Malcolm-Jamal Warner’s Death Is Forcing Gen X To Stare Down Its Own Mortality [Op-Ed] - Page 3

There’s a particular cruelty in the way Black folks are taught to carry grief. We’re conditioned to tough it out, to “be strong,” to keep it moving. But if we’re being real, a lot of us are scared right now. Not just of dying, but of leaving things unfinished. Of having lived this life, poured ourselves into others, and not leaving a legacy or having achieved something. Some of us have yet to fully realize our affairs, let alone have them in order pending our great gettin’ up morning.

Warner’s death isn’t just a loss; it’s a cracked mirror, forcing us to see time catching up with us. Our knees hurt. Our playlists are full of songs that we remember from Video Soul or Yo! MTV Raps. Some of our kids are teenagers or grown. Our parents are uncomfortably slowing down. Some of us are two-way caretakers now while still trying to remember to take our own pills. Some of us are burying mothers, aunties, brothers.

It’s heavy.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe now is the time to feel that heaviness. To allow it space to be. To stop pretending that Black adulthood is only about hustling and surviving and building generational wealth. Maybe part of the work now is grieving intentionally. Publicly. Purposefully.

Maybe grief isn’t just about letting go of the presence of a person; it’s about allowing that loss to transform us into something else. It’s about honoring the people we’ve lost by taking pieces of them and infusing their spirit into our daily lives, our future actions a testament to their immortality.

As we eulogize Malcolm-Jamal Warner, we aren’t just talking about a man. We’re talking about an era. A feeling. A time when we believed the world might actually make room for us to be full, layered human beings. When we had shag haircuts and hid our hats and gloves in the mailbox while we played football in the street.

We’re talking about every Black boy who sat too close to the TV on Thursday nights trying to mimic Theo’s style and speech cadence, or take notes on how to survive a math class taught by the Dragon Lady. We’re talking about that rare moment in TV history when we saw ourselves reflected with dignity and humor. Unlike JJ Evans or Arnold Jackson or Webster, Theo wasn’t a prop or a device; he was a person.

We’re mourning a man, yes. But also a version of ourselves. The version that still believed we had time.