“Maybe it’s just a phase and she’ll grow out of it?” Ximena suggested halfheartedly.
“Maybe,” I replied. “Anyway, we’re not here to talk about Happi. We need to prep for the rally later today. Are you sure you don’t want to go with us, Derek?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m positive.” Derek stole another of Ximena’s fries before she could swat his hand away. “The last thing I need is to bring my Black ass out there and get arrested. Then one thing leads to another, and I’m the one you’re marching for next. I’m good.”
“You sound almost like Happi. That’s exactly the reason you should be marching, Derek!”
The look on his face told me that he wasn’t going to change his mind. I rolled my eyes and turned to the next item on my list. “We need to come up with a good chant. Can you at least help out with that?”
Derek smirked. And with that, the three of us set out to create a bomb rallying call...but failed miserably. After almost twenty minutes of terrible suggestions (Hey hey! Ho ho! Kez, we ain’t got ideas no mo’!) we decided to call it quits and just stick to following along with what the other protestors came up with.
“It’s our first rally, Kezi,” Ximena said as we packed up to head to our respective classes. “We’re there to support. Don’t worry about taking the lead for this one.”
I anticipated the rest of the day would drag on, but it rocketed forward, thanks to my video of Mr. Bamhauer.
In AP Bio, we once learned about viruses and how they replicated and moved through organisms. During the lysogenic cycle, the virus lies low and just makes hella copies of itself through the infected cell’s machinery. But then, it reaches a point called the lytic cycle, where the cell is absolutely stuffed, and it bursts. Then those viruses go off and infect other cells.
This wasn’t my first viral video. I had a substantial subscriber list. But I had never had a clip spread like this one had. It had reached its own lytic stage, and this was the moment the cell ruptured.
My peers were riled up. They shared, retweeted, and re-posted as soon as they saw the video, spreading the word about Thomas Edison Senior High’s incompetent history teacher who needed to be removed from his position—effective immediately.
As my classmates and I waited for Spanish class to begin, pods of conversation sprang up around the room.
A pencil tapped on my desk. “Yo that video...” said the girl seated beside me.
“Oh my God, I was just about to say!” said the guy in the desk behind us. “I’ve let...weird comments of Mr. B’s slide because I thought I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“You know he told me he thought political correctness was the worst part of our society? I didn’t even ask him about that!” She shook her head. “Somebody needed to say something.”
I tried to nod sagely but, on the real? It was one of my proudest moments ever.
When the last bell finally rang, I was lightning, bolting out of class before anyone had even finished gathering their things. I’m not usually one of those students who starts packing up before the teacher completes their last thought, but today I had to make an exception. The eagerness to be at a real-live protest had made it impossible to stay focused. I raced through the halls and arrived at my locker, then tossed my human geography and biology books inside. I slammed the door shut and very narrowly missed the fingers of the girl who owned the locker next to mine. She gave me a squinty glare as I raced away.
“Sorry!” I shouted back to her as I zigged and zagged, bobbed and weaved through the crowd, making my way to the student parking lot.
Ximena was already waiting for me, like I’d known she would be. She leaned casually against her cherry-red Prius, arms folded, black aviator sunglasses perched on her nose. She tipped them down to meet my eyes. Tilted her head slightly as she smiled. Goose bumps danced up and down my arms.
“Honestly, you should have a Mustang if you really want to pull off this too-cool-for-school look you’ve got going on,” I said with a smirk as I slid into the passenger seat.
“And unnecessarily expand my carbon footprint? I thought you knew me better than that, Kez.”
I was a tightly wound ball of nerves as Ximena drove down Angeles Vista and Leimert Boulevards. Houses, cars, and people blurred into one like the strokes of a leaky watercolor painting as we zoomed along. (With intermittent stopping, of course, because this was Los Angeles traffic after all.) I searched endlessly for a song to listen to on the radio to give my hands something to do, until finally Ximena reached over and placed her hand on my lap, palm side up. I smiled, and this time I held on, her fingers warming my own as I finally started to relax.
“Why are you so anxious?” Ximena asked. Her eyes widened. “Wait, you didn’t get another one of those emails, did you, because you have t—”
I shook my head. Thank God. “No, no,” I replied. “I wish I could tell you. I’m just feeling...strange.”
“Maybe it’s because this is the first time you’re taking your activism on the road,” Ximena mused. “You’ll be fine. I’m right here.”
“Yeah.” I gave her hand a little squeeze. “I should channel this energy into a video for my YouTube.”
I reached into my book bag and pulled out my DSLR. It was a Canon EOS 5D Mark III and my most expensive purchase ever. I’d paid for this camera with the money I earned from the ads that play before, during, or after my videos. It marked the moment when my parents started to realize my “little YouTube hobby” was pretty special. I placed it carefully on the dashboard of Ximena’s car and cleared my throat a few times before I began speaking.
“Hey YouTube! It’s your girl Kezi. I’m with my friend Ximena.” I turned the camera toward her so she could wave, and then repositioned it in front of me. “We’re heading to the protest for Jamal Coleman in South Los Angeles. I wanted to hop on and make a quick video to explain why I’m participating in this rally today. I think it’s so important for us to speak up for those who can’t, and to join in the chorus of people who are already raising their voices. It’s vital to post our grievances online and let the world know that we won’t stand for injustice anymore. But we’ve also gotta show up in real life. A trending topic is easy for us all to hop on. But organizing, making signs, petitioning for changes in legislation, marching? That takes dedication. And it shows we’re willing to come together when it counts.”
“You’re such a natural,” Ximena said as I closed my camera and placed it back in my bag. She glanced at me, the right corner of her lip tilting up in the way it does when she’s about to say something slick. “Friend.”
“Shut up,” I said with no heat behind my words. “Everybody doesn’t need to know my business like that.”
“Mmm hmm.”
It was funny. Before we were dating, before we were even friends, we were enemies. I’d dramatically called her my nemesis at dinner after the first day of high school and everything. She was always raising her hand in class. Seemed like a huge know-it-all. And she glided through the halls like she knew how fine she was. Then Mr. Scholls, our English teacher, made us partners to complete a group assignment on Pride and Prejudice (I know, I know). We hated each other so much that we made competing presentations and met with him after school a few weeks later to beg him to allow us to be graded separately. Didn’t work. In fact, he threatened to fail us both if we didn’t “stop with the bullshit.”
I went over to her house the next day and we called a truce, because neither of us played about our GPAs. I fell in love with her grandma first though. Ximena and I were barely speaking at her table when Abuelita Caridad nearly floated into the room and gasped.
“And what is this? Is the war over, mija?”
Ah. So she talked about me too.
I could hear my mother growling, If you don’t get up and show you have some home training and sense...in my head and got out of my seat to greet the ol
der woman. She hugged me then pulled away to examine my face.
“There’s no war,” Ximena had grumbled.
“Of course not,” Abuelita Caridad had declared. “She’s the kind of girl you fight wars for, not against.”
We were still about ten minutes out from Expo Park, the home base of the march. The music on the radio trilled softly in the background as I tapped my phone. Genny had texted me earlier today, but I hadn’t gotten back to her. It was right around when Happi was fussing me out. Genny’s sister senses must’ve been tingling. I opened my texts to reply and then decided to just give her a call.
“Hi there! You have reached Genny Smith, as you can see, um, hear, I’m not here right now. Please leave a message after the beep!”
“Hey, sis! It’s me, Kezi. I’m on my way to the rally with Ximena.” Ximena waved wildly from her seat. “She says hi. Sorry I didn’t text you back earlier. I was too busy getting chewed, gargled, and spit out by our lovely baby sister. I’ll tell you all about it at lunch tomorrow. That girl is something else. Anyway, I’m feeling a little nervous for some reason. Maybe it’s because I’m finally going against the ’rents and they’re giving me the silent treatment for it? I don’t know how Happi handles being on this side of the law all the time... But yeah. I was just calling to say what’s up. Wish me luck!” And then at the last second I added, “Love you.”
“That was sweet,” Ximena said, looking at me from the corner of her eye.
“You’re sweet,” I answered, and reached for her again, kissing the back of her hand.
We rode the rest of the way in silence, my face frozen into a goofy smile that only Ximena could elicit.
* * *
Tension fizzed in the air and filtered into the car, even with the windows shut. Hundreds of people were making their way up South Figueroa Street toward the epicenter of the rally. Some were wearing shirts with a picture of Jamal’s face blown up on the front below the words Rest in Paradise. Others wore black tees, names of the many, many fallen listed in white font like a morbid credits scene at the end of a movie: Martin, Bland, Garner, Brown, Taylor, Floyd, No More.
“Wow. It is hot!” Ximena exclaimed once we’d found a parking spot and hopped out of her Prius.
“Seriously. I hope my camera won’t get messed up as I record.” Marbles of sweat had already sprouted on my forehead. We were parked quite a ways away from where we needed to be, but it was the best we could do on a Tuesday at almost 4:00 p.m. in the city. I pulled my camera out of my backpack and wrapped the strap across my body before safely tucking the bag into the trunk of the car, and then handed Ximena the poster that we’d worked on over the weekend. STOP POLICE BRUTALITY was written in large crimson letters, paint dripping down the page like drops of blood.
We joined the flow of protesters, a river of people guiding the way as their cries washed over the ears of everyone who would listen. Local news stations lined the streets, their big white vans and their too-tall antennas acting as beacons, competing with the palm trees to reach the sun as we drew closer to Exposition Park Drive. We were mere paces from the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles, the California African American Museum, and the LA Memorial Coliseum, spots I’d visited in amazement since I was four years old. Now I was eighteen and hoping to make that same little girl proud, the one who once swayed before the might of the dinosaurs and stood in awe of the dignity of her people’s history. My camera was rolling, ready to capture it all.
Finally, we were at the center of the rally. Police stood around with riot gear, their polycarbonate shields smeared with spit and sweat as people chanted about injustice. Even through their helmets, I noticed that some of the officers looked bored. Another day of senseless shouting, in their eyes.
“Hi, everyone. Diane again. Can we all please take five steps back?” blared a voice over a megaphone. I turned to see a short light-skinned woman wearing one of the Rest in Paradise shirts standing on a small platform. “We can make ourselves heard without crowding. Remember. This is a peaceful protest. Now, let’s welcome a very special speaker. Mrs. Monique Coleman, Jamal’s mother, is here with us today.”
Diane stepped down from the platform. Mrs. Coleman was a tall woman, thin. She had a full head of hair that at one point must’ve been jet-black. Definitely a #1 in the kanekalon pack. But now, her hairline was streaked with gray.
I remembered the first time that I had seen Mrs. Coleman on the news. She’d used every bit of her height to help project her voice, over the heads of people in a crowd but still straight through their hearts. Today, she was a shell of her former self. A once majestic willow tree, withered.
Mrs. Coleman took the mic and spoke. “I am tired.”
The crowd murmured their agreement.
“I’m tired of hearing statistics about our likelihood of being stopped by law enforcement. I’m tired of civilians believing they have the right to put their hands on us and their bullets through us. I’m tired of speaking to politicians when all the promises they make are empty. I’m tired of how the police continue to disrespect our children. Beat them. Kill them. I am tired that our fellow Americans don’t understand why this would anger us. But even though I’m tired, I know you are all here to help raise me up.”
Everyone cheered in unison. Their shouts seemed to give Mrs. Coleman a little bit of strength.
“One day, when I have decided to put down this mic and let someone else pick up this burden, I hope you’ll remember my boy. He was kind. He was a dreamer. He was my son. But more than that, he was a person. And I hope that you’ll remember his name—Jamal Coleman. Because if we should forget, it won’t be too long until they do this to another one of our babies. If it’s done to one of us and we don’t say ‘no more,’ it will only be a matter of time before they come for the rest of us.”
Mrs. Coleman carefully stepped down from the stage and handed the microphone back to Diane.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Coleman, for your powerful words.” But she was already gone, making her way through the crowd with her family surrounding her, ready to be done with the day.
“Hey,” Ximena said, turning to me. “Maybe we should try to catch her. It would be awesome if you could get her to say a few words on camera for your channel.”
I watched Mrs. Coleman’s retreating back, the way her shoulders drooped in exhaustion. “I dunno. I don’t want to bother her.”
“Come on,” Ximena said, pulling my arm.
We had just started to navigate the throng of people when we heard someone shout.
“It’s done to one, it’s done to all. Don’t forget his name—Jamal!”
We turned to see a line of protesters positioned directly across from the police officers. They continued to repeat the chant, the solitary voice now amplified by at least twenty others, a domino effect of resistance. And with each repetition, more joined in.
I raised my camera up to make sure that I was capturing this moment and focused on a man in a black tracksuit staring down a policeman. I walked toward him without realizing what I was doing. He was chanting along with the rest of the protestors, but his eyes remained laser focused on the officer.
“Step back!” the officer shouted.
The man stopped chanting. “I’m five steps away from you, just as the organizer requested.”
Ximena shot me a wary look. The energy between the two men was mounting, an electric charge waiting for some unfortunate soul to come along, touch it, and be fried to a crisp.
“I said step back!” the policeman said, raising his shield.
“We have more than enough space between—”
Before the man could finish his sentence, the officer charged forward and collided with him.
“Hey!” I shouted reflexively. “He didn’t do anything wrong!”
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to step in, intervene somehow. So I did the next best thin
g. I pulled out my phone and went live on my Instagram page.
“I am currently at the rally for Jamal Coleman at Expo Park,” I said trying to keep the shakes out of my voice. “This man was exercising his First Amendment right to peacefully assemble when he was attacked by one of the officers present.”
Viewers jumped onto my livestream immediately, and comments skittered across my screen.
Hell yeah
You look especially beautiful today
Be careful out there!
“Ma’am. I’m going to need you to stop recording.” In my haste to go live, I hadn’t even noticed that an officer was now standing two feet from me.
“It’s her right to record!” Ximena yelled, stepping forward.
The officer ignored her. “I’m asking you to put your phone away, or I’ll have to take it from you.”
“For what?” Ximena’s face was red, her eyes narrowed in anger.
“Ximena, it’s okay,” I said, moving to put my phone in my pocket, though I left it streaming.
“No!” she shouted, pulling my phone back up. “We will not be intimidated!”
“Ma’am.” The officer moved closer, motioning to hand over my phone.
“Sir, with all due respect. I’m not doing anything wrong. We’re at a protest. We’re allowed to record,” I said slowly, in what I hoped was a nonthreatening tone. My heart rapped at my chest. I didn’t want this exchange to go any further than it already had.
One of the Good Ones Page 10
