824 Words

Illustration by Jennifer Universe

I’m still learning how to be sad about Kobe because I’m still learning how to be sad about myself. 

I’m sad that Kobe died because I’m still learning how to see peers as companions and not competition. I’m still learning that every trophy they raise isn’t a trophy stolen from my case. I’m still learning that success doesn’t have to come with a snarl and a flex. I’m still learning that compliments don’t have to have a sublevel to them. I’m still learning that every smile isn’t just about flashing my teeth. I’m still learning what it means to share space with this golden age of Southern writers and artists. I’m still learning that throwing up a link to an Ashley M. Jones poem or an Imani Perry essay is just as good as throwing it up to Shaq in game 7 against the Blazers. 

I’m sad that Kobe died because I’m still learning how to deal with the man I used to be. Maybe I wasn’t a predator, but I was predatory, and I know there are women who hear my name as a curse that conjures up a hand, breath, or mouth that should have never been there. I’m still learning that everyone shouldn’t forgive me. I’m still learning that everything I’ve done since my worst days doesn’t change what was done on my worst days.

I’m sad that Kobe died because Kobe was corny. The Mamba Mentality wasn’t anything that Hulk Hogan didn’t tell me when he told me to train, say my prayers, and eat my vitamins. The Mamba Mentality wasn’t anything that Goku didn’t show me when he found another galactic sensei to help him reach a more final final form. The Mamba Mentality is corny, but it’s genuine. The Mamba Mentality is about effort and craft, and black people don’t get credit for effort and craft. Black success is either effortless grace or animal instinct. The idea of black greatness as a product of black effort and black craft is a dangerous idea because effort and craft are products of the mind and to acknowledge black effort and black craft is to acknowledge the black mind. 

I’m sad that Kobe died because Kobe was teaching me that changing a uniform wasn’t enough to change an identity. My work clothes might change. My budget for my work clothes might change. My shared office might become a single office. The title in front of my name might make people respect my name. But none of that erases where I started. None of that allows me to buy into the American myth of reinvention. To be black is to be layered like the levels of the planet. Mantle, crust, core all spinning and growing and withering together. I’m still looking for a plot to bury the dreams of the 20 year old I sacrificed on the altar to make sure the gods would favor the 36 year old. I’m still trying to figure out how to be both Iphigenia with the knife at her neck and Agamemnon with the knife in his hand. I’m still trying to figure out how to slit my own throat and keep the blood off my new shirt. 

I’m sad that Kobe died because my sports heroes shouldn’t die before my dad’s sports heroes. Kobe being dead while Michael Jordan is alive is another reason to grit my teeth at the Boomers and their refusal to get out of the way. I wanted to see Kobe have a chance to be a bad NBA coach, a bad general manager, a bad late night talk show host. Kobe had a chance to be in Hollywood and be a cheerleader for his daughters, but I wanted to see Kobe have a chance to do more. Kobe was a bad rapper, and I feel cheated because I won’t see Kobe be bad at a billion more things. I wanted to see Kobe sell bad home gyms. I wanted to see Kobe sell bad Italian-Japanese fusion food. I wanted Kobe to have a billion bad ideas and I wanted to forgive him for being bad because he put up 81 points and he shot a free throw with a torn Achilles.

I’m sad that Kobe died because I don’t want to learn from another dead black man. America wants me to learn from the bones of Malcolm and Martin and Ali and John Henry without discussing who turned Malcolm and Martin and Ali and John Henry into bones. America wants me to learn from dead black men so that I can remember that I, too, can be a dead black man in the next instant. If I’m lucky, I can be a lesson for the next group of black boys lucky enough to live in a country with an endless supply of dead black men to admire. I’m sad that Kobe died because I’m sad about another dead black man.

Jason McCall is an Alabama native. He holds an MFA from the University of Miami. He currently teaches at the University of North Alabama. His poetry collections include Two-Face God, Dear Hero, Silver, I Can Explain, and Mother, Less Child. His nonfiction has appeared in The Rumpus, Quarterly West, Nat. Brut, and other journals. He and P.J. Williams are the editors of It Was Written: Poetry Inspired by Hip-Hop.