If We’re Asking Who ‘Taught’ Karmelo Anthony? We Must Also Ask—What Kind Of Parents Raised Austin Metcalf?

The white student died after confronting Karmelo Anthony, a Black student who felt threatened

By Stacey Patton

“I’m not trying to judge, but what kind of parents did this child have?”

That’s what Jeff Metcalf, the grieving father of Austin Metcalf, said as he forgave the Black teenager accused of killing his son.

Metcalf, a white high school student from Texas, was fatally stabbed during a confrontation with another student, 17-year-old Karmelo Anthony, who is Black. The incident occurred during a track meet in Frisco, where reports suggest the altercation began after Metcalf attempted to remove Anthony from an area under his school’s tent. Anthony is currently charged with first degree murder and being held on a $1 million bond.

In the aftermath, Metcalf’s father went on television and posed the question that has echoed across media and comment sections alike: “What was he taught? He brought a knife to a track meet and he murdered my son by stabbing him in the heart.”

It’s a familiar script. The suspicion, the blame, the scrutiny of the other child’s upbringing. The assumption that some kind of moral failing, parental neglect, or cultural deficiency must have led a Black boy to violence. Jeff Metcalf questioned Karmelo Anthony’s parents in the same breath that he asked God for peace.

But I wonder—what if we turned that question around: What kind of parents raised Austin Metcalf?

That’s the question, isn’t it?

Because whenever a Black youth is killed, the country performs its well-rehearsed ritual of digging into their home life, school performance, their behavior, their photos, their parents. America never mourns the loss of Black life without first dissecting us and leveling micro-inquisitions at Black families.

So, where did Austin Metcalf’s parents go wrong? What kind of household raises a boy like Austin Metcalf — a boy who, according to witnesses, used a racial slur during a confrontation with a Black peer?

What kind of parents raise a child who allegedly called another student the n-word? Reports circulating on social media suggest that Metcalf hurled that word at Anthony. If true, that wasn’t just a word, it was a weapon. A centuries-old threat. A verbal heirloom of white dominance, sharpened to remind Black children of their place in American society.

But when confronted with that possibility, Austin’s father went on TV and said, “This is not a race thing. This is not a political thing.”

And there it is, folks. The white American default: erase race the moment it becomes inconvenient. The moment whiteness stops being innocent and starts looking aggressive. The moment a slur forces the nation to reckon with the possibility that the boy they’re grieving may not have been just a victim, but an instigator.

What kind of white parents raised a boy who reportedly put his hands on another student and tried to police where he could sit at a school event? A boy who, along with his twin, posed proudly in multiple photos holding what appear to be AR-15s, dressed in camo, staring coldly and dead-eyed into the camera with the posture of kids who’ve already decided who the enemy is.

There are also social media posts circulating online of Metcalf flashing the middle finger and showing off weapons. But you won’t see those images in the mainstream media. There, Austin is presented in his Sunday best: smiling in a suit and tie, standing beside his father, or captured mid-stride as a wholesome student-athlete. Because when white boys die, their image is curated. Softened. Sanitized. But when Black boys die, their worst photos are resurrected and turned into character evidence. Their dignity is denied in life and even more viciously in death.

What kind of mother and father raise a child who feels entitled to dictate another student’s place under a tent at a school event? Who raised this boy to believe his whiteness came with the authority to police Black bodies, to engage in racial gatekeeping? Who taught him that his body, his voice, his dominance would not be questioned and that a Black boy who didn’t obey was a threat?

To be clear, there’s also a fake autopsy report circulating online claiming that Austin Metcalf had drugs in his system when he died. That report is false and spreading it is wrong. We don’t need to stoop to misinformation to make a point.

But the impulse behind it? That’s familiar. That’s straight from the American playbook — the same one used to justify the deaths of Black people for generations.

How many times have we been told that a Black victim had marijuana in their system, as if that makes a bullet or a chokehold more acceptable? They said George Floyd had fentanyl in his bloodstream and heart disease. They said Eric Garner was in poor health when he was choked to death in broad daylight by a New York City cop. They dug into Breonna Taylor’s past, looking for anything that could explain why she was shot in her own home.

When a Black person is killed, the question is never just “What happened?” — it’s “What did they do to deserve it?”

This fake autopsy isn’t just misinformation. It’s a mirror. A reflection of the very tactics used to dehumanize Black victimsand now, suddenly, being applied to a white boy. And it feels wrong, doesn’t it?

Good. Sit with that. Because Black folks have had to sit with the rage of losing our children and being blamed for decades.

What kind of parents raised Austin Metcalf? Did his parents talk to him about race? Or are they the type to say they don’t “see color,” while raising their twin sons to enforce the boundaries of whiteness anyway?

Are they the kind of white parents who share “Back the Blue” posts and said Kyle Rittenhouse was “just protecting himself” when he brought a weapon of war to a protest? Do they keep a Trump flag in the garage and rifles in the truck? What were those dinner table conversations like? Did they call it “just joking” when the n-word slipped out? Or was it said with the same venom Austin allegedly used?

Was Austin a “big kid?” Well, yes actually. He was a linebacker. Broad-shouldered. Hulking. A teenage boy built like the type of athlete people praise for being “tough” and “aggressive” on the field. But off the field, in a moment of confrontation with a smaller Black peer, that same body became a very different kind of threatening presence.

Should we talk about Austin’s size the way they talked about Trayvon Martin’s? At George Zimmerman’s trial, the defense famously dragged life-sized cutouts of the two into the courtroom just to make the unarmed teenager look larger, more threatening, to justify why a grown man with a gun felt scared. That courtroom moment wasn’t about truth. It was about performance. It was about making a Black boy look like a brute.

Should we describe him the way Officer Darren Wilson described Mike Brown Jr. — as a super demon, towering figure who made him fear for his life? Should we call Austin “menacing,” “threatening,” or “intimidating” because he was athletic, white, and raised in a culture that taught him he owns the space around him?

Should we call Austin Metcalf “no angel,” the way they did Mike Brown Jr.? Should we point to the photos of him flashing weapons and middle fingers, or the reports that he used a racial slur, as proof of a troubled character? Should we say he made choices and those choices had consequences? Or is that language only reserved for Black boys who die?

Oh, I already know the answer to those rhetorical questions. Folks will deflect and rediscover the concept of innocence and insist that Metcalf’s past actions are irrelevant to the incident.

What if Austin’s parents had taught him to mind his business? What if they had taught him not to put his hands on other people? What if they had taught him that he’s not the authority over who belongs in a space? What if they had taught him to walk away instead of escalate? What if they had taught him that using a racial slur isn’t just offensive — it’s violent? What if they had raised him to see Black boys as equals, not intruders? What if they had taught him that strength isn’t dominance, and that white masculinity isn’t about control?

So, I’ll ask again: What kind of parents raised Austin Metcalf?

How does it feel to have your parental grief met with suspicion? How does it feel to watch people dig through his social media for proof that he deserved what happened to him? To have his dead body turned into evidence against him? To see his death turned into a morality tale about what happens when white boys overstep? How does it feel to have your parenting dragged through the mud, your child’s smile turned sinister, their death twisted into a cautionary tale about someone else’s delusional fear?

Because this—THIS—is what Black families have lived through for generations. How does it feel to sit in the same rage Black parents have carried for centuries with no comfort, no grace, no benefit of the doubt? Sit with it. Because we’ve had to.