The Untold Story

The whistling sound of the bombs slowly woke the village of Tongali.  Then came the explosions followed by the combined shouting and crying of adults and children.  Some covered the ears of their children while others fled into the surrounding woods.  Amidst all the chaos, two children, brother and sister, not older than 7 and 13, were frantically trying to pull their mother out of a burning house. They tugged and tugged with no avail, it was a useless struggle, but they were determined. Eventually they succeeded, but their mother was unresponsive for the longest of times, but then her eyes fluttered open for the briefest of seconds.  With her final gasps of air, she looked at both of her children, Amare and Isis, and said, “Go, run while you can.  Isis protect your brother, Amare never forget where you came from.” Just like that, the mother collapsed, and her eyes closed for the last time.  

The shouting and crying that escaped Amare’s mouth broke the eerie silence of the night, and all Isis could do was hug her little brother as tightly as she could.  Her head was tilted to the moon, and the moonlight glistened off the tears streaming down her face.  There they remained for the rest of the evening, unmoving and unfaltering.  Then came the morning, and the songs of the birds came to a sudden stop as the crunching of leaves approached the remains of the village. Then the footsteps stopped, two children slowly looked up with eyes filled with fear, trembling in each other’s arms. It was a soldier, just one, standing with a face of seriousness. He beckoned to the children and quietly said, “Follow me, you’ll be safe I promise.”  The children slowly rose to their feet with uncertainty.  The soldier turned around and started to slowly walk in the opposite direction.  Yet, occasionally he would turn around to see if the kids were still following him.  Hours passed and the trio walked and walked until they reached the banks of a river where there was a ferry boat moored to the shore.  The soldier turned to the children and said, “This is where I must go, the boat will take you somewhere safe.”

 Amare spoke up for the first time since the bombing, and in a muffled voice he asked, “Why, why did you help us?” The soldier was quiet for a second, and as he turned his head to the sun he said, “So you can have a better life than the rest of us here.” Just like that the soldier took the hands of the children and led them onto the boat where an old man with gray whiskers stood watching.  On the deck of the boat, there were other kids, some older and some younger than Amare and Isis.  Some were sleeping, others were crying in the corner, while others just stared at the water with faces of longing.  The soldier slowly stepped away from the boat, and the old man started the motor and the boat began to sail off into the unknown waters.  Amare and Isis stuck together in the bow of the ship, and hardly any words passed between anyone.  Food was handed out in rations, and there was no other sound besides water lapping on the sides of the boat. Weeks passed, and as for the old man, he seemed content with just steering the boat. Then one day, the old man spoke for the first time, “America, the place where dreams come true. We’ll arrive shortly.” 

There was quiet chatter amongst the children for the first time.  Some faces had brightened up while others could only sit in disbelief.  As for Amare and Isis, well they didn’t know what to believe until they saw Lady Liberty on her infamous mount. As the boat pulled into New York Harbor, tears flowed once again, a mix of happiness and sadness. Several weeks passed, and soon Amare and Isis were placed into the care of a foster family, the Johnsons.  They were a friendly family, never had any children of their own, and didn’t seem bothered being the parents of two African refugee children in a mainly white neighborhood.  The children heard of racism, but the only place they experienced it was school.  Months turned to years, and life was good, but then again nothing lasts forever.  Isis grew up and headed off to Wagner College, and Amare entered highschool.  Then one day, a story was blaring on the news, Eric Garner was killed in Staten Island when a police officer used a chokehold and killed him. For the first time in a long time, a Johnson household that was accustomed to being filled with laughter and smiles turned grim and quiet.  

Life stayed normal, but there was a cloud of uncertainty looming in the air when the kids went about their life.  Then the protests and marches started, some were peaceful while others were violent. It was as if America started to wake up and come to the realization of horrors that occurred in everyday life.  Protestors filled the streets, and this became a new sense of normalcy. Then the unthinkable happened.  One day Isis was walking home from the local deli with food for that night’s dinner.  Except, she never made it home, she was killed by a protestor, not even by a police officer, but by a protestor.  It was all an accident, but all it took was one bullet.  Isis was pronounced dead on the scene. As for Amare, well, his life was turned upside down.  He didn’t just lose his sister, he lost his best friend, and the only person that ever really understood him. Yet, the community came together, not with words, or with signs but with candles and roses.  A picture of Isis was placed outside Johnson's residence and every day the flowers and candles that were around the picture would multiply.  It ended up being a whole memorial created by not just locals, but all people, whites, blacks, Hispanics, and police officers. 

The whole community came together, the bedrock of society itself, and they were closer than they had ever been before. Yet, even as people came together, Amare was falling apart, it was if his world had started to come tumbling down. Whenever Mr. and Mrs. Johnson went somewhere, Amare would ask where they were going, and they would say, “Just to the store honey.” He would look up to the heavens and say, “Isis went to the store too, except she didn’t come back.” Since Isis’s death, every day was like a song playing on repeat. Every morning Amare would slowly rise to his feet, and with his head low, he would approach the bus refusing to make eye contact with anyone around him.  Every day was the same, he was the clown of Wagner High School. Why? He was different, looked different, dressed differently, but most importantly, he was of different skin color.  He was bullied and looked at like a wild animal who could turn savage any minute.  Yet, every day he bit down on his tongue and turned the volume of his headphones up to the max in order to drown out the outside world.

 It was something he would never understand, but he was old enough to understand that the moment he took off his headphones, the taunts would continue, in the halls, in the auditorium, in the locker room, in the classroom. All of his steps were filled with fear, and as he walked from class to class, he occasionally would turn to look behind him, making sure there was no one following him.  He never did anything wrong, but when something happened, he was the first to be accused. Why? It was because of his skin color.  Every day after school, he would plug in his headphones and walk slowly to the track with his hood up to cover his face.  No one ever used the track, and most days it was just him running circles until the sunset. As the boy slowly pulled the hurdles onto the track, he slowly took in his surroundings.  There was no one on the bleachers besides a small group of boys down by the courts. He bent down at the start, head tucked, and in his head, he could hear the gun going off. Everything inside him finally let go and he started running laps upon laps while jumping the hurdles.  He ran until the tears streamed down his face, he ran for those that couldn’t run, he ran for those that were hurting, but most importantly he ran for himself.  

Then it happened, out of the corner of his eye, Amare saw a figure running toward him.  The figure tackled him to the ground and then everyone was on him.  All Amare could do was cover his face, blow after blow was dealt, and after what seemed an eternity, he heard someone shouting. It was a girl’s voice.  Just like that, everyone scattered, and Amare just lay there staring at the night sky.  He could feel the blood trickling down the side of his face and as he went to wipe his tears with the back of his hand, he could only hope for someone to come help him.  Yet, this time unlike all other times, there was someone.  A girl, a white girl with blonde hair just looking down at him.  She crouched down at his side, and in a quiet voice she said, “There are hurdles to jump, are you going to jump them or are you going to stay down and give up on everything you’ve worked for.”  She then offered her hand, and Amare slowly rose to his feet, the blood dripped down on his grey tracksuit and he started running again, but, this time he wasn’t alone.  From that moment on the two of them jumped hurdles together, side by side.  Everyone has their own story and it's not yours to tell.