves, but we also understand that innocence alone may not protect them.

My Eaters, forgive me for stepping outside of my usual lane.

But if you are sitting at the table in my house today—with me, my wife, and our two Black children—this is the conversation we are having.

How do we prepare our children without terrifying them? How do we teach awareness without teaching suspicion? How do we explain that people are people while acknowledging that not everyone will see them that way?

I do not have a perfect answer.

But to all my Eaters—Black, white, brown, and everyone in between—I say this:

Love each other better.

Serve each other better.

Do not lead with color. Lead with humanity. Lead with people first. Lead with love.

Be mindful of the people around you. Pay attention to who may be vulnerable. Understand that an environment that feels safe to you may not feel the same to someone else.

Speak up when something is wrong.

Do not leave people behind.

Make sure the people who came with you are able to return with you.

And to my minority Eaters, especially the younger ones, I say this with love:

Be aware of your surroundings. Know where you are. Know who you are with. Use wisdom. Walk smartly. Trust your instincts when something feels wrong. Do your best not to place yourself in situations where everyone else returns home while your family is left asking questions.

That is not how the world should have to operate.

Our children should not have to carry these calculations.

But many of us still do.

That awareness never meant that everyone around us was dangerous. It meant our parents understood that we could be loved by the people in the room and still be vulnerable to circumstances they had never been taught to anticipate.

My hope is that one day parents like me will no longer feel required to have these conversations. My hope is that there will not have to be another Nolan Wells.

To Nolan’s parents, family, friends, and everyone who loved him, my prayers are with you. I pray that you receive truth, clarity, comfort, and justice.

And to the rest of us:

Love each other better.

Serve each other better.

Make sure everyone comes home.

You can always find me or a member of the Pink’s Barbecue team at the Peachtree City Farmers Market.

Next week, we will return to the fire.

Until then, take care of one another.