Black Girls Must Die Exhausted: A Novel for Grown Ups

by Jayne Allen

  “Are you sure you’re ok, Tabby? You don’t sound like yourself…why don’t you come out here to visit with me in DC? Take a break?”

  “I’ll think about it Mom,” I said. “Right now, I just need to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  “Ok, I didn’t get to ask you about Marc,” she said, not taking my cue.

  “Oh, Marc. Maybe it’s better to have a burrito,” I said. “Or, a book.”

  “Ok Tabby, you’re talking nonsense, go back to sleep. I love you.” I told her I loved her too and hung up. But I knew what I said. She just missed it.

  Chapter 31

  I was glad to finally be in Denisha’s chair ready for the last and most complex element of my styling ritual. For once, Denisha was running ahead, rather than behind since I had managed to get there early. Instead of going to the gym that morning, Laila and I had coffee together. It was a relief to see her looking better, and I agreed to help brainstorm on some ideas for her blog. It had been a long time since I’d seen her that excited. It made me believe that I could count on all of her commitments toward moving forward. Later that afternoon, I planned to keep my own commitment and head to Crestmire to help Granny Tab get ready for Senior Prom. Ms. Gretchen was still out of town, so I’d be Granny Tab’s prep partner and her date for the evening’s events.

  Denisha’s hand floated just above my head as she started to fill me in on the local events as if she were the afternoon anchor for the ‘hood’s very own live action production of the news. I swear I did not trust an animated Denisha with a hot comb. It was a perfect recipe for grill marks all across my forehead.

  “Girl, did you hear about the shooting that happened in View Park?” Denisha said.

  “ “You mean the boy that was shot by an off-duty police officer? He’s ok, though right? Still in the hospital?” I had heard about the shooting. We covered it briefly on the news the day before, but didn’t spend much time on it because, unfortunately among the things we hate to admit, if the shooting victim didn’t die, it holds much less interest. Thankfully, the 19-year-old college student was only shot in the arm and received timely emergency treatment at the local hospital trauma unit.

  “Yeah he still in the hospital, but he shouldn’t be,” Denisha said in her usual shorthand English. “It ain’t even right what happened to that boy. All ‘cause people keep moving in to View Park and don’t even know who their neighbors are!” Hearing the elaboration piqued my attention. I hadn’t heard any of this from our own reporting of the story. At the expense of my forehead, and my ear, which had only just finally healed from a small burn mark from last week, I asked for further details.

  “Wait, what do you mean’?”

  “Well, this is the part that they didn’t say on the little news coverage that I did hear about it. But you know my cousin Tre and them stay in View Park, so they know exactly what had happened. And it ain’t what the police said happened, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh really?” My reporter’s ear perked up. Perspective.

  “Yeah Girl, Tre told me that what really happened, the boy, Daequan, it was his grandmomma house. And she had just sold it. ‘Cause, you know how everybody tryin’ to move into View Park right now. Like they done discovered it or somethin’. Well anyway, his grandmomma was selling the house because Daequan was having to work two jobs and go to school. He over at UCLA trying to be a doctor.”

  “Oh, he’s pre-med?”

  “Yeah, his momma a nurse, and his grandmomma retired. So he had decided that he was gonna be a surgeon. But meanwhile, he was struggling paying for school, right? So the grandmomma, decided that she would sell the house while white folks were driving the prices up, and get that check to help her grandson out with the costs for school. She and the momma got a new house together out in Palmdale.”

  “So what does this all have to do with the shooting?”

  “Y’all didn’t know this?” Denisha said, waving the curling iron. Instinctively, I reached for my ear and held it down. “You good. You can let your ear go, I already got that part.” Reluctantly, I brought my hand back down to my lap. She continued, “See, y’all be missin’ important stuff on the news.”

  “What wasn’t reported?” I asked.

  “See, what had happened was, the momma and grandmomma was supposed to move the next day. The moving truck was coming and everything. The momma and grandmomma had already taken a car full of stuff out to the new house earlier in the day. Daequan came after work to help with another load to take out there. You know, to help. So he was packing up the car with stuff from the house. One of the new nosy-assed neighbors saw him moving stuff out, didn’t ask no questions and straight called the po-lice.” Called the police. I felt an immediate pang in my gut.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, called the police and said specifically that a black male or group of black males was committing a burglary down the street from their house and that they didn’t know if the burglars—the black burglars were armed or not. Meanwhile, it was just Daequan, movin’ stuff out his grandmomma house. No one else.”

  “So, there was a false report?” I asked.

  “I didn’t even know you could call something like that no false report. I wish someone would. Seems like it happens all the time. Calling the police on black people. It doesn’t have to be true, it just has to be said.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” some older church lady said from across the salon.

  “Um hum,” Denisha said. “So the call went out over the police radio and the closest to report was this new cop—just like his second day and he was off duty down the street. Just so happened that his friends, his white friends, had moved in on the same block. They had been at the block club meeting complaining about the neighborhood and how the ‘gangs’,” Denisha said, using air quotes with the curling iron still in her hand, “were setting up all these break-ins.”

  “What?” I was mesmerized.

  “Yup. And so that cop, the new one, the off-duty one was the first to respond,” Denisha said, continuing the story with more animation. “Girl, hold your other ear, I’m going to get your edges real quick.” Nervously, I complied. “So, you can imagine, this…I mean, basically he’s a boy, right? He’s trying to help his momma and grandmomma move out, after school, after work, tired as hell, and then has some off-duty cop roll up on him outside the house in the dark? That’s crazy!”

  “So how did the shooting happen?” I asked, already starting to type notes on my phone.

  “The cop pulled out his gun on Daequan, like right away as he was coming out of the house. Daequan put his hands up and was trying to explain to the cop that it was his grandmomma’s house and he was just helping move. But the cop didn’t believe him. So, Daequan was like, ‘look, Imma just call my momma real quick, she’ll explain’ and reached to get his cell phone. The cop immediately thought the phone was a gun and shot him in the arm. On some bullshit.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. None of this backstory had been reported yesterday.

  “So did you hear anything about Daequan? Is he going to be ok?” I asked, still trying to type notes.

  “He alright. He lucky though. Tre said that there was blood all over the sidewalk after the ambulance left. He could have lost his arm or something. Then he’d have a hard time being a surgeon. Already gonna have a hard time ‘cus he starting off black. Too bad they can’t shoot the black off you instead, since they’re just going around shooting black people for no reason.”

  “Sure would be easier that way!” The same lady from across the room injected in our conversation. Would it be? It was hard to make sense of Daequan’s shooting. It wasn’t fair and worse, nobody knew the truth. Anyone who heard about the story would think that he was just another thug-in-training shot under questionable circumstances.

  “Does anybody know how bad the wound was?” I asked.

  “Tre said that Daequ
an’s cousin told him that the bullet went straight through and he’ll be discharged this afternoon. The family is doing a little thing on Facebook Live as they leave the hospital. That’s just for the neighborhood folks that wanna know that Daequan is alright. Me personally, I don’t know why this isn’t the biggest news story out there,” Denisha said emphatically.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Because Daequan ain’t die!” Denisha said. “He’s a rare one who can still tell his own story. He can tell the truth about exactly what happened. With them other boys, the ones that got shot dead, you don’t get to hear the twelve-year-old ask for his mommy. Think about Tamir Rice. Let the media tell it, he was some 7-foot tall monster with a glock, instead of what he really was, a baby playing with a plastic toy. About time the real victim gets to tell his own story and people can see for themselves how ridiculous this shit is that we got to live with.”

  “Denisha, you’re a genius,” I said, with the wheels already turning fast in my mind. “I’ll be right back to pay you. I need to step out and make a call.”

  There was no way I was going to ring Chris inside that noisy salon. So, just outside the door, I was relieved for the minimal street noise when he picked up on the first ring.

  “Chris, sorry to disturb you on a Saturday, but I have a story I think we need to pick up today.”

  “Wait, Tabby, are you implying that there is such a thing as a weekend?” Chris said. “That might be the only thing that actually is fake news…although I hate that term. What’s up?”

  “You know that officer-involved shooting in View Park yesterday?”

  “Yep, we covered it. The officer responded to a burglary in progress call, mistook the kid’s cell for a gun, shot him in the arm to disarm him and the kid’s doing alright, recovering fine with no lasting damage in the hospital. Where’s the story?” he asked curtly.

  “There is definitely a story,” I said. “Much more to it than that. The kid was helping his grandmother move. She sold her house to take advantage of the rising prices due to gentrification of the View Park neighborhood. Remember my piece on Los Angeles real estate trends?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah, that was a great piece, really well done—and got great ratings for us.”

  “Well, this is a story also of one of the effects of gentrification. One of the white neighbors called the police. They identified the supposed burglar in their call by race. The kid is a pre-med college student working two jobs studying to be a surgeon. Came over to help grandma move out of her house that she sold to help with college expenses.”

  “This is getting interesting. Tell me more,” Chris said.

  “It was an off-duty officer who responded to the call. It’s not black and white, so to speak, about whether the shooting was justified. He mistook the boy’s phone for a gun and shot. The kid was just trying to call his mom to give an explanation of why he was there moving. He wants to be a surgeon, Chris. What if he had lost his arm?”

  “So, what are you proposing?”

  “The kid gets discharged this afternoon. The family is doing a Q&A on Facebook Live leaving the hospital. No press conference was scheduled. I don’t think anybody even asked for one. They were just planning on answering questions for concerned people from the neighborhood and the family’s church. I say, we need to be there. If you assign a team now, can’t this make the evening news?”

  “Assign a team? Tabby, this is your story. You cover it.” Shit. I was supposed to be at Crestmire. I couldn’t cancel on Granny Tab.

  “Oh no Chris, I’m not…ready…I was just pitching the story because…”

  “Tabby, you’re a Senior Reporter. You don’t pitch, you cover. Scramble your team. You get me the package, you’re a go for the News at 6 p.m.” I tried to find the words to protest. I knew I should have told him I had plans with family. But I couldn’t. My mouth opened a few times, but the words I could have said failed to exit.

  Oh shit. Granny Tab. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Chapter 32

  “Hi Two! Are you on your way?” My grandmother’s voice sang out of my cellphone after the first ring. Guilt was wrapping its clammy fingers around my windpipe, making it hard to speak. It took me a few seconds to push words out that I struggled earlier to find.

  “Hi Granny Tab!” I finally managed to say. “I…I…hate to disappoint you and you know I wouldn’t in a million years if I could help it, but I’m actually on my way to an emergency work assignment that I have to cover. I don’t think that I’m going to be able to finish in time to make it today, and I know that it’s the Senior Prom tonight. I’m so sorry.” Once the words did break free, they became a deluge that was almost impossible to stop. If I could say enough of them, perhaps that would somehow drown out the fact that I was choosing work over my grandmother, and without even having Ms. Gretchen there to take my place. Lately, all I’d been faced with was a series of decisions with no clear right choice. On this afternoon, I hoped that I was making the correct one, one that could possibly save a life in the future.

  “Oh?” was all that Granny Tab said, with innocent curiosity. I could hear her sigh in the pause. I knew that she was thinking, resetting, reclaiming her disappointment, and swallowing it whole like a pill. All this so that she could hold onto it herself, sparing me with her willing sacrifice. Sparing me so I could feel like my decision had no consequences of hurt. It was a process that I, and perhaps every woman, knew well, the contorting of oneself around failed expectations, the twisting and turning to hide your pain from others, so that they might walk free of it, believing that we’re always alright. We call that, love. “Well, Sweetheart, I understand you have to work!” Granny Tab continued cheerfully. “And this was just something to do if you had nothing else to do. Us old biddies here, we’ve got nothing but time.”

  “Granny Tab, are you sure? I really was looking forward to being there! Thank you so much for understanding…my boss said I…I have to do this—you know the boy that got shot by the police in View Park, the 19-year-old, did you hear about that?”

  “Yes! I saw it on the news! But, they didn’t say too much about it though. The boy is gonna be fine, they said. Is that right?”

  “Granny Tab, there’s so much more to the story. At first, none of the news stations were interested. Why would they be, right? The boy is gonna live, seems like there’s no controversy. But, while I was at the hair salon, my stylist told me the background. He was just an innocent kid trying to help his grandmother move and the neighbors called the police on him.”

  “Well, any grandmother could relate to that,” Granny Tab said. “What a nice boy to help her, even after he had been working all day! And who would call the police on a kid?”

  “It’s worse than that, the neighbor identified him as black when they called. Like, as if that made him more dangerous, or even more suspicious. Like they hadn’t moved into a black neighborhood…”

  “Well, even if they hadn’t moved into a black neighborhood. It shouldn’t be suspicious, just to see a black person, and definitely not in View Park. I just don’t have a lot of sympathy for this kinda stuff. I used to worry for your father all of the time—that because of his skin color, people wouldn’t see his innocence.”

  “I know. I know, Granny Tab. And the officer shot the boy in the arm when he was trying to call his mom to get her to explain. I can only imagine how scared he was. Luckily, the bullet went through—but he’s studying to be a surgeon! Just one millimeter off, and…can you imagine?”

  “You’re going to cover this, Two? Is that what you’ve been assigned?”

  “Yes, Granny Tab. I have to go to the hospital to interview him and his family as he gets discharged this afternoon. No other news crew is scheduled to be there. So, long story short, that’s why I can’t come today.”

  “Well then, don’t you dare worry about me, Tabby. This is exactly what you’re supposed
to do. This is your story—I just know it. I’ll do my own makeup and I will be fine—what’s for you, is for you. Will it be on the news tonight?”

  “Six p.m.—that’s what Chris said. If I can get the interview package done and in, they’ll put it on at 6 p.m.”

  “Well, I’ll be watching!”

  “Thanks so much Granny Tab! I’ll come by to visit with you tomorrow.”

  “Ok Sweetheart! I love you and knock ‘em dead!” I imagined my grandmother’s pale knuckles balled up, punching at the air in front of her, like she would always do when she said that to me. Her hands might have changed over time, skin thinned and wrinkled by age into near-translucence, but she had used that saying many times before, on my most important occasions—from my first day of high school, to when I left for grad school, to my first day on my first job. And now.

  “Thanks Granny Tab. I love you too. I’ll do my best—see you, well…you’ll see me at 6 pm!”

  While this, by far, was my most important call of the day, there was one other that ran a close second. I managed to scramble my reporting team and hold a brief planning session in the van on the way to cover Daequan’s hospital discharge. We talked through the questions that needed to be asked and I put my research team on pulling all the pertinent background facts. Thankfully, Scott Stone stealing my Rams assignment worked out to my benefit, because I already had much of the data on gentrification and Los Angeles real estate trends to reference. I started to feel comfortable that this was going to shape into a great story for our viewers. But, still, one element remained open, missing, and it happened to be part of my particular perspective. I needed to reach someone whom I hadn’t thought about in quite some time.

  “Tina, Jim” I said, “I need you guys to find an Officer Mallory… M… A… L… L… O… R… Y.

  Chapter 33

  Jim and Tina jumped on the little bit of information I could give them without a badge number. They stood in front of me with notepads in hand hanging on my every word.