I’m Not Scared to Die, But Children Keep Getting Left Behind

I Hate Writing Letters Like These

If you’re new to Raising Myles, Welcome!

I write letters to my newborn son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, below are some good places to start:

• Am I Good Dad, or Is the Bar Just Really Low?

• Starting Daycare: I Never Knew it Would be this Hard

• I used to be a Plant Dad

• How I Met Your Mother

• A Letter From Your Mother

---

Before we get into today’s letter, I want to say thank you for the way you held my words in last week's letter and in a note I shared. Through your comments, emails, and messages, you made me feel heard, seen, and cared for. This is the world I’m imagining for my son. Thank you for making me believe it’s possible. Bu] I know I still have some growing to do.

In last week’s letter, I called the former president names and used a caricature of him to emphasize my point. As a parent, and especially as a Jesus lover, I don’t want to stoop to the level of those who hurt us. If I do, I am no better than him or them. While aiming high when others go low is difficult, it’s something I’m striving for because I want to set a better example for my son.

Thank you for being here to witness my growth and healing in real time. Myles, if you’re reading this, here at home, we believe we don’t have to fight with fire. We fight fire with love. Much love to my amazing wife for holding me in such a beautiful light. Love you.

Ok on today’s letter — it’s a heavy one.

---

Dear Myles,

I am tired of writing letters like these, but they keep finding me. As much as I try to dream a new world for you, I am forced to live and write about this nightmare.

Just last week, 15 minutes from our home, across the street from where we often get pizza, a mass shooting took place. Seventeen people were hurt, and four are dead—Tahj Booker, Carlos McCain, Anitra Holloman, and Roderick Patterson Jr. Anitra left behind a one-year-old daughter—her name is Skilar.

Anitra Holloman

Her grandmother, in an interview¹, says Skilar still goes into the room where she and her mother slept together, and although she cannot fully grasp what has happened, you can tell she feels the loss—that her mother is never coming home again.

It is hard to believe you and Skilar are almost the same age — how are you already one? Wasn’t it just yesterday they shoved a pair of clamps in my hands and told me to sever the cord between you and your mother? Wasn’t it just yesterday we tugged at the seams of your lips to help you latch?  Just yesterday, the soft spot on your head was beating a little slower than your heart.

Last week, I cried watching you play by yourself because I could not stop thinking about Skilar. The thought of me not being here consumed me. What does it mean to leave behind a child so little that, God forbid, if I were gone today, you would grow up not knowing who I was—surviving only on the memories of what others told you about me? I wonder if you, too, would feel the loss and search for me like Skilar is searching for her mother. How long would it take you to stop forming your lips to say “Daddy”? How long would it take you to realize I am no longer here?

I hate writing letters like these. But they keep finding me. 

Because Marcellus Khaliifah Williams, a man who was executed last week by the State of Missouri for a crime he did not commit, left behind a son too—they shared the same name. I remember when your mom wanted to name you after me, and I said no because I never wanted you to live in my shadow. I wonder how Marcellus’ son feels about his name now, living in the shadow of his beautiful father who is no longer here. How many beats did his heart skip as he watched through the window while our justice system murder his father? 

Marcellus Williams and Marcellus Williams Jr.

In an interview just ahead of the execution, Marcellus’ son said he was still praying for a miracle, and at that moment, I prayed for one too. That the same God who turned water into wine could surely turn those barbiturates in those vials into something far less lethal. Like maybe, whatever Captain America got, Marcellus could have received by accident. What a story that would have been—Innocent Man Sentenced to Die but Turned Superhero by Accident. But it seems we are only loved and lauded after we are no longer here.

I hate writing these letters, but they keep finding me. And that is why, through the fatigue, work, and everything that comes with life, I write to you as much as I can. If Marcellus, trapped and locked behind bars, blocks, and cages, could write to the children of Palestine²—whom he never got to meet—what is stopping me? Knowing he was sentenced to die anyway and not be remembered, he still wrote to his sick grandfather, who was suffering from dementia³. How hard could it be to link a verb and an adjective or two to let you know I love you? What are fatigue, rest, or ease when tomorrow never feels promised?

I hate writing these letters, but those who look like me keep leaving children behind. 

I am writing to you just in case I don’t make it out that police stop, or when justice decides not to favor me one day. I am writing for all the children of yours I may never get to hug, writing so you know that with God, the impossible is possible. I am writing to the version of you who I may not ever get to meet. I am writing in advance so you have the answer to the person who asks you “what your father was like?” I am writing for the times I fall short and my ways do not align.

See, I am not scared to die. I am scared of not being able to see it all through. Because just in case I am forced to leave you behind like Anitra and Marcellus and parents in Palestine, I hope you know I am writing to you so you understand that I love you, and not even death, if it tried, could do anything about it.

Love,

Daddy

Myles and I

Thanks for being here.

If you can’t commit to a monthly subscription, but still want to support Myles’ college plan, here is my Buy Me a Coffee page.

And if you are on Substack, please restack this letter and recommend it so I can share this love with the world.

---

Appreciation Time: Thank you Maria, Kim, and

Kaitlyn Elizabeth

for signing up to becoming paying subscribers. Kaitlyn is a psychotherapist who writes about mental health and therapy in a way that not only feels accessible but also makes it feel like you’re listening to a friend. Big disclaimer—she’s not your therapist, though!

---

Instead of sharing more of own work this week. I want to share some work from some writers who inspired me to write this letter to Myles.

Noha Beshir

wrote Witness - Noha’s exploration of Marcellus’s last words through the eyes of a Muslim reminds me of the faith Marcellus had, and the faith I aspire to have.

Gracie Gardner

wrote The Idiot - Gracie writes about food I’ve never cooked, but the way she talked about Marcellus’ last meal and her rough encounter while phone banking made me reconsider how I think about people I don’t see eye to eye with.

Frederick Joseph

wrote Confronting the Weight of Our Death - Frederick reminded me that all of us living in this Black skin are worried about dying. Reading his piece made me emotional, but it also made me feel less alone.

1. https://www.al.com/news/2024/09/anitra-holloman-killed-in-birmingham-mass-shooting-lost-daughters-father-to-violence-she-can-feel-her-mom-is-gone.html

2. https://x.com/EyeonPalestine/status/1838907360661708848

3. https://www.madpmo.org/post/marcellus-williams-poetry-reflections-of-dementia-causes-of-missing-you-grandfather