Young Writers Society

The Black Teenager’s Journey

My mom sat in the pew with her lazy eye drifting in and out of focus as she tried her best to listen to our dynamic pastor who had one hand clutched around a microphone, with the other lifting the bible towards the heavens; his mouth was open wide in a prayerish shout that echoed throughout our church.

“Yes!” Shouted my grandmother along with everyone else in the church. She leapt to her feet, and her full-length deep green dress with criss-crossing african prints bunched up, causing her to lose her balance. She looked drunk. I stood and grabbed her arm, steadying her. She looked up at me, and I tried my best to look her in the eyes, remembering what happened the last time I didn’t. Her greasy dreads paired with her aged face made it hard to focus on her beady eyes. But the penny-sized mole on her face made it impossible, so I looked at my mom.

“Come on Mah.” She looked around, swallowed, and stood in between my grandmother and I. There were shouts around the church because the pastor had a crumpled piece of paper in his hand, and he was thrusting it out like it was a crucifix and he was performing an exorcism. I grabbed onto the wooden pew in front of me, relishing the cool wood which grew slick with the sweat from my hands.

“Next Sunday! Will be the protest at Geno’s State School!” Geno’s State School was the strongest school in the whole city of Geno, and ironically it was the point that seperated Geno into halves: white half and the black half. It was the worse possible spot for the school, considering that all the rich white kids went there.

The crowd shouted, “Amen!” back towards the pastor, and I thought it seemed

counterintuitive to hold a protest on the day of church, but under my grandmother’s watchful eye, I felt myself clapping along with the rest of the congregation.

“What’s going on next sunday?” Whispered my mom.

“Shh!” came from my grandmother.

“As you know Geno’s state school is the most elite school in all of Geno, and they haven’t ever admitted a single african-american student.” I considered shouting: no one had ever applied, but I doubt anyone in the church would have listened or cared.

“Ever. You know what that means, they hate us negros!” Spit flew from the

pastor’s mouth when he said this, and there were loud murmurs of agreement from the crowd.

My grandmother shouted, “The civil right act states that discriminatory acts based on race are illegal!” I looked at her with my mouth slightly open. She darted her head around with the speed of a frog’s tongue after spotting a juicy fly.

“Boy, a gnat is going to fly into your mouth if you don’t shut it.” I closed my mouth and ran my hand through my course, curly black hair.

“I expect see all of you there,” said the pastor in between sips of water. Sweat dripped off his face. The congregation nodded as if he was brain-washing them, and I found myself nodding along with them.

“May the Lord Bless you and keep you, and cause his face to shine upon you from this day forward.” We chanted our final Amen and filtered out of the church. Just as I was about to open the door to leave the sanctuary a loud voice yeled,

“Benjamin! Rose! Mary!” We turned to see my grandmother’s godson, Jacob. He greeted us with a smile and a warm sandalwood smelling hug.

“How’s it been going Jacob?” I asked.

“Good, great even. Me and the kids are actually plannin’ on seeing the Roo’s tonight,” he raised an eyebrow, “you wanna come? I know how much you like baseball?”

“What time?”

“7 p.m.” I could be home by 9:30 in bed by 10:00 which would give me enough time to rest for the test. I opened my mouth to respond.

“He can’t, he’s got a big test tomorrow.” Said my grandmother.

“I’ll get 7 hours of sleep if I go that’s enough, I can go,” I said,staring at Jacob while talking to my grandmother. She was busy putting on her overcoat. After she finished, she simply shook her head.

“You should let him go,” said my mom, tentatively at first, but then her voice grew in stature, “I think it’s ok if he goes.” I turned to Chris; he shrugged.

“Well then it’s settled, I’ll pick you up at 6.”

“Benjamin is going nowhere tonight,” my grandmother’s voice was cold and calculated. I turned and stormed out of the church with my mom in tow.

“Have a nice evening Jacob,” said my grandmother.

My mom and I walked through the warm spring air to the car. By the time we

arrived, my grandmother was no longer behind us, so we waited.

“What grandmother did wasn’t very nice,” she said while looking past me. I sighed.

“I know, but just let it go, it’s not that big of a deal.” My grandmother sauntered up to the car, and the doors clicked. My mom and I piled into the car. I stared out the window, and, for a while, we drove in silence.

“Mom,” said my mother, “What you said back there wasn’t very nice.”

“It had to be done, Benjamin’s got a math test tomorrow.” My grandmother looked at me through the rearview mirror; there was a gleam in her eyes.

“Still, I think it would have been ok for him to go see the Roo’s,” my mom looked away from my grandmother and out the window, “I always liked seeing the Roo’s.”

“Well it’s not your choice is it. You made your choices.” I could see my mom’s eyes crack through the reflection of the side mirror.

“There’s no need to talk to my mom like that,” I said, trying to put every ounce of defiance in my words. There was silence, and despite me fearing for the worst, I said, “she’s trying her best, it’s not her fault.”

“It’s not your fault, it’s not her fault, it’s not my fault. You need to learn to take responsibility. Both of you.”

“How?” My voice cracked. “Can she?”

“The same way I did.” I clenched my calf muscle and squeezed my fist.

“It’s not the same, you don’t have a condition.” The car jolted to a stop. My grandmother turned towards me with rage in her eyes.

“Mental conditions don’t exist!” she paused and gained control of her emotion, “You are disrespecting me, please remember who puts the food on your plate and the clothes on your back.” She turned around with the composure of a world class golfer and continued driving like nothing ever happened. We arrived home a few minutes later. I decided to stay in the car, so I could finish studying without my grandmother’s nagging.

“Don’t forget to sleep well for your test tomorrow, remember what we talked about.” My grandmother said. She left the car door open, and as I began studying for the test, the dusty smell of the garage entered.

-

A painful crinkling sound played at the edge of my consciousness, and my

eyes shot open only to be greeted by the piercing light of the morning sun. My grandma stood at my window with a hand on my blinds. She said nothing and left. I put on some of my nicer pants and a button down shirt.

My mom tended to the bacon which was crackling and popping. And I pulled out my book on math and reviewed some key terms.

“Come on it’s time to go,” said my grandmother. My mom continued flipping bacon and said,

“I’ll save some for you.”

We left our house which was deep in the black side of town. Buildings with faded, crumbling brick mingled with the homes with broken windows and knobless doors; garbage lined all of the streets. I wondered when the city would reinstate our garbage trucks. However, despite the early hour, people were out mowing the lawns, heading off to work, or taking their kids to school. We arrived at my school, so I unclicked the lock on my door.

“Benjamin remember, get the answers wrong.” My grandmother said; without thinking, I nodded my head.

I walked into the school that was, at this early hour, devoid of life. The only sound in the hallways was the squeak of my shoes, and I felt the sole of my shoe withering away under the pressure of my feet. We were by no means poor, but we were one of my mother’s episodes away from being poor, so shoes weren’t the highest of my concerns. I opened the door and walked into the empty classroom where my math test was to be administered. Mrs. Wallace, my math teacher, walked in after me with a paper cup of coffee and a tired look in her eye.

“Good morning Benjamin.”

“Good morning Mrs. Wallace.”

“Let me get situated, then we will get started,” she pushed some papers off her desk and started thumbing through a folder. She pulled out a thick booklet from the folder, smiled, and walked over to me.

“Ok, once I hand you the test packet, you will have 90 minutes to answer the questions, on the answer sheet, remember I will only be looking at your answers on the answer sheet.” She pulled a thin piece of paper out of the folder.

“You’re the brightest student we have, I know you will do well, and this test will give you a wonderful opportunity to get out of here,” she paused and gestured around the room, at nothing in particular, but it didn’t matter, from the cage with the dead turtle, to the brittle plants that just didn’t have enough water, to the textbooks that were literally held together with duct tape, what she was trying to say was blatantly obvious. The packet landed on my desk with a slap, and I began.

The first section was on probability, the second on Algebra, and the third on trigonometry. Everything was easy, so I made sure to take my time, marking the right answer on the packet but circling the wrong answer on the multiple choice sheet. I finished checking my answers in fifty-five minutes, so I looked up to see Mrs. Wallace massaging her temple with her right hand as she graded papers with her left. She looked up, and her face relaxed.

“Finished?” She asked. I nodded. Before I could stop her, she grabbed the packet and the answer sheet. She pulled out her red pen, and I watched her smile fade, transforming into tightly pursed lips. She closed the answer sheet and sighed.

“Benjamin,” she started without looking up. Her eyes drifted to the packet. I swallowed and stood.

“Yes?”

“Why?” Her voice sounded confused like the moan of an abandoned puppy.

“Have I passed or failed.” My voice was tight, too tight.

“You’ve passed.” She looked up at me, searching with her eyes for something that she wasn’t finding.

“Huh?”

“Why did you try and fail? if you’re worried about transportation, we will provide a bus. You’re brilliant at math. This isn’t the place for you to grow.”

“I uh,” didn’t know what to say.

“If you’re scared, it’s ok. Going to Geno State every day will be a big switch, but it’s a necessary switch.” Her eyes were infinitely deep, and she practically radiated empathy. I felt compelled to speak.

“It’s my grandmother. She wanted me to fail the test, something about them not treating me fairly, about not wanting to drive into the other side of the city,” upon saying this, I walked to the door, eager to leave.

“Benjamin, wait,” I stopped with my hand on the rusted doorknob.

“What do you want to do?”

“Learn.” She nodded with a sad smile.

“They won’t change, and if things are to change, then we have to change, and sometimes change requires a sacrifice. In this case, it would be your grandmother’s happiness. This would be a big step in the right direction for our city.” I nodded and made my decesion.

“Can you tell my grandmother I failed the test?”

“Of course, I enjoyed being your math teacher, and I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank-you,” I paused, “are you going to the protest?” I asked on impulse.

“It won’t be necessary, it will all be for nothing because of you.” The room started to spin, and I had a sudden urge for fresh air. I tried to nod, then left the room, sprinted through the halls, and practically fell through the front door, breathing in deeply a scent that was tainted with garbage.

What would my grandmother think? How long could I keep it secret? What would our community do when they found out the whole protest was a lie? And that lie was because of me. I started walking home, thinking, praying that no one would find out.

After an hour, I arrived home, and was relieved to see the bacon still sitting on the counter. My mom sat on our couch which doubled as a bed, coloring. There was a bit of relief, knowing that I always had her, and I sat down on the bed and watched her eyes laser focused on the lines, dreading the moment my grandmother would walk in the door, the moment the lies would begin.

Five hours later, the door squeaked open, and I sat at the kitchen table toying with some left over beans and rice.

“How’d the test go?” My grandmother asked.

“I failed.”

-

The next day, the bell rang, signalling the transition from English to Math. I looked at the instructions Mrs. Wallace had scribbled down for me and went to the back of the school. One faded yellow bus sat on the cracked pavement, it’s tires beginning their descent into the ground. The door hissed open, and an uninterested looking large lady sat in the driver’s seat.

“You’re late,” she said and grumbled something. I sat in the first seat to the left and stared out of the dusty window. The bus lurched forward, and as we headed towards the white side of town the one story, one garaged buildings turned into two story, three garaged houses; I saw a large green truck taking care of the garbage, and the number of people out and about seemed to dwindle, but I imagined thousands of people working in those freshly painted business buildings.

“We’re here.” Said the bus driver. I grabbed my bag and hopped out of the bus, taking in the scent of fresh paint. From the outside, Geno State was a two story school that had paved paths, leading to countless different buildings, and I felt like I was heading into a college campus. A lady in the main office called my name,

“Benjamin.” I walked over to her.

“Yes that’s me.”

“Room 132 on the left.” She didn’t look up.

“Thank you,” I said. The halls seemed to stretch on forever, and thankfully they were empty because there was an eerie richness that seemed to blanket the school. I knew how out of place I was, and I looked down at my shoes, wishing I had another pair. I found room 132, opened the door like a thief would, and slipped into the room.

The words Calculus AB were written on the board, and a pig-tailed girl sat in the front row. The teacher who wore thin-rimmed glasses and a smart suit; he said nothing to me, but the girl smiled. I put my head down and went to the back of the class and pulled out my notebook. The teacher continued, so I began my note-taking methods.

“Chelsea,” he said, addressing only the girl, “there will be a test on wednesday.” She nodded, then looked back. I kept my head down, staring at the scuff marks my sneakers had made on the white floors.

“Class dismissed.” I grabbed my things and rushed out of the class into halls packed with people whose mood seemed to shift once I entered the halls. Everyone’s eyes were on me. There were whispers everywhere, “what’s he doing?” “Who is he?” I walked faster. Someone shouted something, so I turned my head, but then I ran into someone in front of me. A white man-faced teenager with muscles protruding from his thin black shirt, turned and opened his mouth to say something, but then saw me. His eyes burned with anger.

“Sorry,” I whispered, and walked past him, praying he wouldn’t follow me.

The bus waited where I’d gotten out, and I jumped into the bus, two steps at a time. The bus driver started the bus without speaking.

“Everything ok, you look pretty upset?” She asked after a long while.

“I’m fine.”

-

The next day was more of the same, but after the bell rang I snuck into the bathroom, waited for the crowds to disperse and head into their next class, then left for the bus. When I got home that night, I began studying for the calculus test at four and stopped studying at nine. Just as I was putting my studying materials away, my grandma barged into my room.

“Midweek service is tomorrow, after school, so don’t forget.”

“Ok,” her eyes narrowed when she saw all the papers sprawled out along my bed, but she said nothing.

-

Geno State had block days scheduled on Wednesday and Thursday which meant that all the classes were rearranged and a hour and a half long, so math was the last part of the day.

So I shuffled into the math class around 1:30; the math teacher sat at the front of the class, and ‘Grab your test from the front,’ was written on the board. Chelsea had her test and was biting the edge of her pencil. I grabbed my test and got to work. Most of the calculus came naturally to me, and the time flew by as I solved the problems and marked my answers.

Seconds later (that’s how it felt), the teacher said, “Time’s up.” He ripped Chelsea’s test out of her hand, and he looked at me expectantly. I got up and handed him my test. He put both of them in his leather briefcase, then left the class before anything else could be said. That’s when I heard deliberately controlled breathing coming from behind to me. I turned. Chelsea was counting her breathes with her fingers. She looked up at me, and tears were threatening to spill out of her eyes. I no longer saw a white girl; I saw my mother.

“Chelsea?” I asked; my voice cracked, and I was remembering the time the doctor taught my mother that breathing method, more importantly, I was remembering what happened after. Chelsea’s breathing grew strained. Suddenly, she was gasping for air.

“Chelsea!” She had a hand on her heart, and tears were streaming down her face. I reached down and helped her stiff body out of the chair, then grabbed her backpack, and set it against the far side of the wall just under the window. Chelsea looked confused.

“Come on,” I wrapped my arm around her waist and helped her to the far side of the wall. I drew the blinds closed and rushed to the other side of the room to turn the lights off. Once everything was dark, I hurried back to Chelsea who was now rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around her knees. My tailbone dug into the ground as I sat, but I opted to ignore it and instead wrapped my arms around her shoulders. I matched her rocking patterns. Her body convulsed with loud sobs that caused her lemon scented hair tickle my face. I focused on her sporadic breathes and tried to steady my own.

After a while, her sobs began to fade. She turned to me with her green eyes tinted red, and said,

“Why are you still here?” I shrugged.

“How’d you know what to do?” She asked.

“My mom has episodes, much worse than this, so I asked the doctor how I could help.” Her nose was inches away from mine, and in the dark I could just make out the trace of a sad smile.

“Is it alright if I ask what’s going on?” My voice was cautious.

“Yeah, it was that stupid test. I didn’t know a single thing.”

“I understood it,” I paused, choosing my next words carefully like a surgeon would choose an instrument, “I can help if you want.” Her mood seemed to change instantly, and I wondered if that was a part of her condition. She hugged me, enveloping me in a warm rosy smell.

“That would be perfect, let’s study together tomorrow after school.” She stood and opened the blinds. The sun glowed off her face, and I looked at her for the first time; she smiled a one-dimpled smile, had a line of freckles outlining her nose and plump cheeks. Once she was gone, I raced to the bus. The bus driver raised an eyebrow, then started driving.

“What time is it?”

“3:45”

“Jesus Christ,” I murmured. “Can you take me home? I live right by the school.” The bus driver sighed, then said,

“Yeah.”

I got out of the bus, hoping that my grandmother would have waited, but her car wasn’t in the driveway. Shit. I knocked on the door. No one answered, so I reached under the mat, grabbed the key that was so cold it burned, and clicked the door open.

“Anyone home,” I shouted into the silent house. No one returned my shout. A note sat on the edge of our kitchen counter.

“Gone to church, we’ll talk later.” I bit my lip, trying to remember the last time I missed midweek service, or any service for that matter; I couldn’t.

Fifty minutes later, the door clicked and creaked open. I sat, staring at the door. My grandmother entered the house, looked at me, then walked past. My mom came into the house, holding a flier and a carton of milk.

“Mah, did grandma say anything?”

“Yeah, she was real mad on the car ride,” she paused and looked to where my grandmother had exited the room with fear written all over her face.

“How mad was she?”

“I’ve never seen her madder.” I swallowed.

“Is she still mad?” My mother nodded then scurried to her room. Before she closed the door, she turned:

“You better be at the protest.”

-

Chelsea was at the counter ordering some french fries and two milkshakes while I sifted through her notes and my notes. We were in one of those diners that had been around forever but never had more than a few people in it which meant bringing Chelsea here wasn’t a problem. Chelsea came back, holding a tray with a large pile of fries and two milkshakes.

“I always study best when I have food.” She said and sunk into the plump, cushioned booth across from me. She started on the fries, and I handed her two pieces of paper.

“What’s this?” She asked, between slurps of the milkshake.

“My notes and yours.” I reached for my milkshake whose plastic sides were wet with condensation and stirred as I watched her examine the notes with wide-eyes.

“You don’t write much down?”

“I don’t. I write the key ideas in my words, it helps with comprehension.”

“Do you take all your notes like this?” I nodded, then handed her another set of my notes. She leaned forward, and a golden necklace with a C in the middle fell into her chocolate milkshake.

“Your necklace.” I pointed.

“Shoot,” she said and started vigorously rubbing it with the sleeve of her shirt.

“Don’t use your shirt sleeve, you’ll ruin it, here take this.” I handed her my grandfather’s handkerchief. She reached for it blindly, and I winced as she wiped her necklace with it.

“Thanks,” she said as she put the necklace up to the light like a cashier would do with a 100 dollar bill. She went back to looking through my notes, and I stared at her necklace absentmindedly.

“Where’d you get that necklace?” I asked after a while.

“My mom, as a gift.”

“A gift for what?” She peered at me.

“I don’t really like talking about it, but you,” she paused, “seem different, maybe later. After we finish these strategies.” The dim light of the diner reflected off her green eyes, making them twinkle.

“Ok, so my other strategies are paying attention and doing the homework.” I smiled. She rolled her eyes but stared at me with an intense gaze for a minute or so.

“I’m telling you this because I trust you, and because I think you might understand.” She slid the necklace between her forefinger and thumb.

“I’m listening.”

“My mother got the necklace for me when I was young, really young. It was a year after the doctor diagnosed me. It was actually the one year anniversary of my diagnosis. We were in my doctor’s office for my weekly check up nervously awaiting the results. The doctor came out smiling and said to my mom, ‘Your daughter has no more trace of bipolar syndrome, and her anxiety levels should decrease over time.’” She paused and studied my face, then continued.

“We went to the store, and my mother said I could have anything I wanted. So I picked out this necklace, but then a few months later I had an episode. It was the worst one yet, and I found myself at school crying uncontrollably, my mother had to leave work and pick me up. I’ll never forget the disappointed look in her eye,” tears welled up in Chelsea’s eyes.

“You don’t have to say anymore,” I whispered. I reached across the table and put my hand on top of hers. We sat like that for a while, then Chelsea regained her composure.

“Ok, I better get back to my side of town.” She grabbed her things, dunked a fry in her milkshake, and stood.

“Before you go, the last strategy I use is reviewing old tests.”

“That’s probably smart, considering the retake for the test is on sunday.” Chelsea said.

“Huh?” I asked, looking more confused than a dog whose bone was taken away.

“The retake for this test is on Sunday.” Chelsea said again, this time slower.

“When’d he tell you this?” I stood.

“Before class yesterday, you have to get higher than a 70 to pass, and if you don’t you can’t pass the class.” She paused. “You retake the test until you pass.” I knew none of this.

“You didn’t know,” she whispered softly, “you would have never passed the class.” The thought drifted between us, fueling my anger. I looked at the ground.

“This is ridiculous. I won’t ever have a chance unless he gives me a chance, and he sure as hell isn’t giving me a fucking chance.” I expected Chelsea to back away, maybe even run away. But her eyes burned.

“How is anything ever supposed to change if people treat, treat,” she was searching for the word, “you guys like you are less than citizens.” The air had gone out of the room, sparks flew, and in that moment, I felt like in another time, or maybe in another country I could have fallen in love with Chelsea. Partly because her green eyes knew pain, but mainly because they knew passion.

“I’ll retake the test on Sunday.” It was the only way I could pass the test, subsequently the class. I got up and walked her to her car. A black kid was out walking his dog. He looked from me to her, then a look of confusion crossed his face, and he stopped in his track, examining us like we were extraterrestrials.

“I’ll see you on Sunday?” Chelsea asked as she revved her engine. I nodded, forcing myself to ignore the fluttering feelings in my chest.

“Sunday.” The day of the protest.

-

I talked to noone about my decision; I figured if I couldn’t make it myself then it wasn’t really much of a decision at all, but I thought about it. I knew the risks of going to the protest, but I also knew the risks of skipping the protest; ultimately, Chelsea was only in one of the locations, and at that point in time I was sure of one thing: Chelsea promised change.

Three cardboard signs sat on the kitchen table, and the words “You are the enemy,” “Negroes are human,” and “Things won’t change unless YOU change them,” were painted in blood-red.

“Grandmother’s already in the car, would you help me take these signs to the car?” Asked my mother. I helped her bring the signs to the car. We drove towards Geno State School in silence. The noise started about five minutes from the school. I heard jarbled words from a bullhorn, and my grandmother licked her lips. My mom looked out the window with the helpless look of fear that a dear dawns when a hunter trains their gun on them. We arrived, and my grandmother parked in the parking lot.

“I’ll see you there.”

I jumped out of the car quickly, grabbed the sign that said, “Things won’t change unless YOU change them,” and sprinted to the gathering crowd. The pastor stood on a wooden box at the front of the crowd with a red bullhorn in his hand. He was shouting various things, and I tried my best to push through the crowds. An elbow slammed into my face. Pain shot through my jaw. I staggered, pressing one knee to the ground like I was praying, then gritted my teeth.

Inside the crowd was delirium, it was like being inside the head of an insane person, so for a moment, I considered joining the protest, giving in to my grandmother’s commands. I thought back to last Sunday when Chris asked me to go to the ROO’s game. I couldn’t. I pressed my way through the crowd flailing arms and legs with one hand against my face which was turning red.

I saw the door, so I threw my sign at the closest person who happened to be a seven year-old who undoubtedly didn’t know right from wrong. The sound of scribbling pencils scratched there way through the halls, and I imagined all of the teachers filing reports that their teacher preparation day was ruined. I sprinted down the halls, not caring whether or not my shoes were squeaking, and entered room 132.

Chelsea’s blonde hair swept across her desk, and she was working on her test. The teacher had his feet on the desk and an apple in his hand. He turned.

“Kid, what are you doing here?” The first time he spoke to me.

“Passing your class.” He stood quickly. Chelsea looked up. He looked from me to Chelsea and sneered. He handed me a test. I sat down next to Chelsea.

“You won’t ever pass my class.” I cruised through the test, righting all of my wrongs. I finished the test, he took it reluctantly, then I stood outside the class, waiting for Chelsea. The door swung open.

“That was easy,” said Chelsea.

“Thanks to my studying method.” She punched me on the shoulder, and we walked through the halls, ignoring the cacophony of noise from outside. We reached the door, so I put my hand on the cool knob.

“Did you know they were going to protest?” I nodded.

“You’re supposed to be out there aren’t you?” I nodded. She sighed.

“I’ll wait, you can make an excuse. They will remember you forever for walking out of a white school next to a white girl.” My sweat wettened the knob which warmed to match the rising temperature of my body. I was caught between two worlds, the world I’d always known, the world that was a fundamental part of who I was, and a new exciting world that promised change, that promised a future. I surprised myself.

“Come on, if they say anything, screw them!” Defiance swept over me, and I turned the knob. We walked into the sweaty air which was alive with cries for freedom, and the noise of thousands of clicking boots. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and one by one they began to stop, all staring at me and Chelsea.

I felt small. The threat of my grandmother was real. I grabbed Chelsea’s hand.

“Come on, we have to move. Fast!” We cut through the still crowds like sharks fish through shark-infested waters.

“Benjamin?” the tone of the voice was confused and broken like a wingless bird trying to make sense of its world.

“Mah,” I whispered. I gripped Chelsea’s hand tighter, and, impossibly, dragged us along quicker.

“Benjamin!” The voice of my grandmother ripped through the air. I stopped.

“Go,” I whispered to Chelsea. She stayed.

“Benjamin, Turn around!” I turned. My grandmother had her hands on her hips, and her face was red.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

“I had to take a test,” I mumbled, while looking at a rock that I began playing with by my shoe.

“Stand up straight, and look at me when you are talking to me.” I stiffened and searched her beady black eyes for any ounce of forgiveness. There was none.

“I had to take a test. I apologize.”

“You don’t go to this school, you failed the test.” I made eye contact with Mrs. Wallace who had emerged from the back of the crowd.

“He passed the test.” She said and stepped towards my mom.

“Stay out of this!” Yelled my grandmother. Mrs. Wallace cowered away.

“Who is she?” Spit flew from her mouth as she pointed at Chelsea like she was the Antichrist.

“This is Chelsea, and she helps me out with math,” I squeezed Chelsea’s hand. My grandmother shook her head.

“Come here, take my sign we will continue our march around the school.”

“I’m not continuing with the protest Chelsea and I ar. . .”

“Pick up your sign.” My grandmother whispered.

“This protest is doing no good, people in there are trying to work, and you are disturbing them.”

“Pick up your sign.”

“Look at the words you have on your signs, ‘You are the enemy.’ Well no wonder things aren’t changing.” Chelsea nodded her head.

“Pick up your sign.”

“You say you want change, but you won’t take the steps to change. It’s not us against them, it’s us against ourselves. Maybe they will start respecting us if we stop doing things like this, if we stop protesting, if we start focusing on our education, if we start taking getting rid of our own trash, if we start showing them respect, maybe they will show us respect. Maybe if we take the correct steps to change, then things will change.”

There were murmurs of agreement around the crowd, and there was a look of pride in Mrs. Wallace’s face. My grandmother’s face was unreadable. Chelsea started:

“I understand that you are angr. . .” My grandmother erupted.

“Angry, I’m beyond angry, understanding, you corrupted my son, you, you.” She pointed her finger at Chelsea. Chelsea bit her lip,

“Grandmother! This is what I’m talking about, you didn’t even let her finish show some respect.” My grandmother’s face was impossibly cold, and she turned her gaze towards me.

“You show some respect. Pick up your sign. Now! Or you will not have a home to come to.” My mother cried. A dam burst behind my eyes.

“Mom,” I whispered.

“Ben, just let this go, come home.” The crowd waited my decision. Chelsea squeezed my hand. Words from Mrs. Wallace came from nowhere: sometimes change requires a sacrifice.

“I love you mom,” I said and turned, no longer able to suppress the tears that poured out of my eyes and down my face.

My grandmother cursed.

My mother wailed.

Chelsea and I walked away from the protest, but we stayed silent for a while as we walked along the edge of the two sides of town. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel, but there was a nagging at my heart, and I wanted nothing more than for my mother to hold me in her arms like I was a baby again. It was all too much. Was change too hard to ask? I didn’t know where I’d go, but after a while Chelsea said:

“You can stay with me.”

“Thank-you,” I replied, wondering if I’d ever speak to my grandmother again.

-

Chelsea lived with her sister who turned out to be a civil rights activist who had a house on the edge of the two towns, so I wasn’t too far out from my school. The incident between my grandmother and I reached the newspaper, inspiring Chelsea’s sister and many other activists to begin uniting the city. I’ve tried to contact my grandmother multiple times, but she hasn’t showed up to my meeting spots or returned my phone calls, but I’ve just contacted my mom and we are meeting today for lunch. Chelsea’s sister called me from downstairs.

“Benjamin, can I talk to you for a second.” I put down the calculus book and went down the stairs taking two at at time.

“We are going to offer you a job at the human resources department.”

“What will the job entail?” I asked.

“You will be going across the state to speak to high schoolers like yourself about your experiences, you will be travelling with a team including me and Chelsea.” I couldn’t hide my excitement, and, for the first time, it all began to feel worth it.

The door bell rung, and I opened it. My mom stood outside; I hugged her and invited her in.

“This is Chelsea’s sister,” Chelsea sprinted down the stairs, “and this is Chelsea.” they shook each other’s hands.

“Can my mom come on the trip with us?” I asked Chelsea’s sister. She looked in her notebook, marked something down, and said,

“I don’t see why not.”

“What trip?” Asked my mom. Chelsea hooked her arm in my mother’s arm and guided her out of the door.

“I’ll tell you all about it on the way to lunch.” The sight of Chelsea’s thin white arm locked in between my mother’s thin brown arm made me feel as if anything was possible, and I turned to Chelsea’s sister.

“Things will change, in this city, and in this country.”

“I know they will.” She smiled, and I rushed out of the house, eager to acquaint my past with my present, so we could begin dreaming of a better future.