Tyler Johnson Was Here(49)

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.