On the Other Side

by Michelle Janine Robinson

  It was important to Damita to read all the names. She felt it was important to offer her respect by recognizing every name that was displayed.

  “Feel free to take it all in at your own pace. It’s important to me that I acknowledge every name,” Daniel said.

  Damita glanced at Daniel. They shared a knowing look and both smiled.

  As their group examined the length of the wall, Carmella pointed out one name in particular.

  “Hey, guys, look at this. Isn’t this weird? Daniel, this guy has the same name as your brother, except it’s in reverse. Instead of Brandon Cooper, this guy is Cooper (‘Coop’) Daniel.”

  Damita stood there, staring at the name, her mouth agape.

  “Oh my God! Coop! I get it now. I finally get it. How could I not know? I sensed it in his spirit. I should have known. Who else would go to the end of the earth to save me?”

  They all stood staring at Damita. They weren’t sure what she was talking about.

  “Daniel, Mom, Carmella, can’t you all see? It was Brandon who saved me. It was Brandon.”

  Damita touched her hand to the bronze wall; traced the letters in the name with the tip of her finger and said the words she hadn’t had an opportunity to say.

  “Goodbye, Brandon. I will always love you.”

  EPILOGUE

  After several months of planning, the night had finally arrived. All of New York City’s elite were in attendance and Damita hoped that would go a long way to raise not only awareness of domestic violence, but also to raise money to continue the fight against it. She made her way to the podium to introduce a very special guest; one she hadn’t seen in three years.

  “For the past three years I have done all that I can to educate the public about the devastating effects of domestic violence on all of our communities. Now, I stand before you asking that we all take up the fight together. Above and beyond the moral impact of domestic violence upon our society, there are also financial and legal components that impact us all, whether or not we are direct victims. Before I introduce my next guest, I would like to share with you some statistics concerning domestic violence.”

  Damita glanced at a sheet of paper and began to read.

  “According to the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, domestic violence is the third leading cause of homelessness among families. Here, in New York City, twenty-five percent of homeless heads of household became homeless due to domestic violence. In addition, domestic violence contributes to poor health for many survivors. For example, chronic conditions like heart disease can become more serious due to domestic violence. Also, without help, boys who witness domestic violence are far more likely to become abusers of their partners and children as adults. Finally, domestic violence costs more than thirty-seven billion dollars a year in law enforcement involvement, legal work, medical and mental health treatment and lost productivity at work. So, anyone who believes that domestic violence is someone else’s problem is kidding themselves.

  “The person I am about to welcome to the stage understands all too well the long-standing impact of domestic violence. I’d like to introduce to you my sister and my friend, Sandra Jones.”

  Sandra had been Constance to Damita for such a long time it felt foreign to call her anything other than that. However, the realization that the moment her friend was able to return to being Sandra Jones was the moment she was truly free, helped Damita to embrace her actual name.

  She joined Damita on the podium and the two women embraced. As Damita left the stage, Sandra blew her a kiss.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Sandra began.

  “Before I tell you my story, there’s one thing everyone here needs to be aware of. Domestic violence can happen to anyone, regardless of gender, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation or income—”

  IF YOU ENJOYED “ON THE OTHER SIDE,” WE ENCOURAGE YOU TO PICK UP ANOTHER OF MICHELLE JANINE ROBINSON’S TITLES. ENJOY THIS TASTE OF

  BY MICHELLE JANINE ROBINSON AVAILABLE FROM STREBOR BOOKS

  PROLOGUE

  Practically barricaded inside of her own home, Traci Bianco looked apprehensively past the thick curtains and blinds, meant to camouflage her existence, through the barred windows and over the town she once loved. She wondered if New York would ever be returned to its former glory. She was not optimistic.

  The Nation’s post-cataclysmic existence had at least spared her the most insidious of fates—for now, but only because of whom she had married long before the devastation reached full tilt. Eventually, even that would not be enough to spare her. Desperation was commonplace and the level of atrocities continued to mount with each passing day, leaving ordinary people desperate and searching for answers.

  While her daughter, Caitlin, played quietly in her bedroom, Traci retrieved a metal lockbox from beneath a floorboard in her closet. Inside the box were small remnants of what remained from her former life. She carefully removed a newspaper, weathered by age. The November 5, 2008 headline read, “RACIAL BARRIER FALLS IN DECISIVE VICTORY.” Behind the iconic newspaper was another New York Times, dated November 7, 2012, which simply read, “PRESIDENT’S NIGHT.” Her fingers caressed the front page lovingly.

  It was difficult to imagine that so much could have changed in less than fifteen years. It was 2025; fourteen years after the 9/11 tragedy of the Twin Towers terrorist attack and only ten years after The Empire State Building was toppled by an explosion. Thousands of lives had been lost as a result of both terrorist attacks and the media’s coverage had been vast and dramatic. By sharp contrast, slavery in America had been mostly ignored for years, except for a few organizations that attempted to warn the public of the fate of the world if modern-day slavery continued to be ignored. Women and children were trafficked into the U.S. from other countries for years, and forced into prostitution, while men served as slave labor and were kept in poor health and squalid living conditions. However, it was Hurricane Molly in 2018 and The Stock Market Crash of 2020 that had sealed the country’s fate.

  Traci kept glancing at the doorway, nervously, careful not to draw the attention of her husband or her daughter. Even the black blinds and curtains didn’t seem to be enough. At only four years old, Caitlin was still young enough that she didn’t quite understand the world she was living in and the rules that were actively enforced, nor did she understand how drastically the world had changed in such a short period of time. Yet, even the young were not protected from all awareness. Children like her daughter were dying every day, simply because of the color of their skin. Traci’s husband, Bill, did, however, fully understand. He often cautioned Traci about her choices under the United States’ current regime. Traci was angry and often dangerously willful; that is why she kept the lockbox and its contents, reminders of her former world. She was well aware of the fact that Bill could never know for many reasons, not the least of which was that his awareness of her contraband would mean that he was guilty of even more than marrying and concealing a black woman. His awareness of the items she was keeping would mean treason and he would therefore be subject to punishment by U.S. Law, including imprisonment or maybe even death. Despite the obvious strain placed on their marriage, she still loved Bill and she believed he loved her as well. And, even if neither of them loved one another enough to survive their current catastrophic state, she was sure that they both loved their daughter. Bill’s survival was tantamount to any hopes for Caitlin’s future safety.

  “What you got there?”

  “Nothing,” Traci lied.

  “You and I both know that’s not the truth. You realize what would happen if that was found?”

  “Yeah, I know; the same thing that will happen if I’m found. Who would have thought that one day I’d be a prisoner in my own home? I can’t leave and I can’t stay. Ironic, isn’t it.”

  “It’s only temporary. I’m making plans. We’re going to get out. We’re going to get out together.”

  Traci understood exactly what that meant. For months Bill h
ad tried everything he could to get passports for Traci and Caitlin. When he realized that might not work, even if he did secure a passport, he realized he would have to find a way to escape from the U.S. with or without a passport. The question Traci kept asking him was where? The U.S. had not been the only country affected. For quite some time they believed the only alternative they had was to somehow make it to Germany, where her brother and sister-in-law were. Unfortunately, over time it had become apparent that even Germany was a dangerous gamble.

  Bill observed the forlorn look on Traci’s face and searched for the words to fill her with some small remnant of hope. “There has to be somewhere we can go. The entire world can’t be affected by this madness. There’s always been some other place, some small corner of the world to go to, even in light of the greatest despair.”

  The frightening and intrusive presence of what sounded like a battering ram pounding against their front door signaled the realization that, for Traci and Bill Bianco, time had run out.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Hey, bro, did you vote?”

  “Hell yeah, I voted! I hope everybody else got out there and cast theirs. You know how we do. Most of us talk a mean game, but when it comes to really showing out and making our voices heard, we leave it up to the next man.”

  Traci rolled her eyes.

  “I saw that,” Darren said.

  “What?”

  “You know what; that sister-girl eye roll thing you do. You’ve been doing it since we were kids. I can see it as clearly as if you were standing right here in front of me, even while I’m talking to you on the phone.”

  Traci laughed. “You know me way too well, brother dear. It’s a reflex action. My eyes automatically go into ‘roll mode’ when I detect you’re about to step up on your soapbox.”

  “Oh no, you didn’t. You see what happens when a brother like me tries to drop some knowledge? Folks get all resistant to hearing the truth; even my own sister! Speaking of knowing you too well, please tell me you didn’t vote Republican.”

  “You’re not supposed to ask me who I voted for.”

  “Knowing you, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you went all Republican on me. I fully understand your predilection toward vanilla flavor. Hell, I’ve enjoyed my own bit of jungle fever in the past. But, when it comes to politics, a black Republican ain’t fucking natural. I mean, really, talk about a goddamned oxymoron. How can any black person be black and Republican at the same time, especially when the Democratic candidate is black?”

  “I’m not going to go there with you, Darren. You and I both know that could take hours. However, I will say this. I voted for who I believed to be the best candidate, regardless of color. I hope that’s what you did as well. Besides, my choice of men is irrelevant. I loved Bryan, a black man, with all I had and look where it got me. Don’t get me wrong; his being black wasn’t a factor. I’ve dated all kinds of men and I’m just saying, good and bad comes in all colors.”

  “I’m sorry you got hurt, sis. You didn’t deserve that, but I’m not even going to sit here and lie. My first alliance is always going to be to my people. I wouldn’t have cared if J.J. from Good Times was running for President. I would have voted for him. As a people we’ve endured slavery, unfair imprisonment and all manner of discrimination from A to Z. I owe it to every generation that follows me to elect a black man President, again, so that my children and your children and all the little black children that follow know that they can be anything they want to be, including President of these United States. There was a time when children couldn’t believe that. Now they can. Hell, there was a time you and I couldn’t even vote. With a second term, the message will be clear. It will prove that his election was not a fluke or something handed to him. It will prove that the people, both black and white, decided and democracy ruled. We all owe it to our children, including you, to ensure that we play this game called life on a level playing field. That means a black man has as much of a right to be President of these United States as any other man.”

  “Or woman,” Traci chimed in.

  “Or woman,” Darren agreed. “In fact, if it were up to me, we’d be electing a black woman. That’d show ’em; one of ya’ll as President of the United States. I get chills thinking about it.”

  “What exactly are you trying to say? Just remember, choose your words carefully since I happen to be one of those black women you’re about to stereotype.”

  “Naw, naw, don’t get me wrong. A black female President would be cool. I will tell you one thing though, every twenty-eight days the country would be fighting with somebody, somewhere and weave hair would be dirt cheap, everywhere.”

  “Darren Sanders, you’re lucky you’re on the phone and in Mississippi and not standing in front of me. If you were here I would kick your ass. You see how you do? If somebody was talking about a black man like that you would be ready to call the NAACP.”

  “Dear sister, I forget sometimes how much older you are than me. If I were making the call it would be to Color of Change. That group is on point. They are actively addressing the issues that confront a brother like me in this modern-day world we find ourselves living in.”

  “What are you, their spokesperson?”

  “No, but I am considering becoming a member.”

  “Be careful, Darren, you being a teacher and all, especially in the South. You don’t want any of your affiliations to jeopardize your career. You already have enough going on, without adding that to the mix.”

  “Don’t worry, big sis. I’m good. I’ll be smart and prudent in my approach to all things militant.”

  “Militant? Now whose age is showing? Do people even use the word militant anymore?”

  “I don’t know about people, but I do.”

  “Have you spoken to Mom lately? She called me a couple of weeks ago about a letter she got from her housing project. Apparently, those living in public housing are now required to work for their shelter, one way or another. They want them to clean up the grounds, mop the floors and stuff like that.”

  “What the fuck? I know damned well they didn’t send my mother a letter asking her to do work around that cesspool. She did her time. She worked and retired and her rent is paid from her own pocket, not from government funding.”

  “I guess, technically, it is considered government funding, since it is public housing.”

  “That’s some straight up bullshit!”

  “I completely agree with you. I told her to send me the letter and that I would deal with it. I’m sure it’s probably a form letter that is sent to everyone living in the complex. They can’t possibly expect a seventy-seven-year-old retired woman, who is paying rent, to go out and clean up the building?”

  “You’re probably right, but I still think it’s a bunch of bullshit. The majority of people forced to live in public housing are there because they’re either unemployed or underemployed. Hell, instead of making folks clean the damned grounds and shit, they should be helping them to get real jobs with real pay. It’s fucking slavery all over again!”

  “Look who’s talking about slavery, Mr. Darren Sanders. You were the last person I expected to pack up and move to Mississippi, of all places. That’s like the belly of the beast. I half expect to find some slaves that were never freed still pining away for their freedom.”

  “Oh, stop it. It’s not that bad here. The truth is, as quiet as it’s kept, racism is alive and well in the North as well; always has been. Folks put a pretty bow on it there, especially where you are in New York City. Besides, I moved here for love.”

  “Don’t remind me. You packed up your entire life to move to Mississippi and that dick left you for someone else. I still can’t believe you didn’t come back after the two of you broke up.”

  “Baby girl, you know that’s the African-American dream. All black folks wanna move back down South. Not only that, I feel like I’m needed here much more than I was in New York City.”

  “I need you.”
/>
  “That’s all well and good but I was talking about work. In New York I was constantly trying to stay one step ahead of the funding curve. No sooner did I feel like I was making an impact, whether it was HIV counseling or educating families, and suddenly the program would lose funding and I was on to the next program. It’s different here and if I’m going to constantly live in fear of losing my job, at least I can do it in a place where the cost of living is a lot lower.

  “Not all black folks. The last place I want to be is anywhere in the South. Hell, I don’t even want to be in the North. This city is draining the hell out of me. If it were up to me I’d be living in Tuscany somewhere.”

  “I was half expecting you to say Germany.”

  “Believe me, I’ve considered it.”

  “I know you have. Our brother and his wife would love having you there. They’d probably throw a parade in your honor. Now me, on the other hand, that’s another story altogether.”

  “What do you mean? Sebastian loves you, and so does Angelika.”

  “I have no doubt that they both love me. However, Sebastian has clearly never gotten used to the idea of his brother, the queer.”

  “Oh, Darren, don’t say that.”

  “It’s the truth. I make him uncomfortable.”

  “I guess it’s just a guy thing,” Traci offered.

  “Yeah, it’s a guy thing. In the meantime, I haven’t seen my own brother in almost five years.”

  “The two of you are ridiculous. Do I have to do an intervention? Tell you what. I was planning on visiting for Christmas. Why don’t we make it a family affair and spend Christmas in Germany?”

  “You’d better check with Sebastian and Angelika before you make plans like that.”

  “It’s no big deal. I already spoke with them months ago and mentioned I might come for the holidays. They do it up big for Christmas in Germany. Instead of one day they celebrate for several days. Anyway, Sebastian and Angelika are expecting me.”