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Hip-hop has been blasting from the speakers for hours on end. The dining room is bustling, each member of the family situated at different ends of the table.
Claudette sits across from me, taking spoonfuls of soup as she belts out the lyrics, giggling whenever a taboo word is bleeped from the speakers.
Claudie’s especially into it, making vivid arm movements as she jives, eliciting laughs from the rest of the family.
After a few more minutes of nods, lyrics and the clink of spoons against bowls, Dad lowers the volume of his speaker.
“Time to chat.” He says, eyes traveling over Nat, Claudie, and I. “My three kids, all here in one space.”
Mom shakes her head with a grin. “Doesn’t happen very often these days.”
“What’s everyone been up to lately?” Dad asks, hands clasping over the table.
“Volunteering,” Nat says, the halo practically hovering over his head.
Claudie waves a hand in the air. “Learning about the fifty states.” She chirps.
My parents nod, before turning to me, Mom’s hand tracing over a silver necklace. “Amina?”
Let’s see. Launching a campaign, winning over the student body, trying to take down Brett McSomething, attempting to start a school-wide protest.
“You were working on that campaign, weren’t you?” Dad asks, jutting a spoon in my direction.
“Where are you with it now?” Nat asks, as Claudie looks over at me, taking slow slurps of her soup.
Any other day, I probably would’ve said something vague about the progress and whatnot. The truth is that this whole thing has evolved into so much more than some dumb bid for presidency. Now, it’s about shaking the very foundations of Elkwood.
“I’m organizing a protest.” I blurt, causing all eyes around the table to widen.
“Sorry, what?” Dad asks.
“A protest.” I repeat slowly.
“They’re going to hate this,” Mom says, tilting her head to the side. They being Elkwood: the whole community, the neighborhood, the school. Maybe even the town.
“I know, I just...” I shake my head for a second, fingers running through dark braids. I meet my parents’ eyes, and the whole story spills out. Emory having parts of his flesh seared off by Brett and his friends, Brett cockily fessing up to doing it, Ms. Anderson brushing the whole case aside with a passive aggressive grin to put salt on the wound.
“That could be classified as a hate crime, right Deb?” Dad asks, turning to Mom, who purses her lips in thought, no doubt mentally searching into her knowledge of law that resides in her mind.
“And he just... followed them to their barbecue?” Nat asks, leaning back in his seat, eyebrows raised.
“Hindsight is 20/20,” I say, halfheartedly, lips pursed.
“Maybe it’s just me, but I wouldn’t be heading to the park, unsupervised, with, uh, racists.” Nat replies, eyebrows raised.
“Isn’t that against the law?” Claudie asks, piping up. “To set a boy on fire?” Pause. “On purpose?”
“Yeah,” Mom hums, nodding as Claudie’s eyes widen almost comically.
“And Ms. Anderson is just letting it slide?” Dad asks, slight lines curving into his face as he frowns. Not surprised, I think, just disappointed.
“Hence the reason we’re protesting,” I say, letting out a breath. Silence crosses the table.
I raise my head, my voice slightly shaky, “You’re not going to
talk me out of it?” I ask.
Dad chuckles, one eyebrow quirked. “Why would we do that?”
“I dunno,” I reply, exhaling. “Because I should be keeping things toned down?”
“I mean, Emory Richards was attacked?” Mom asks with slight incredulousness, clinking her glass back onto the table. “And Elkwood’s administration is about to brush it under the rug?”
“Like the Rosewood Massacre.” Dad coughs.
Mom trills her lips as Nat cuts in, glancing towards me. “I mean, peaceful assembly is your fundamental right. At this point?” He shakes his head. “I can’t say I wouldn’t consider doing the same thing.”
“You know, your grandma actually protested back in ‘65.” Dad nods, raising a glass to his lips. “Smack in the middle of the civil rights movement. Barely a few decades ago.”
“What? Like with Martin Luther King!?” Claudie nearly cries out, rising to her feet.
“Yes, Claudie,” Mom says, waving a hand to gesture for my sister to sit down. “She was part of the sit-ins, almost every single day.”
Nat raises a hand. “At seventeen she was part of the Children’s Crusade in Birmingham. She told me that herself.”
“Know what happened to those kids?” Dad asks with one of those sad smiles tugging at his lips. I shake my head despite the fact that I know this story well. Dad continues, “they got hosed down, maced, attacked, had dogs set on them.” Dad adds. “Children as young as six.”
“Because they wanted equality.” Mom says, a rueful smile sliding onto her lips. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Did Grandma meet MLK, though?” Claudie asks, now back on her seat but still practically shaking with excitement. Girl has priorities.
“Don’t know whether she ever came face-to-face with him,” Dad says, pursing his lips.
“Oh,” Claudie says, mirroring his look. Nat nudges her and she grins, eyes brightening. “Still so cool, though.”
Mom lets out a little laugh at Claudie’s excitement, turning towards me. “We can help you out with the protest,” She says, leaning forward in her seat, “we can see how you’re planning it out, try and work out details, make sure everything stays safe.”
“Grandma will be through the roof about the whole thing.” Nat adds, a half grin appearing on his lips.
“We’ll call her,” Dad waves a hand, “Talk to her, get some advice, try to be strategic about it. We need to be extremely careful and cautious. We’ll also have guidelines and supervision.”
“So, this is... this is actually happening,” I murmur, almost more to myself than anyone else.
Mom reaches forward, grabbing onto my hand as fiery yet motherly eyes meet mine. “It’s happening, baby.”
***
I scribble the last letter, capping my pen and placing it to the side. I shift the poster over to Laura, who holds it in front of her, pursing her lips.
The library’s quiet as usual, olives and browns decorating the space and Yasmine peers over Laura’s shoulder, eyes roving over the poster as Emory leans back against his cushion, fingers brushing over a white bandage on the side of his face.
One of many.
“I don’t know about this,” Emory says, leaning back against his cushion and sinking into it.
Our eyes travel over to him and he glances back at us, hands clasped. “I mean,” he continues, “I’m getting treated for the burns, anyway. They’re going to find a way to villainize this whole thing,” He waves a hand. “And we’re all going to be here for at least two more years. At least, I will. I think.” He raises a hand to his chest. “And I don’t need Brett on me for the rest of my time here.”
Yasmine hums, twirling the marker in her hand absentmindedly.
“One incident. They’ll claim it was an accident and then the whole thing will be pointless.” He slides his hands through dark curls. “It’s one incident. Who gives a crap?”
Silence. Pensive, thought-whirring silence.
“But, that’s the thing,” I find myself saying, meeting Emory’s eyes. “It’s not just that one thing.” I pause before pressing on. “It’s about so many things.” Pause. “It’s about Ms. Wilson trying to lighten up slavery.”
Laura raises a hand, nodding. “And listing the supposed ‘pros and advantages to all’ in colonization.” People were massacred. That type of statement makes me feel all types of nauseous.
It’s about the glares the staff send me every time I walk past them.
“It’s about Max Wright harassing me about suicide bombers in freshman year, and barely getting a slap on the wrist in return.” Yasmine says, fists trembling.
It’s about the fact that To Kill A Mockingbird has never characterized the black characters.
It’s about the fact that Miss Daniels was angry at me when I pointed it out.
“It’s about Brett calling me dirty at the lunch table.” I say, Emory’s eyes falling to the ground.
It’s about the term: “black-on-black crime” and the fact that there is no white equivalent to it.
It’s about the man that easily called me a slur used to dehumanize and destroy my ancestors.
It’s about the fact that the history books ignore the other side of black history. Black civilizations. Black empires. Black doctors, black scientists, black inventors, ancient black libraries and universities.
It’s about the fact that February is the shortest month in the year to celebrate this history and Elkwood can’t even touch on it during then.
“It’s about the drug jokes Brett’s friends are always sending your way.” Laura mutters, arms folded.
“It’s about people who called me angry when I disagreed in English class.” I say, more to myself than anyone else.
It’s about so much more than one incident.
It’s about the entire foundation of Elkwood. The curriculum, the lunch staff, the handbook, the staff. It’s about the very institutions of this state. Hell, this country.
Emory’s eyes glaze over in thought, arms folded as everything wrong with the system comes crumbling down on us, revealing that Emory’s incident is only a droplet in the swirling ocean of injustice that exists in Elkwood.
It barely scrapes the surface.
Laura meets each of our eyes, and Emory almost straightens in his seat as my group exchanges an electric look, centuries of unfairness coming to life in mere seconds.
It’s that revelation that causes our invites to go all over social media, (courtesy of one Yasmine Abadi’s insanely fast texting fingers.) It’s that revelation that causes our pens and markers to run across posters faster and faster, bigger and brighter. Angrier and bolder. It’s that revelation that causes us to make calls to other kids, kids we barely talk to. Anyone and everyone that’ll listen. Telling them about what we’re fighting for; why we’re fighting for it.
It’s that revelation that sets our revolution on fire.
