This Is My America(50)
My throat aches. How could he? It feels like he punched me in the gut. Betrayal.
“Then when you got out of the car with your mom, it shook me. I saw how broken you both were, thought about my friendship with Jamal, and felt ashamed. It’s been eating me ever since. How easily I could turn against someone I know so well, and what would I do if it was a stranger’s story on TV. I have these thoughts sometimes that I know are wrong. What if I’m just as bad as my mom?”
He wants answers I can’t give. I can’t make him feel better. Before hearing this, I wanted to take all Dean’s pain away, and now…There’s so much I don’t know about Dean.
He breaks down crying in front of me, waiting for me to pick him up, but I can’t. I want him to know how much it hurts. How angry I am that at one point he thought Jamal was guilty.
The hurt he feels now is something I live through every day. Never knowing what lurks, what kind of ugly, racist bullshit will rear its head and hurt me. How a thing like that can easily shift my day badly. I won’t fix it for him. Not in the way he wants it to be fixed—easy, without vulnerability. It’s never been easy for me.
“I’m sorry I doubted Jamal.” Dean pulls my hands closer to him. I leave them limp. “I promise I haven’t done that since the police station. I just needed you to know I’ve got some work I need to do, but I’m here for you. Things will be different this time. It’s not going to be like your dad. Not if I can help it.”
I don’t respond. I’ve seen this before. How the veiled language in news stories and police reports contain coded phrases like suspicious behavior, acted like a monster, and the all-too-common the officer feared for his life that can change how people you thought were your friends act around you. And now I know Dean isn’t immune. Somehow, I thought he was different.
Dean watched the same news updates I saw and easily believed their portrayal of Jamal, his friend, the one he’s known for years. The one he ran alongside during track. Dean went to the same party and posed for the same photo that made Jamal look like a criminal. He should have known better.
When I watch the news, I can tell without even looking at the TV if the suspect is white or Black. A “young man who lost his way” or “was afflicted with mental illness” but “had a promising future” = white. A “thug” with “trouble in school” = Black.
Dean changed his mind only after seeing me. Because he knew my family. Everyone else watching will be like sheep. Unwilling to doubt the nonstop coverage of the hunt for Jamal. Susan Touric failed Jamal by rushing to convict him in the court of public opinion without a full investigation.
I want to be angry that Jamal ran, but I can’t blame him. What else are you supposed to do when the world treats you like a monster?
NO DISRESPECT
Dean and I sit parked in his truck down Buckhead Road, near Angela’s gravesite. Rumor has it Chris was too distraught to go to Angela’s ceremony, but each night he visits her plot here. The graves change from ones a hundred years old to modern ones, with fresh flowers and flags staked near a few shiny marble headstones.
A heavy weight of guilt pulls at me because we’re not here to pay respects to Angela. Ten minutes of silence go by between Dean and me, until Chris arrives. I step out, taking a deep breath, and prepare myself for a confrontation.
Dean paces in front of his truck. Even though things are tense between us, Dean was dead set on coming with me. I don’t want to scare Chris off from talking about Angela, so Dean knows he has to stay far enough away that Chris can let his guard down. Say something stupid.
Chris doesn’t hear me coming up behind him. I walk cautiously, posting near the spreading oak by her grave, until I notice he’s so upset he won’t hear me. He hovers over her grave that’s still adorned with flowers, teddy bears, notes, and candles. Her marble headstone reads BELOVED DAUGHTER AND FRIEND.
I hate myself for not knowing how to feel about Angela’s death. Any other situation, I’d be paralyzed with shock or grief, even if I didn’t know her much. No one deserves being murdered, but her death is tied to my brother’s freedom. Each time I grieve for her, I feel like I’m choosing sides.
I look back at Dean, bite my lip, as I prepare to confront Chris. I clear my throat. We meet eyes. He stands up, pulling on his orange Texas A&M hat. I feel the color drain from my face when the vein in his neck pulses.
“What do you want?”
I take a step or two back. Then catch my breath.
Chris pulls his hat down to cover more of his face, but I can still see his eye has settled to splotches of pink and some green since the police station.
“Angela was on the paper with me. I care about what happened to her.”
“You don’t deserve to be here. Not after what your brother did.”
“My brother cared about Angela, too.”
I swallow hard. Attempt to keep my cool, but I’m uneasy. I look back at Dean, confirm his presence, and then speak: “I know my brother had nothing to do with her death. You tell me.” I take a chance and say it with confidence. Like I know exactly what happened.
“He murdered her. It was him.” He steps to me fast, and I fall back but stay on two feet.
My eyes go wide, voice stuck in my throat. I want to scream but can’t get it out. From the corner of my eye, I see Dean run toward us. Chris backs up.