A 16-year-old boy named Sincere Jazmin was gunned down in broad daylight in Queens. Shot in the chest after stepping off a school bus. He collapsed outside a deli while the shooter fled down Liberty Avenue. His blood soaked the concrete. His dreams were cut short. Another Black child was buried too soon.
He wanted to be a rapper. A designer. He had talent. He had time. And then someone took it.
The media’s decision to label Sincere Jazmin a “drill rapper” is not just irresponsible—it’s a calculated act of narrative control. Instead of honoring a 16-year-old boy who was murdered after getting off a school bus, they reduce him to a stereotype that suggests he somehow invited violence into his life. This is how the media sanitizes tragedy when the victim is a young Black male. Meanwhile, we’ve seen the same outlets bend over backwards to portray MS-13 gang members—some charged with brutal, premeditated violence—as misunderstood migrants or victims of a broken system. They highlight their difficult upbringings, emphasize redemption, and caution against “criminalizing” them.
But when it comes to Black children in our communities, there is no grace, no empathy, no benefit of the doubt. These headlines reinforce blame and feed the public, preparing them to turn the page. Sincere was a student, a son, a dreamer with aspirations—but instead of mourning his loss, the press chose to reframe his identity in a way that excuses silence from political leaders and indifference from the public. This is not journalism—it’s deflection. And it happens far too often when the victim is Black, and the shooter isn’t wearing a badge.
And what did we hear from the political class?
Nothing.
Where is Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, whose district touches this borough? Where is Letitia James, our state’s top law enforcement officer? Where is Hakeem Jeffries, the highest-ranking Democrat in the U.S. House of Representatives? Where is Jasmine Crockett, who finds time to speak out on everything but the bloodshed of our young black boys?
The same voices who raise hell over MS-13 deportations and foreign detainees go mute when a Black boy dies in his own neighborhood.
Surveillance footage shows the killer calmly walking away. To date, no arrest has been made. And yet, from the very officials elected to protect us—silence.
As a 33-year veteran of law enforcement, I’ve spoken out against police brutality—and I’ve also spoken out against the senseless shootings tearing apart Black communities. The fight for justice doesn’t stop at the police station. It must continue on our own blocks.
We cannot cry “Black Lives Matter” to the government, yet refuse to take responsibility for protecting Black life within our communities. We cannot scream about threats to democracy and then look away from the threats to everyday people’s lives—mothers afraid to let their children outside, elders dodging crime, fathers burying sons.
This is hypocrisy in a democracy.
The same intellectuals and politicians who point fingers at Washington do nothing to make sure their own constituents are safe. They give fiery speeches on Capitol Hill while children in their districts are bleeding out on the streets.
Let’s be clear: If Sincere Jazmin had been killed by a police officer, the cameras would be rolling and the protests would be loud. But because he was killed by someone who looks like him, he’s treated as a footnote.
“When criminals are emboldened and the innocent are ignored, don’t call it progress—call it surrender.”
I didn’t spend three decades in law enforcement just to watch us throw away accountability—on either side of the badge. Justice isn’t one-sided. You don’t get to cherry-pick which Black lives matter. The ones killed by cops. The ones killed by neighbors. The ones forgotten. They all matter—or none of it does.
If we truly believe Black lives matter, then we must defend them every time, not just when it’s politically convenient. That means calling out state violence and street violence. That means holding government accountable and demanding accountability within our own communities.
Because if we only speak up when it fits the narrative, we’re not seeking justice—we’re playing politics.
And a child’s life should never be reduced to a political prop.
Our children don’t need more slogans. They need safe streets. And if our leaders won’t protect them, maybe it’s time we stop calling them leaders.
