by Jay Coles
Mama starts sobbing into her Kleenex again. I spend the rest of the hearing focused on Mama or trapped in my own head, unable to concentrate on what the lawyers are discussing. Unable to trust that justice is coming our way.
• 23 •
Mama and I practically have to be wheeled out of the room by bailiffs and security guards. And when their hands are on me, I flinch and cringe, a loud pang of disgust and anger inside. It takes a herculean effort for me to breathe, to remember that this is standard procedure, to remember that they mean me no harm.
As we exit the courthouse, there are reporters on the sidewalk asking Mama for a comment. She slides me behind her and starts talking into their microphones, telling the world about the boy she raised. How he was a good kid. Never in trouble with the law. How he deserved better than to be shot and taken away from us. She tells everybody some of her fondest memories of Tyler as a child, some memories that I don’t even remember myself.
“The entire city of Sterling Point is divided because of this man. Because of this broken system. Because of the hate Officer Meredith’s brought onto us all. There are bad people in the world. That means there are bad cops. But there’s also so much good. I just lost a son. My son just lost his brother. We’ve been living with the pain of his absence for what already feels like years. That man took something from me that I can never have back. All I’m asking is for some justice, and for help getting this officer off the street, because so many other kids are in danger. That’s all.”
I don’t care what these reporters say or what the judge says or what anyone else thinks. I know that Tyler didn’t deserve to die, no matter what. I’m going to do whatever I have to do to make sure that there’s justice for Tyler.
The very moment we pull into the driveway, rain starts falling from clouds in the sky—the clouds that kind of resemble the hurt in my heart—and when we get out, Mama stumbles into the house.
I stand in the rain. Mama believes that when it rains, family members who have crossed over to the other side use the drops to tell us things, and I’m left thinking maybe Tyler’s in heaven, whispering things to the drops of rain as they trip on their tiny tails and splatter onto the earth, and I imagine that they know how it is to be black in America, to have a destiny of falling, to have a fate of dying on impact.
It’s in this moment that I’m reminded of something Auntie Nicola told me—that life’s not about waiting for the storm to pass, because sometimes it never does—and all of a sudden, I feel waves of emotion engulfing me. Life is about wading in the rain, in all the storm’s fury, holding on to hope, and also becoming one and the same with the storm—getting angry, getting heated, and being the change you want.
I change into a pair of joggers and a T-shirt, and then I text G-mo and Ivy, inviting them over, and within minutes, like the world’s best friends, they come climbing through my window like they used to, all wet and alert, unsettled looks on their faces.
“’Sup, Marv?” Ivy says, climbing through first, clenching her skateboard under her arm.
“Yo, hey, Marv.” G-mo pats my shoulder. “Everything all right?”
And I just plop down on the edge of my bed, not answering, looking at his Slytherin tank top.
And then Ivy diverts things, saying, “Can you believe someone just tried to steal my skateboard and G’s bike? In the pouring goddamn rain. Like, what the fuck, bro?!”
I look up, feeling hollowed out, and I mumble, slightly shaken, “What happened?”
“We scared ’em away,” G-mo answers. “Straight up, yo, fists up ready to bump and everything.”
Ivy rolls her eyes, a smirk easing onto her face. “Something like that. More like we just pedaled and skated faster down the block.” She pauses and then walks over and sits down beside me.
“Whoa” is all that comes out. I sigh.
“How’re you feeling, Marv?” Ivy asks.
“I have this horrible, horrible feeling in my gut, like I’m trapped in some goddamn fucked-up movie,” I say, brushing my clammy hands against my pants. “My brother’s a fucking hashtag. Everybody thinks he was a thug.”
I want to fuck something up. Punch someone. Blow up something.
G-mo sits next to me now and wraps his arm around the back of my neck, like old times. “Yo. I’m down to go fuck some shit up,” G-mo says. “I fucking hate white people, and man, fuck the police!”
“Nigga, that’s racist!”
“You can’t be racist if you’re a minority,” G-mo argues. “Prejudiced? Yes. But not racist. We ain’t got the power in this society to be racist. And they want war!”
“Fool, the war started a long time ago,” Ivy says. “It ain’t even black against white, bro,” she continues calmly, using her hands to punctuate her words. “It’s about racists against everyone else, and they’re clownin’ out.”
G-mo sighs and falls back on the bed.
“It’s like Tupac said: Everybody’s at war,” Ivy adds as she jumps up and stands straight. “Why you think he had a whole album about that shit?”
“Yo. You right, you right,” G-mo goes.
Mama’s in the kitchen, pots and pans rattling together in a cacophonous symphony. I sit still, thinking Ivy’s right. It’s about the hate some people have within them. Hate is too ugly of a devil for some people to acknowledge, but the thing about hate is you can’t throw it on someone else without getting a little bit on yourself. And I wonder if people will ever fucking understand that.
• 24 •
The next morning, the news channels continue their reports on Tyler.
The camera zooms in on a news reporter’s pale face. “The victim’s father, Jamal Johnson, is in Montgomery Correctional Facility for possession of illegal narcotics and capital murder.”
My fists ball up. There’s something about being reminded of this—the truth—in such a painful way that just kills what little feeling I have left in me. For so long, I felt that the way out of my own suffering was to pretend it didn’t exist—to put a blindfold on to the whole white world thing that Mama kept warning me about. But this has done so much damage—damage that I can’t even really see. Maybe we don’t see until it’s too late, but I’m seeing that just because the world shits on you doesn’t mean you fucking deserve it.
The reporter begins interviewing an older black dude with gray hair and a poufy mustache. I recognize him immediately from all the research, from looking at his website over and over again, watching for updates on the protest he’s planning for Tyler. His name flashes across the screen. Albert Sharp.
“What do you think of the case?” the reporter woman asks.
Mr. Sharp scratches his eyebrow before answering. “It’s truly saddening what our country is facing,” he says, his voice moving like molasses.
“Care to explain?” the news reporter says into a microphone.
“Well, you know, for many years, our country has faced severe racial tension, discrimination, prejudice, and violence on all levels. We’ve heard of many cases like this one with Tyler Johnson, where unarmed black teenagers are brutalized by the police. We need to stand up as a community, as a nation, as a people, and combat this issue.”
“So, what do you think will happen now?” the reporter asks.
“Communities, I hope, will gather and show their respect first and foremost, but I believe there is definitely a divide in our area. And I also strongly believe that it’s up to everyone, regardless of race, to heal that divide and come together to fight police brutality.”
“Thank you for your time.”
I sit close to Mama on our small slashed-up couch, feeling numb all over. And it’s in this moment that I start to feel sorry for myself again, and I’m not sure if that’s at all what I’m supposed to be feeling, but it’s consuming.
• 25 •
When I go back to school two days after the hearing, news of Lance Anderson’s protest has spread to just about every Sojo High teacher, every student, every janitor, and this
means that everyone’s now having serious, hard, racially charged discussions for once in the school’s history. Sojo High, though predominantly black and Hispanic, is still divided. Even schools in the hood have their share of racists.
This is too much. This is killing me.
I need to get to a safe place where I don’t have to be eyed up and down, a place where I don’t have to tell people that Tyler didn’t just die—that he was killed. A place where I don’t have to say the obvious—a place where people don’t hate other human beings for the color of their skin.
Suddenly, I’m wondering what’s going to happen at our protest for Tyler. Are people going to try to stop it from happening? Will crooked police gather and try to silence those of us who are asking for a change? It’s happened before. Why wouldn’t it happen again?
The rest of the school day is a chaotic blur of people whispering their hate and offering their condolences. And I realize I’ve come back too soon. I’m not ready to be around so many people acting like they knew who my brother really was. I need more time.
After school, G-mo, Ivy, Faith, and I meet up at G-mo’s place, and we start getting ready for the protest. It’s going to be on the street in front of Sojo High.
“The streets are gonna be flooded with racists, yo!” G-mo rasps.
“Yeah, so many,” Ivy says. “I already know.”
They’re right—and that’s why we have to outnumber them.
We’ve got the news on G-mo’s small, twelve-inch TV, and they’re talking about the hearing and asking people to answer their online poll on whether or not the officer is guilty.
He’s guilty. There shouldn’t be any question or a stupid damn online poll about it.
Faith’s whole face looks how I feel, and she watches me with these huge, warm, brown eyes. Then she stands and hugs me, her hand on the back of my head.
“I want to help,” she says, and I think that’s really all I wanted to hear from her, from anyone. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
“Join us,” I tell her, pulling back. “Invite everyone you know.”
Faith nods. “My mother’s friend is a cop. He’s a good guy named Paulie. He’s outraged by what happened. I’ll see what he can do for us, too.”
“Perfect.”
We spend all night inviting people and making signs and posting things on Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr.
We even get one new hashtag trending.
#TylerJohnsonWasHere
• 26 •
When I wake up on Christmas Day—the day of the protest—there’s a really bad taste in my mouth. My eyes flicker open around 3:00 AM, and I think maybe someone’s going to climb through my window in the middle of the night and off me, and instead of getting up I just remain in bed, thinking about what’ll happen today. Either something or nothing at all.
In the kitchen, Mama has tea made and she’s on the phone with Auntie Nicola, and they’re talking about the protest happening today. I watch her squeeze lemon into a mug.
“Morning. Merry Christmas,” she says after she tells Auntie Nicola she’ll call back later. Nothing feels merry. Mama kisses my forehead and wipes the sleep from my eyes. “Feeling okay?” She gives me such a bittersweet look.
“Just got this gut feeling that something bad is going to happen. I got this gut feeling that this’ll never end.”
She reaches for my hand and squeezes.
“I made some tea over there,” she says with a hole in her voice as she points to the kitchen table, Tyler’s pictures still scattered across it. It’s become her morning routine to look at them and grieve and cry and pray to God to deliver the world from hate.
“Thanks.” I breathe out. “Anything that’ll help.”
I pour some tea into a little glass and take a sip. Mama puts the back of her hand to my forehead before she moves it to my cheek. “Making sure you don’t have a stress cold,” she says. “I think I’m coming down with one.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Nervous ’bout the protest?” she asks. “I can see so much worry in your eyes, boy.” Her voice cracks, and I wish I could wedge myself inside it.
“Kind of,” I reply after a pause. “I think it’s important that I’m there.”
She shakes her head. Once upon a time, Mama would’ve exploded, saying, No—you’re not going to that. These streets ain’t never been safe, and they most certainly ain’t safe for you now. I done lost one; I ain’t losing two. But now—now, she just gives me a small, warm smile and opens her arms.
We hug and she kisses my hairline and I’m nodding and tearing up against her chest.
“We can’t not get involved with this,” I say.
“I know, baby,” she responds.
“If we stay quiet, if we don’t fight back, if we let them silence us, we’re sending them a signal that they can keep doing this mess.”
She clears her throat and blinks. Her gaze then falls to the floor, and I can see the gears in her mind starting to turn as she remains quiet.
Feeling a chill strike up my spine, I add, “We can’t give them this, Ma.”
She exhales. “I’m proud of you.” She grabs the teapot from the table, pours some more in her little white mug, and picks up one of the photos of Tyler, gazing at it with regret in her blinking eyes.
Mama and I move to the living room and flip on the news. People are already starting to gather for the protest. I see a blend of people, and signs, and all sorts of flags. It’s all so overwhelming, and I can’t really think straight.
On the news, there’re clips of police squad cars with their blinking headlights and military tanks rolling past protestors on both sides of the road, and the anchorman talks about how this is all supposed to be a “peaceful protest.”
There’ve been so many protests throughout history, and a lot of them didn’t end peacefully. I don’t know if this one will. Seeing all these cops with their weapons has me nervous. Yes, I’m willing to die for this cause, but the fact that there’s even a chance that I’ll die, become a hashtag, be remembered briefly, and then be completely forgotten and marked as a statistic fucking terrifies me.
The news anchorman, who has the whitest button-up to match his skin, hair long gone, is describing the protestors—the ones who are advocates for justice, the ones who want the best for the world, the ones who want to do the right thing. His words cause an uneasy pang in my stomach. Violent tendencies. Angry. Thugs.
The screen flashes a glimpse of angry white folks screaming so loud the veins in their necks show, and they are screaming messed-up stuff, like “RID OUR STREETS OF THE THUGS!” And everybody knows that that’s a fucked-up code for KILL THE BLACKS.
“When will they see that it’s not okay to kill us?” I can feel the shaking in my hands.
Mama purses her lips. “Honey, I wish I knew. The racism in their hearts is like seeds that sprout roots. Racism can always be uprooted, though.” She places a hand on her chest, like she’s feeling her heart giving out—or in, a little too much.
I put a fist up to my open mouth. “I have to go.”
As I turn to head to my room to get changed, she grabs my elbow and pulls me back. “You need to come back alive. No fighting. No talking back to the police. Keep your hands up high in the air. Go with nothing in your pockets. Keep your mouth shut, and the likelihood of surviving is solid enough,” she says, tears flooding her eyes.
Her words are fucking tough and make me uncomfortable as shit. But they’re necessary and important. And I’m hoping G-mo’s, Ivy’s, and Faith’s mothers told them the same thing mine just told me.
The smell of the honey in the tea turns my stomach some more. Or maybe it’s what Mama said, but I think she’s definitely right. The best way to ensure your survival at a protest is to act like you’re invisible, even when you’re not.
She releases me and folds her arms.
Back in my room, I flip through the messages and tags on my phone. One message from Ivy says: Where u at? Ano
ther text from Faith says: Let me know when u are ready. I’ll pick u up.
I dig into my closet to find something to wear. I scroll through a few hangers of plaid shirts and polos, and Mama knocks on my door, creaking it open to peek her head through.
“I’m going with you,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I’m not letting you go alone.”
We exchange nods and sad smiles. She’s changed into black boots, a black T-shirt, and black jeans, and she put a pair of black sunglasses on top of her head, as if she’s the newest Black Panther.
I put on black, too. A black hoodie. Some black shoes. And the darkest jeans I can find in my dresser drawers. The hoodie and jeans are both a couple sizes bigger than I usually like, but they make me feel powerful, in control, and whole.
I text Faith that I’ll meet her at the protest, and that Mama is going to take me.
It’s all so damn shocking to me as we pull up to the protest. We can’t even park or get close enough to the front of Sojo High because there’re so many people walking and standing, even sitting, in the street.
So Mama parks all the way around the corner, and we weave our way through the crowd until I find Ivy and G-mo. The two of them greet me with huge hugs.
“Shit’s been going down,” G-mo says, putting a hand on my shoulder, and then he hugs Mama.
“For real, though. They brought out the dogs on one dude because he crossed the boundary,” Ivy says, pointing ahead of us at an orange line drawn on the ground with spray paint or something. “And they was about to throw tear gas.”
I look around, seeing so many strangers, Sojo High students, police officers, other people draped in Confederate and American flags on the other side of the line. Lots of people holding up signs. And I’m scanning everywhere, wondering if all hell is about to break loose, trying to convince myself that this isn’t a fucked-up scene from some dystopian movie.
