It Doesn't Affect Me..

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” I asked.

My mom was sitting on the couch with her mouth slightly open, stunned. Tears flowed freely from her eyes as she stared at the TV. A few minutes earlier she had dismissed me to my room, to get my backpack and shoes on so she could take me to school. She had seemed fine and I couldn't understand her sudden shift in mood. I stepped up beside her and looked to see what had her so mesmerized, a smoking tower with words streaming across the bottom of the screen too fast for me to read. 

“What’s that?” I asked her and my mom jumped, startled.

“New York City. A plane crashed into the Twin Towers.” she whispered.

“Oh. Am I still going to school?”

“Of course. Get your backpack and your shoes.”

“I have them already.”

“Oh, come on then.” she said, standing from the couch.

I was at the front door before I realized my mom wasn’t behind me. She let out a loud gasp right as I reached for the door handle. I rushed back into the livingroom to find her on her knees. The lady on the TV was yelling about another plane hitting another tower.

“You’re staying home.” My mom whispered.

“Why?” 

“The country’s under attack.”

We lived in a small town, nothing exciting happened here. We had all grown up together and the kids I was in 5th grade with back then I had known since we were all in diapers. Whispers and rumors flooded the school yard over the next week, we were forbidden from talking about it but that didn’t stop us from trading overheard snippets like trade secrets during lunch and recess. America was going to war, terrorist had attacked, they were Islamic, Muslim, Arabs. When the 5th grade turned their back on the only kid with a middle eastern background in our year, I stood by and watched. They recited the words they had heard from their parents, taking on the rhetoric of most of the nation. It didn’t affect me so it didn’t matter.

***

When we reached middle school we learned that Columbus had not, in fact, discovered America. That there had been a thriving civilization here before him and he did not meet them with peace. All our eyes turned to the group of children who lived on the reservation in our town, they looked uncomfortable. They all kept their eyes trained on their desks as the teacher told us about smallpox blankets and Wounded Knee. One of them looked up as the teacher prepared to move on, giving their entire history half a class period.

“What about the residential schools?” he asked after raising his hand and being called on.

“At least they let you savages go to school.” another boy called out.

The teacher scolded the second boy and told the first that that was another lesson for a different day. The native american boy got suspended for 2 weeks because he started a fight with the other boy later that day. I heard the other boy goading him though, calling him a Dirty Indian, asking if the tee-pee was cold at night, if his father really was a drunk. I didn’t say anything though. It didn’t affect me so it didn’t matter.

***

High school brought parties and the yearning for freedom. I joined the cheerleaders and spent the years cheering our football and basketball teams to victory. Lunches were spent gossiping and giggling, talking about what boys were cute and who was dating who.

“I think he’s kind of cute.” my best friend giggled.

“Who?” I asked excitedly.

“Ricky. He asked me to homecoming!”

“You have to say no though.” my other friend told her.

“Why?”

“He won't look right in our pictures! Plus what would your parents say? He probably can’t afford a decent suit or corsage anyway.” My friend scoffed and the other girl nodded.

I stood beside my friend while she told Ricky she couldn't come to homecoming with him. All the girls were going together as a group, she explained, and I could tell Ricky knew it was a lie, since the other girls had all already paired up with boys from the team. I glanced back as we walked away and saw the heartbreak on Ricky's face and for a moment I wondered if he knew it was because his skin was dark but it didn't affect me so it didn't matter.

***

As an adult I watched the nation elect its first black president and heard the awful things that were said about him. The conspiracy theories popped up all around me and I decided to do my own research into it for once. I learned about a kind honorable man who was being attacked by the very country he led. Even with facts behind me I still kept my mouth shut whenever someone got riled up at a bar or event, it just wasn't worth the fight. Some time later I entered my apartment to find my roommates best friend crying on the couch.

“What’s wrong?” I asked quickly.

“They did it,” he said.

“Did what?”

“Legalized gay marriage. I can actually get married.” he said, shock ringing through his voice.

I hugged him and tagged along with him and my roommate to the bar that night. As I stood talking to some friends, my roommate came up to me looking mad.

“We’re leaving. I’ll see you at home?” she said quickly, glancing over to her friend, who looked uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?” I asked my roommate.

“There's some guys over there who keep calling him a fag. He doesn’t feel safe.”

I nodded and watched them leave, glancing over the guys in question. They didn’t look dangerous, they were just rowdy college boys, getting drunk. I couldn't understand why my roommate’s friend was afraid of them, we were with a big group of people and he was a big guy. He could handle himself in a fight if need be and why would they start a fight with him anyway? He wasn’t bothering them. I just shrugged it off, figuring he was being dramatic. It didn’t affect me so it didn’t matter.

***

Scrolling through Facebook I saw the video everyone was talking about, the black man killed by police in Minneapolis. I had heard all about it, everyone was talking about it, but this was the first time I actually saw it for myself. I felt my stomach turn as the onlookers begged the officer to let up on the man. He wasn’t struggling, wasn’t fighting. In fact he was pleading for his life, begging them to let him breathe, calling for his mom. I looked into it more and found out the whole situation was over something small. $20 was worth this man's life? That couldn’t be right. The cops were fired but they weren’t charged so maybe they hadn’t done anything wrong.

I watched my country burn over the next few days, listened to other stories and found some on my own. One night my news feed exploded with status’ about a protest, a crowd gathered at City Hall, all screaming for change. I had seen the videos from the other cities and figured ours would actually be peaceful, why would the police attack a peaceful group of people? I could hear their calls from a block away and I stood by and watched the crowd.

“NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE!”

“SAY HIS NAME!”

“GEORGE FLOYD!”

“BLACK LIVES MATTER!”

Suddenly there was a flash and an explosion, smoke began to fill the area. I could hear the popping sound of guns being fired and people ran and screamed. The smoke burned my lungs as I breathed in and stung my skin. I ran too, back to my house, to safety. After a shower, with my clothes in the washing machine I watched on social media as the protesters in my city were shot at with rubber bullets, arrested for holding a sign, maced while on their knees. My stomach turned again.

The next day as I got dressed I couldn't shake the images from the night before. My Facebook was full of people saying the cops did the right thing and that the protesters shouldn't have been there in the first place, that they deserved it. I knew what I saw though and with determination, I made my way back down to City Hall. A crowd was already forming and I got swept up with it. We marched through the streets to the Police Station, I held the hand next to me as I called out the names of those wrongfully killed by the police. Somehow I was in the front of the crowd as we all knelt in front of the Station, in front of police dressed in full riot gear.

“NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE!”

“SAY HIS NAME!”

“GEORGE FLOYD!”

“BLACK LIVES MATTER!”

A man was screaming at the cops, begging them for change, for them to see what was really happening, that we weren’t the enemy. I saw the cops growing restless, antsy. Watched as they looked to each other, uncomfortable, as we asked them to kneel with us. The man in the front was still calling to them, trying to reach the people behind the masks. A boy got maced for walking too close to the police line and that man was still on his knees, begging them to see reason. The air stung my nose and now the police had guns, loaded with rubber bullets, ready to fire. My hands shook as I raised them in the air.

“HANDS UP, DON’T SHOOT!” We screamed as one.

That black man was still on his knees, unflinching in his crusade to bring about reason. They were peaceful, they were people, we all bleed red. His voice was hoarse but he continued on, through the smoke and the bangs of the gas canister. The pops from the guns rang out as rubber bullets began to fly and I saw a group of police making their way to the man. I was on my feet and running toward him before I could fully form a thought and as I stood in front of the man who was now praying on his knees and faced the 5 officers they had sent to stop him with my arms spread wide the only thought I could make sense of was, it doesn’t affect me but it absolutely matters.