Tyler Johnson Was Here(50)

Feeling a chill strike up my spine, I add, “We can’t give them this, Ma.”

She exhales. “I’m proud of you.” She grabs the teapot from the table, pours some more in her little white mug, and picks up one of the photos of Tyler, gazing at it with regret in her blinking eyes.





Mama and I move to the living room and flip on the news. People are already starting to gather for the protest. I see a blend of people, and signs, and all sorts of flags. It’s all so overwhelming, and I can’t really think straight.

On the news, there’re clips of police squad cars with their blinking headlights and military tanks rolling past protestors on both sides of the road, and the anchorman talks about how this is all supposed to be a “peaceful protest.”

There’ve been so many protests throughout history, and a lot of them didn’t end peacefully. I don’t know if this one will. Seeing all these cops with their weapons has me nervous. Yes, I’m willing to die for this cause, but the fact that there’s even a chance that I’ll die, become a hashtag, be remembered briefly, and then be completely forgotten and marked as a statistic fucking terrifies me.

The news anchorman, who has the whitest button-up to match his skin, hair long gone, is describing the protestors—the ones who are advocates for justice, the ones who want the best for the world, the ones who want to do the right thing. His words cause an uneasy pang in my stomach. Violent tendencies. Angry. Thugs.

The screen flashes a glimpse of angry white folks screaming so loud the veins in their necks show, and they are screaming messed-up stuff, like “RID OUR STREETS OF THE THUGS!” And everybody knows that that’s a fucked-up code for KILL THE BLACKS.

“When will they see that it’s not okay to kill us?” I can feel the shaking in my hands.

Mama purses her lips. “Honey, I wish I knew. The racism in their hearts is like seeds that sprout roots. Racism can always be uprooted, though.” She places a hand on her chest, like she’s feeling her heart giving out—or in, a little too much.

I put a fist up to my open mouth. “I have to go.”

As I turn to head to my room to get changed, she grabs my elbow and pulls me back. “You need to come back alive. No fighting. No talking back to the police. Keep your hands up high in the air. Go with nothing in your pockets. Keep your mouth shut, and the likelihood of surviving is solid enough,” she says, tears flooding her eyes.

Her words are fucking tough and make me uncomfortable as shit. But they’re necessary and important. And I’m hoping G-mo’s, Ivy’s, and Faith’s mothers told them the same thing mine just told me.

The smell of the honey in the tea turns my stomach some more. Or maybe it’s what Mama said, but I think she’s definitely right. The best way to ensure your survival at a protest is to act like you’re invisible, even when you’re not.

She releases me and folds her arms.

Back in my room, I flip through the messages and tags on my phone. One message from Ivy says: Where u at? Another text from Faith says: Let me know when u are ready. I’ll pick u up.

I dig into my closet to find something to wear. I scroll through a few hangers of plaid shirts and polos, and Mama knocks on my door, creaking it open to peek her head through.

“I’m going with you,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

We exchange nods and sad smiles. She’s changed into black boots, a black T-shirt, and black jeans, and she put a pair of black sunglasses on top of her head, as if she’s the newest Black Panther.

I put on black, too. A black hoodie. Some black shoes. And the darkest jeans I can find in my dresser drawers. The hoodie and jeans are both a couple sizes bigger than I usually like, but they make me feel powerful, in control, and whole.

I text Faith that I’ll meet her at the protest, and that Mama is going to take me.





It’s all so damn shocking to me as we pull up to the protest. We can’t even park or get close enough to the front of Sojo High because there’re so many people walking and standing, even sitting, in the street.

So Mama parks all the way around the corner, and we weave our way through the crowd until I find Ivy and G-mo. The two of them greet me with huge hugs.

“Shit’s been going down,” G-mo says, putting a hand on my shoulder, and then he hugs Mama.

“For real, though. They brought out the dogs on one dude because he crossed the boundary,” Ivy says, pointing ahead of us at an orange line drawn on the ground with spray paint or something. “And they was about to throw tear gas.”

I look around, seeing so many strangers, Sojo High students, police officers, other people draped in Confederate and American flags on the other side of the line. Lots of people holding up signs. And I’m scanning everywhere, wondering if all hell is about to break loose, trying to convince myself that this isn’t a fucked-up scene from some dystopian movie.

There’re huge police lines, vans, and cones on every corner, containing us in a single space. Like animals or criminals. At the ends of each road are SWAT trucks and huge military tanks, as if they’re a symbol to prevent us from escaping oppression.

There are newsmen and newswomen here in fancy suits, with microphones glued to their hands and pressed up against the mouths of Sojo High students. Half of Sojo High is out joining this fight, this desperate plea for justice and safety—basic human rights.