This is an opinion column.

I want to cry, too.

I want to cry just like the Birmingham police officer who shared the sentiment with Minor High School Band Director Johnny Mims as the two men stood in the dark on that frightening Thursday night. As Mims stood handcuffed after being tased at least three times by Birmingham Police.

Tased for failing to comply with an officer’s demand to stop playing a song.

A song.

RELATED: ‘I want to cry, Mr. Mims’: Officer worried tasing sows distrust for police

I want to cry for Mims, a good man by all accounts. A good leader of young people.

I want to cry for the officer who Tased him, a good man, likely. A good man sworn to protect and serve in a dangerous job with few fans these days.

I want to cry at the sight of two Black men, two Black men in authority, two Black men doing what they love, two Black in model roles—at the senseless, unnecessary, debasing mess they made.

There was so much wrong in their encounter following a football game between Minor and their host, Jackson-Olin. Enough to be shared.

Enough to make you cry.

Over a song.

The stadium was mostly clear, save for the two school bands, their families, and friends. The two directors reportedly agreed to play three additional songs after the game, a practice called the “5th Quarter” that is often practiced by HBCU bands and at some Black high schools but is prohibited at Birmingham City Schools. (Jackson-Olin is a BCS school; Minor is part of Jefferson County Schools.)

Officers have said for safety reasons they asked the bands to stop playing before the three songs concluded. The host band director complied. Across the field, a different scenario unfolded.

The much-seen body cam footage of what transpired on Minor’s side of the field is painful to see—because there were moments, fleeting moments when the rising flames could have been doused. Instead, they were stoked.

The officer asks Mims to stop playing. Moment.

“Get out of my face.”

I cringed hearing Mims speak those words to the officer demanding he stop the music. Mims said it seven times. Seven. Stoked.

“What you gonna do?” the officer responded. Stoked.

There’s a quick back-and-forth during which the officer tells Mims he’s taking him to jail if the band does not stop. Stoked.

“Cool,” Mims said, “that’s cool.” He gives the officer five double thumbs up. Moment. (Even with the hint of snide in the gestures.)

Mims then pauses, raises his right arm, makes quick circles in the air, then raises his left arm.

“One, two, one two ready and…”

Stoked.

The band played on. Twenty-six seconds later, the stadium lights went dark.

“Put him in handcuffs,” an officer said. Stoked.

The band played on. Eighteen seconds later, Mims brought his young charges to a crescendo, then stopped.

Moment.

I want to cry at what is next seen, starting 35 seconds later—at what did not need to happen, should not have happened.

What would have happened if one of the men involved seized one of those moments, if either of them had submitted instead of stoked?

Had either taken a deep breath and uttered, “Yo, man, cool. Let’s go.”?

Had either eschewed ego and bravado and considered the stage they were on, considered the young people watching? Young people already traumatized daily by a culture of defiance that too often escalates into violence, into tragedy.

Into death—into the loss of too many young lives. Too many of their friends.

Losses that often make me want to cry.

RELATED: Band parents say students fainted, panicked after band leader’s tasing, arrest

Two things can be true at the same time, so I’ll be very clear on this: Nothing I saw in the video justifies the tasing. Nothing. Mims was no threat to public safety. He had no weapon.

I’ll be very clear on this, too: On the streets, Mims’ get-out-of-my-face temerity might’ve gotten a young Black man killed. It can’t be justified, either.

Our city and schools are spending millions pouring “conflict resolution” into Birmingham’s youth as the antidote for rampant gun violence. Were all those dollars shredded on that Thursday in the dark?

What was an opportunity to model that curriculum, in real-time, on a real-life stage, with two good Black men, disintegrated into disaster. Into Black men flailing. Into Black men failing the youth watching them.

For a song.

What was an opportunity to model appropriate behavior, appropriate response to authority, appropriate moves in the moment melted into mayhem. Unnecessary mayhem.

For a song.

Alas, there remains yet an opportunity, one that must not be trifled. An opportunity, an obligation to first support and comfort the “babies on that bus,” as that same officer termed the young bandmembers left stranded that night because the man slated to drive them back to the school was in handcuffs.

An opportunity, an obligation for accountability.

“How are we ever going to fix this?” the officer asked.

For starters: Drop the charges against Mims, BPD. And Mims, cease all talk about lawsuits.

Then convene all involved—the officers and band leader—along with conflict professionals, and a facilitator at Minor before the entire student body and their families for a vital, open, and public talk about that night in the dark. About moments lost and why.

Convene and confess, with all parties embracing their share of culpability.

Convene and correct, with no one leaving until there is true clarity on what de-escalation, resolution, and respect for authority should look like. What respect for each other should look like.

Convene so the community may rally around a mandate bigger than the men and the center of the squabble, bigger than their positions: to stop the tears.

Otherwise, how do we teach our young Black men and women to deescalate, to diffuse, and to show discernment in the moment when our grown men won’t?

More columns by Roy S. Johnson

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Alabama … a State of Fear

Clarence Thomas and Republicans are mocking us all.

Goodbye to an ‘uncle’ who stepped into the gap to help raise two father boys into men

Alabama’s non-parole board shows we’re not serious about prison, justice reform

Do we want our children to go to school or prison? State funding levels provide an answer

I’m a Pulitzer Prize finalist for commentary, a member of the National Association of Black Journalists Hall of Fame, and winner of the Edward R. Murrow prize for podcasts for “Unjustifiable,” co-hosted with John Archibald. My column appears in AL.com, as well as the Lede. Check out my new podcast series “Panther: Blueprint for Black Power,” which I co-host with Eunice Elliott. Subscribe to my free weekly newsletter, The Barbershop, here. Reach me at [email protected], follow me at twitter.com/roysj, or on Instagram @roysj