Resistance: A Love Story (The Shorts Book 9)
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Don’t scratch, the same voice said.
I didn’t know I was scratching. I only realized I had been once I stopped.
Suddenly, the van lurched into motion and the kid who had been steadily banging on the side stopped and toppled over onto his side, having lost his balance. All the rest of us grew silent, even the white girl who had been sobbing. The inside of the van smelled like a combination of smoke and sweat, milk and even a little piss.
We couldn’t see the driver.
As we moved, there was the blare of sirens outside, and the screams and howls of a crowd out of control. Everyone in the van listened. No one spoke.
The drive is a short one, and when we arrived at our destination, the van stopped briefly. When it moved again, we tipped forward slightly like we were going downhill. When we stopped again, the tires gave a high-pitched screech, so I knew we were no longer on asphalt.
The door at the back opened and light flooded in. We were in an underground parking garage and all the other vehicles were police vans, marked and unmarked cars. For the first time, I remembered Lamar and wondered where he was.
Two cops in riot gear herded us one by one out of the van. Each of us paused, shading our faces from the bright light as we exited. As we stepped out, they did what they hadn’t done downtown at the scene, probably because of the chaos of the moment, securing our wrists with plastic ties behind our back.
I saw one cop’s eyes shift as I got out, falling to my forearm where I’d written my parents’ phone number. With a black Sharpie. Her lips twitched a little, not in amusement, but with what looked like discomfort. For the first time, I wondered what it must be like to be them, to be on the other side of all this anger, to realize how much we feared them, how little we trusted what they might do.
Next to us, another van pulled up but before its engine cut off, we were all being led into a building, then after that into what looked and felt like a freight elevator. The two cops with us didn’t speak, and neither did any of us, not even the kid who was banging on the side of the van trying to be a badass earlier.
My eyes fell to the cops’ hardware. They had a lot of it, on heavy belts around their waist. Both of them kept their backs to the elevator doors, and eyes on us, but not seeing us. They looked weary.
When the elevator lurched to a stop we were shepherded past a desk that said, ‘Secure Area’ and down a narrow hallway. The guys were shoved into one room, the girls and women into another.
Just as the door to the room was about to shut, I caught sight of her. The girl who had yelled ‘run’. She was being led down the hallways with another group, maybe from the van that had pulled up after mine. It was a split second. Less than that. But our eyes met.
They pulled us out, one at a time from the room, and with each person who left, it took about a half hour for them to come back and get someone else. When I got pulled, it was weird, but I already knew I would see the girl with the braids again.
Chapter Two
Lila
Okay, it’s going to sound stupid, but once it got down to it, I was relieved when I got arrested.
But how I wound up arrested in the first place? It started for me the same way it started for most of us: I saw the video. And once I had, it was impossible to do nothing, and to get the images out of my mind. By then, most of my friends from school had already scattered, isolated in our respective homes and spaces to finish out the semester remotely. I was at home with my parents.
But separated though we were, for all my friends, all the activists, the reaction was immediate. There were posts on social, video calls so we could cry and rage together, hastily organized meetings of our racial justice group. We kept so busy there wasn’t a whole lot of time to connect with the feeling that was beneath the flurry of activity, which was just … grief.
At the loss of a man’s life in such an horrific and dehumanizing way, and at the initial ho-hum response of most people in the country who don’t look like us. And even some who do. Me? I cried alone, mostly. And I tried to look away from my dad’s face at the breakfast table which told me that privately, he had been shedding some angry tears of his own. My mother did what she always did—she tried to make things better and cheer us up.
We can’t let this go, my best friend, Tianna kept saying. We can’t just do nothing.
And we didn’t. We hadn’t been doing nothing even before the video came out. The organizing that was already happening kicked up a notch pretty much right away because we had been talking about the other incidents. Except what we planned to do before—come out with policy asks, platforms, petitions—felt tepid and insufficient now. So, we started talking about the protest march.
The plan was to coordinate with other groups around the country, but there were all like us, chomping at the bit and raring to go. No one wanted to wait to get ducks lined up. We had to take this to the streets, like now.
I was more than down for a protest. Not just for this incident, this moment, but for me. Because I was sick of feeling like I was on the sidelines of all the real mobilization efforts. Tianna’s always in the thick of it, but maybe it’s because I’m soft-spoken or whatever, but no one in the group ever calls me when they need to make things happen. Tianna has really good rapport with the groups on the West side of the city, and her call list is a mile long with community-based groups that are authentically youth-led. I only know mostly other college-based activists, and nobody thinks they have any real street cred.
College kids got too much to lose! Tee is always telling me. They ain’t about this life. Not for real for real.
Like we aren’t college kids ourselves.
But for sure Tianna sees herself as having less to lose. Because she has already lost so much.
She grew up in the South Bronx which everyone still thinks is the equivalent to serving several tours in Iraq even though that’s not true anymore. But that gives her a voice in making all kinds of decisions that no one bothers to consult me on, even though we’ve both been in the group for the same amount of time.
But I can’t feel resentful about that for real. Tee has three brothers … or had three brothers. Two of them were killed. One by police and the other by another Black kid. Both died before they were even twenty-one. Tee talks about them like they died yesterday. And I can’t say that it doesn’t feel like that since I’m an only kid.
To be real though? Tee is legit. She talks about dismantling structural racism with the kind of fire that would probably have her in public office one day if public office were something she would ever aspire to. Anyway, so she was one of the key organizers of the march down to the museum and I was excited to go. To support the movement, and to say his name in affirmation of his humanity.
We were starting south of City Hall and walking all the way up. Thousands would be there, people were saying.
There’s never been anything like this, not in this city, not unless it was about football, so far as I can tell. Definitely not since the Civil Rights Movement. Not since the Black Panther Party.
My grandfather was a Panther, and my dad grew up on their doctrine. Now he teaches it, at the same mostly white college that I go to, that Tee goes to, in the suburbs. I wanted to be there because I need to see some of this for myself. Not just on television, or Twitter. I mean, this was it. There would probably never be another chance in my lifetime; and if we succeed, there shouldn’t be.
Anyway, me and Tee met up with a bunch of the others, dressed as planned in all-black, backpacks filled with water, milk, power bars, rags, an extra-shirt. From the moment we got out there, I knew it was going to be a little less controlled than planned. The mood was frenetic, and even when people were standing still, the air was full of hyperkinetic energy. Folks were all fidgety, and bouncing back and forth on their feet, talking faster than normal, jittery, skittish.
It’s because it’s early, Tee said, when I pointed that out to her. It just happened. People are still real mad.
Things s
tarted out orderly enough, everyone relieved to have an outlet for all our coiled energy. There were people with bullhorns, Tee being one of them, directing us in a call-and-response chant for justice. I was near the front of the procession, carrying my sign, hands holding it high. I felt proud to be there, and even the beginning beads of perspiration down the back of my neck and under my arms, even the prospect of the long walk in the heat didn’t bother me.
I had one, shameful, self-centered moment where I sort of hoped I would be on television so my dad could see me out there, marching for justice and be proud of me. I even imagined him sitting on his chair in the living room, leaning forward when he recognized me, nodding his head in approval. But that was stupid. I quickly scolded myself and put that out of my mind though, and concentrated on making my voice louder, more emphatic, more impassioned.
As we passed some buildings, people leaned out, shouting things at us. Most of it sounded supportive. But not all, definitely not all. Things got dicey the closer we got to City Hall. That was when I started noticing the cops lining the streets. Some of them had looks of studious nonchalance on their faces so I could practically hear in my head what they had probably been told: ‘Don’t do anything to escalate. Keep your distance from the protestors unless you there’s a reason to intervene.’
And it seemed cool, until we passed around City Hall, the crowd splintering into two distinct clusters, one on the east side of the building, the other on the west side. I glanced over my shoulder once and was awed by how many of us there were. It was getting hotter, the air heavy and dense.
On the other side of City Hall, that’s when it happened. Just as we approached the statue, all hell broke loose.
I didn’t get the worst of it with the tear gas. Just as one of the canisters hit the ground about thirty feet away from me and everyone scattered, which is when I got nabbed, by a big, burly Black cop who looked pained to have to cuff me, even though all he used was one of those plastic zip-ties.
Your daddy know you’re out here? he asked.
I looked at him then, wondering for one irrational moment whether he knew my father.
But it’s just something men say to me—particularly Black men—when I encounter them in situations that look sketch, or when I might be in over my head. I think it’s because I’m petite and have one of those faces—docile and compliant, like I might be the kind of person who is easily led astray.
As the cop maneuvered me over to a waiting van where a bunch of other protestors had already been nabbed, I craned to look over my shoulder. When I realized how close the cops in riot gear were, I paused to yell before trying to take off myself and there was a second when I looked up and into the eyes of this guy I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen before, but who seemed familiar.
His eyes were gray, or a noticeably light hazel. Maybe even blue. I couldn’t tell for sure from the distance between us, but they weren’t dark brown. And he had curly hair, in a low-cut fade. When our eyes met, his lips parted a little, like he was about to say my name. He looked at me the way I’m sure I was looking at him, like we knew each other. And then someone bumped me, and I was spinning around.
By the time I made my rotation, the guy was gone and even in the confusion around me, I felt a tiny spark of disappointment.
In the back of my transport van was one of the protest organizers, and while we were being driven to our destination, he reminded us: Don’t say anything! Make no statements of any kind except to identify yourself!
He wasn’t raising his voice, but he had an emphatic way of expressing himself. Like everything he said had an exclamation point after it. He had removed his t-shirt and tied it around his head like a bandana, and his jeans hung low on his hips. He was covered in perspiration and his eyes were bloodshot, from the smoke or tear gas but he looked strong and resolute.
While he repeated the rules to us, no one else spoke. He just looked like one of those people, the ones who are born to be in charge, so you naturally listen whenever they speak. When he was done, he sat on the floor of the van, knees to his bare chest, and arms resting on them. He looked absolutely unfazed by our circumstances while inside, part of me was just on the edge of panic, thinking about where we were likely headed. I had never been in trouble of any kind before, never been called to the principal’s office in high school let alone arrested and taken to a police precinct.
When the organizer guy caught me looking at his ripped chest, and at the tattoos that crisscrossed his arms, he winked at me, and I blushed, letting my gaze drop.
Guys like him overwhelm me. I never know what to say or how to act around them. I’m attracted to them, even while I know they’re not my type, if that makes sense. Or maybe it isn’t that they’re not my type, I just don’t know that we would dance to the same rhythm in the mating dance.
Tee is very much into guys like him. All her boyfriends are like the organizer guy—fiery and difficult to contain, wild and free. Tee challenges and verbally spars with them, invades their personal space to get their attention, looking them boldly, directly in the eye and easily slipping into something like verbal foreplay. I would only stammer and stutter and make a fool out of myself.
Though guys like the organizer make my stomach twist and my head go a little fuzzy, I sense that to be with one, especially if he has no earnest relationship intentions, could potentially wreck me. With a guy like that, I would be little more than a groupie. Tee has the kind of heft, the kind of attitude that tells them she will accept nothing less than being their equal.
We were taken someplace that wasn’t like I expected a police station to be. I think it was more like a central booking area, or a place that the police department had probably temporarily repurposed to take in protestors.
They separated us by gender right away, and the ones who looked like they might be juveniles, they pulled out of the crowd and then locked the rest of us in a room. I scanned the faces immediately, looking for Tianna, but she wasn’t there. She hadn’t been in the van and neither was she in the room where they kept the rest of us. It wasn’t a cell. Or maybe it was, but it wasn’t how I pictured a cell to be. It was just a long, narrow room with no windows, brick walls that had been painted white, and benches on either side. There weren’t enough seats for all of us, but because we were women, we all instinctively tried to make ourselves smaller, to make room for each other.
While we waited to see what will happen next, we talked among ourselves, about where we were picked up, how many people we believed were at the protest, whether the same thing is happening in other cities and what the scale might be there.
DC, one girl said nodding. I bet it’s lit in DC.
We ain’t tryna get nothin’ lit, another girl responded. It ain’ about all that.
Someone else sucked her teeth. You know she ain’ mean it like that. But still. Fuck that. I say we burn this motherfucker all the way down.
That kind of talk passed the time—I don’t know how much time exactly—until finally someone came and I was pulled out of the room by a female cop.
It was weird, how they just direct you from one place to the next when you’re under arrest. No one actually explains to you what’s happening. They just bark out orders.
Walk down this way.
Stay to the left.
Sit down there.
I knew from even that brief experience that I would definitely not be cut out for jail, because I had a million questions, though not the bravery to ask them.
They sat me down in one of a row of chairs a few feet away from along desk was like the reception desk in a hospital. The officer who had escorted me went up to the desk to speak to another officer—one of four—who was sitting behind the reception-like area.
That was when I looked around a little more.
And that was when I saw him. The guy with the blue-gray eyes.
He was sitting three seats over from me. I guess he was waiting too, for the next step of the process, whatever that was.
“You,” he said.
And I smiled back because the exact same word was running through my mind.
“Yeah,” I said.
He gave a little laugh. “Yo,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“That’s just …” He shook his head and was about to say something more when his officer came back and stood him up and led him to the desk and shortly after that, mine did the same.
The entire thing turned out to be much less dramatic than the way I was picked up led me to believe it would be. They basically confirmed my identity, took my picture and fingerprints, and then I signed some papers, was handed another piece of paper and then taken to another elevator and told I was free to go.
It all seemed so anticlimactic.
I was standing in the lobby of a building that I only then realized I had no idea where it was let alone what, when the guy came down in another elevator. His cop had accompanied him on the ride down. He was a young white guy who looked almost too young to be walking around carrying a gun and telling other people what to do.
“You’re lucky this time,” he told Blue-Gray eyes. “But if we pick you up again tonight, you won’t be going home.”
Once he was gone, Blue-Gray eyes turned and stopped short when he saw me, but otherwise didn’t look surprised to see me again.
“Didn’t that sound almost like a threat?” he asked. “Like what’re they gonna do? Put me in the dungeon under the jail?”
I said nothing, because what does one say to that? And also, his eyes were hypnotic.
“I’m Kai,” he said, coming a few steps toward me.
“Lila,” I say.
“So that’s what it’s like, huh Lila?” He grinned. “Getting arrested?”