Mama always told me that I could do anything. Her arthritis-tormented fingers always quaked when she spoke, and her nappy crown atop her head demanded an audience. Mama told me that I could carry the world on my shoulders like the god Atlas. Mama told me that I could be smarter than Albert Einstein or faster than the Usain Bolt. She told me that I could do better than Kobe or Micheal Jordan if I tried hard enough. Mama told me that I was just as handsome and worthy as the white boys in suburbs. The funny thing is, Mama never told me that I couldn’t outrun a bullet aimed to the head. Mama never told me that I would be just like any other unarmed black boy.