by Kekla Magoon
TINA
On paper
white out means
all you see is white
black type covered up
erased.
It is usually exciting
a clean slate—
the whole point of white out is
to make room for more black.
On TV, White Out means
erasing all the black in the world.
Their sign is a big paintbrush
dipped in white
because this is a white country
for white people.
They seem excited but
they do not make much sense—
white people are not
the only ones here.
BRICK
The first thought in my head is to laugh. There they stand, hundreds of white men, carrying flaming Tiki torches. It is mid-afternoon on a cloudy winter day, but it is still daylight.
The second thought in my head is that their torches are small. They don’t have the first clue what it means to be on fire. No understanding of the scope and depth of rage.
The third thought—they are pitiful, like children at play. They should be comical, except they aren’t.
“It’s okay,” Jennica says. Her hand is on my elbow. “They can’t hurt us.”
I don’t understand how she reads distress in me. I am stoic. These thoughts do not play out on my face or in my words. She strokes my arm anyway.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I murmur. “These assholes.” The crowd is bigger than I expected. This white supremacy thing is supposed to be fringe, a fad. But there are hundreds of them. I can’t see the far edges of their gathering. It is torches from here to infinity.
A thin blue line between us and them. Think oil and water, fire and ice. Things that react, things that destroy each other in the process of failing to mix.
Back in her room, Sheila must be watching this coverage. It has been hard to tear her away from the TV ever since Shae. My mini news junkie.
If she sees me, will she be happy, or will she be scared?
MELODY
“Big protest.” Sheila points to the TV the moment I appear in the doorway.
“Sure is.” I walk into her room and jangle her beaded braids. She’s been hooked on the news since Shae died. Baptism by fire burns hot. Sheila has never been one for news before. She likes to watch things that make her laugh, but I s’pose it’s hard to think of laughing when your best friend is dead.
The mattress dips as I take a seat next to her on the end of her bed. She has a blanket over her knees and I pull it to share the warmth. Wrap my arm around her. Sheila leans against my shoulder.
“White people think they’re better than us,” she says.
“Not all white people,” I answer, stroking her hair. It’s what you’re supposed to say, right? Sometimes I’m not so sure.
“I’m going,” I tell her. “I’ll see your brother there.” My heart flutters at the thought of Brick. My memory rings with the sensation of his muscles against me. His breath on my cheek. The quick, hard rhythm as we rise together. The way his arms wrap me tight as we lay together. His sweet whispers. He is so much more than meets the eye. We both are.
I imagine him waking, wonder if his first thoughts were of me. Like mine were of him. Wonder if he will take my hand when we meet. Or kiss me in front of his friends. Wonder if instead, he will want to keep me a secret of his own. For now.
I shake my head to clear away the doubt. He likes me. More than likes me. I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his words. He could have any woman he wants, and he chose me. I was chosen.
My body flushes at the very thought. Not appropriate thoughts for work, with his baby sister under my arm. I am tempted to tell her, we might be sisters soon. But it was one night. It is too soon, and she is too fragile.
“Everything is always breaking,” Sheila says.
It jars me, the way she can somehow read my mind. “What? No, nothing is breaking.” We are fine. Even when it doesn’t seem it. We are fine.
“The news,” she says. “It is always breaking.”
Oh. “I suppose so,” I answer. “Sad and difficult things are happening all around us.”
“And to us,” she says. “We are breaking.”
I hold her close. “We are strong,” I tell her. “All the bad things in the world cannot break us.”
KIMBERLY
“We need to get a response chant going.” Zeke tries to hand me the megaphone.
“Me?” No, no, no. Not me.
“Sure,” he says. “You’re good with words.”
“Uh…”
Zeke kisses my cheek, whispers, “And I know you’ve got rhythm.”
A totally inappropriate giggle sneaks out of me. I smack his chest. “You’re so bad. We’re at a protest, for crying out loud.”
He’s grinning and he’s just so, so cute. The megaphone is still in his hands, pushing toward me. “Take it,” he says. “There’s no one better.”
No, no, no. Not me. I’ve never wanted to be the one standing at the front of the crowd. The one with the megaphone, leading the people in chants. I’m a crowd-dweller, a stagehand. Never the leader, never the star. I wouldn’t know what to do with all these eyes on me. Step up, K, those looks say. Start talking.
“Maybe later,” I suggest.
“Okay.” Zeke raises the bullhorn to his own lips, turns to the crowd. “We will not stand for bias. We will not stand for white supremacy. We will not stand for police brutality…”
Zeke is the best spokesman. It’s good, it’s right for him to have the loudest voice. I pull back, standing shoulder to shoulder with others, a handful of UNARMED buttons at the ready.
“He’s not wrong.” Al’s voice comes soft in my ear. It cuts right through the noise of all the people around us. Like a laser. Like a knife.
I glance over my shoulder.
“There’s no one better.” He smiles at me. Warmly, and yet I find myself pulling my ear wrap more firmly over my ears.
It could be Al—Senator Sloan—taking the bullhorn. But he’s made remarks already. He’ll make more later, I’m sure. For now he’s one face, tucked deep in the crowd where the cameras can’t focus on him.
“It’s not what I want,” I tell him.
“How do you know, unless you’ve done it?”
What is this about? Does he want me at the microphone? Why does he even care?
He raises his eyebrows.
“I don’t have to hit myself on the thumb with a hammer to know it would hurt.”
He laughs. “Well, you’ve got me there.”
Senator Sloan’s hand finds the small of my back. It feels good and comfortable, and familiar and terrible all at the same time. Why is it like this with him? Why is he doing this to me?
I turn to face him such that his hand slips away. My body hums with something between indignation and fury. I’ve never felt this urge before. It’s strange and otherworldly. There are things I want to say, want to scream.
I grab the megaphone from Zeke. He’s startled.
“Sorry.” Too impulsive. Unlike me. My heart rattles inside my rib cage. I don’t even know what I’m doing.
“No, it’s cool. You want to try now?”
“Today for Shae!” I shout.
“Tomorrow for all!” respond the people before me.
“Today for Shae!”
“Tomorrow for all!”
EVA
“This is not what we need right now,” Mommy says. She drives with her fists clenched around the steering wheel. Her shirtsleeves taper smoothly to her wrists such that everything is covered. There are bruises on my arms, from all the pinching. Maybe I need to get sleeves like hers.
She studies me in the rearview mirror. I can sense it, even though I do not meet her eyes in the sliver of glass.
“Everything we do right now reflects on Daddy,” she continues. “We have to be responsible.”
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She doesn’t understand. She gets to sit home all day and hide. If I could hide, then nothing would be a problem. I don’t know how to tell her. Long sleeves are not the answer to everything.
“Do you hear me?”
I nod, staring out my window.
“Eva Denise Henderson, do you hear me? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Nothing,” I mumble. I already know. I am supposed to say nothing.
NATIONAL NEWS NETWORK SPECIAL REPORT
Host: And we’re back, with our guests: Jamal Howard, author of Black Power in the Twenty-First Century, and Brad Carter, author of The Economics of Freedom.
Howard: You’re quick to defend the rights of white supremacists—
Carter: People have the right to demonstrate for their beliefs. It’s a foundational principle of American democracy—
Howard: That’s also what’s happening in Underhill, and yet—
Carter: That’s a riot. There’s a difference between a peaceful demonstration and rioting.
Howard: Calling for the blood of black Americans is a riot.
Carter: It’s peaceful. I don’t like the ideals of white supremacy any more than you do, but—
Howard: You probably like them a little more than I do. (laughs)
Carter: You’re twisting my words—
Howard: How can you draw a parallel between the rights of black Americans to protest for equal treatment and the rights of white supremacists to march demanding their own privilege be heightened?
Carter: It’s a fundamental right to demonstrate for your beliefs.
Howard: Yet when black people demonstrate, you call it a riot.
Carter: It was a riot.
Howard: If a thousand black men marched down the street with torches, it would be called a riot.
Carter: It would be a riot!
Howard: So, you agree that the white supremacist rally was a riot?
Carter: They were demonstrating their beliefs.
Howard: And, we’re back where we started.
Carter: In Underhill, there was looting. Vandalism. Assaults on police officers.
Howard: We’ve all seen worse in the wake of a major sports upset. “Happy” white citizens tearing up public spaces.
Carter: That would be a riot. But tonight’s White Out march was peaceful. Don’t muddy the water—
Howard: The media coverage skews in favor of white people expressing extreme emotion in public.
Carter: Emotion does not equate to violence!
Howard: It does when it’s hate speech.
Carter: It’s not inherently—
Howard: The more you defend a white supremacist’s right to protest, the more complicit in those beliefs you sound.
Carter: Ensuring White Out’s right to protest ensures all our constitutional rights.
Howard: White Americans should stop paying lip service to values of equality and diversity if they’re going to also defend the values of white supremacy.
Carter: White supremacy is a fringe ideology—
Howard: You wanted to talk about the Constitution? I’m three-fifths of a person. That’s not fringe ideology. It’s foundational.
Carter: The legal reality of equality can’t be erased by a small group of citizens expressing their beliefs.
Howard: “The legal reality of equality?” Are you kidding?
Carter: Plenty of people believe in things that aren’t supported by the law.
Howard: The image of white people marching with torches by night evokes more than a belief. It evokes intent. Historically such images are associated with lynchings. The Klan and its members passing extra-legal judgment on any black people they had it in for. The image evokes hatred and represents an absence of due process. Forces that this country has been working for a century to overturn.
Carter: Freedom of speech still—
Howard: A citizen’s right to freedom of speech ends at the place where that speech begins to harm others. Hate speech is not protected under the First Amendment.
Carter: In their view, they are seeking white power. They’re not against anyone—
Howard: White power comes at the expense of everyone else.
Carter: And black power doesn’t?
Howard: It doesn’t. Black power is about achieving equality. White power is about continued dominance. This isn’t hard to understand. Study your history.
Host: The takeaway? Keep history in mind. Free speech and protest have been part of America since the days of the Constitution. We’re live with authors Jamal Howard and Brad Carter. We’ll be back after this.
TYRELL
There’s a picture on TV. White men with torches, walking down the street. Real calm. No frothing at the mouth or anything, unless you count every racist breath.
“This is a mess,” Robb says. “I can’t even believe this is happening in America.”
“The America you come from,” I mutter.
Robb looks at me. Dang. I don’t want to get into a whole thing. This is why I never engage. “They look like the frigging Klan,” he says.
“They are.”
“Out in the open like that? Can you even believe it?”
Is it better when they’re not out in the open? “Well, yeah. This is the America I come from.”
“I thought you grew up in the city. Are there white supremacists in your neighborhood?”
I shrug. You mean like the cops who put us into walls, the teachers who tell us we won’t amount to anything, the cabbies who won’t stop for us, the bankers inside their bulletproof glass cages? You mean like the guy who shot my best friend?
“You see that?” I point at the screen. “No one’s getting arrested.”
“It’s a peaceful demonstration. They’re allowed to speak their minds.” Robb sounds … almost … excited? On the edge of his seat, like he can’t wait to see what horrors happen next.
I want to talk to him about police dogs. Fire hoses. A Snickers bar and a spilled gallon of milk. But I don’t know where to begin. I don’t want to know what I know, let alone repeat it. Let alone believe it.
ROBB
There’s only one America. And these assholes don’t belong in it. This is not my country. It can’t be.
Look at them, with their torches, talking about white power. Everybody’s supposed to be equal, that’s real American values. This racist shitshow is a performance by some fringe element from a cornfield in the middle of nowhere. It’s not real. It’s not mainstream.
These skinhead jerks get to have their say. I mean, I know that. Free country and all. But it’s so messed up. Nobody has to listen to this mess. Why is anyone even paying attention?
Come on, they’re literally flying the US flag and the Confederate flag at the same time. Do they not get the irony? The whole point of the Confederate flag is that some states didn’t want to be part of this union. Duh.
I don’t even get why the press is covering it like it’s normal. Just another day in America? Hell no. This isn’t America. Not even close.
DEVANTE
“Get back under your bedsheets!” Robb shouts at the television. “This is such bullshit.”
I tap my highlighter against the edge of my Classic Shakespeare Reader. Methinks Robb’s enjoying this circus a little too much. Forsooth.
“Not sure we want to encourage the bedsheet model, either,” I suggest.
“This is supposedly progress, right?” Robb says. “They can’t just run around lynching people like they used to.”
“They don’t have to,” I argue. “Now they’ve got cops to do the dirty work.”
Robb rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
It’s not worth arguing further. “Sure.”
“We should’ve gone down for this,” he says, when the footage flips to the counterprotest. “It’s not a far drive.”
“To go look at a bunch of white supremacists.” No need to travel—I can do that from here. I laugh to myself.
&nbs
p; “What’s the most racist place you ever went?” Robb asks.
Is he for real? I shake my head. “I don’t even know what that means.”
Robb waves his hands like he’s trying to work on a rephrase. “You know, like have you ever gone someplace where people were, like, ‘Oh, you have to be careful around there’ and stuff?”
My brow goes up. Like the other end of a seesaw. Can’t stop it. “I have to be careful everywhere.”
“No, but, like … I don’t know. A neighborhood where people fly Confederate flags and stuff. Where there’s actual racists.”
“There are actual racists everywhere.”
“Not en masse like that.” He points at the TV.
Says you. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I do, man.”
I could shake my head. But it feels like a waste of energy?
OFFICER YOUNG
The volume of the White Out crowd is surprising, as is their persistence. The torches cast an eerie glow across their faces as the sun goes down.
It’s hard to stand here and not think about what makes people hate. What they do with the hatred. There is no one I hate enough to bring a torch to a park and chant in the dead middle of winter. I think hard about it. There’s no one. Well, terrorists, I guess. The kind of man who straps a bomb to his chest and walks into a school to set it off. I hate guys like that enough to set them on fire. That’s not the same as hating people for their skin color. Thinking white is always best. It should be about what you do, not who you are. I get that.
These White Out fools, they’re angry. As angry as the crowds we’ve been patrolling in Underhill. We wear our same helmets and shields. We stand in our rows and our clumps, watching each other’s backs. The vibe among us is alert, as it should be. We’re on point. We pay attention, but the difference is palpable.
This crowd, they’re angry. The difference is the certainty that they’re not angry at us.
JENNICA
Kimberly rises a head above the fray, shouting into the bullhorn. She is fierce, she is huge, she is amazing. The whole crowd responds to her words. She holds them in sway, within her raised fist. I can’t tear my eyes away. The blood in my heart tugs forward and back in a raging tide. I am so proud of my friend, and yet I can already see it. The same strong tide will carry her away from me.
