Written with Love

The Boy on Fire

My name is Addison Parker. My life was pretty normal until three years ago. I was just a black Christian girl; I had good grades, a kind family, great friends. I was what people called "the perfect girl."

Deep down, I knew I struggled with many things: depression, anxiety, jealousy, partying, sneaking out, etc.

I knew it was a terrible road to go down, but I honestly didn't care. I had a mask for my family and friends, and I was too scared to take it off.

Church, don't get me started with church. If I had told my parents, they would say I'm a disgrace and kick me out. Friends turn their back and show how long "forever" really is.

I was ashamed of myself. My head kept saying, 'You're the screw-up, not them. You can choose to stop. Put your foot down and say, "not today."'

But it's not that easy.

I had already started on this road, no turning back...right?

Everyone I knew would turn on me. God himself would probably turn on me. I mean, If I was fooling the world, I was fooling God. Plus, he's probably not even real. Why would he care about a world of killers, liars, and quite frankly losers?

They say he never makes a mistake, then how am I here? How did my big sister die in a car crash? How did my little sister die in my mom's stomach? How did the police "accidentally" shoot my little brother cause they confused his dinosaur toy with a weapon? How did my grandfather die trying to help a lady cross the street? How did my grandmother die from cancer?

My struggle wasn't the 'usual' drugs and alcohol. Mine was riots, fights, fire.

***
The night it started was six months after my brother was shot.

I was still grieving my loss and didn't know how to handle it. My city had set up posters and protests everywhere. I wanted to join, but my parents told me it was just how life works.

"Black people are always going to suffer. That's just how it is. But we have to be good. We need to keep our chin up and tell the world we have God on our side. They will show these protests everywhere, and we do not want to see our daughter up there. My mother told me. Do you understand me?"

I just shook my head, showing I understood, but I knew that I would break down into tears if I said anything.

Didn't they understand? I had lost my brother! My friend! Their son! And couldn't fight for him because they didn't want to ruin their stupid image!

That was it! I had lost my grandfather and my brother to the color of their skin. I can't just sit around anymore! I needed to use mine as a voice! I ran to my room and cried for hours until there were no tears left to cry.

That night I snuck out at exactly ten twenty-three. I walked a couple of blocks down to try and find a protest. On the way, I saw many memorials for Jake.

Jake was only five when he was shot. He played his favorite game, dinosaur tag, with his best friend Shasta when a police officer came up to them.

My mom was talking to a couple of other neighborhood parents.

The police said he had a hand on his gun, and once he saw a "dangerous black male" holding something and running around with a "poor white girl," he didn't think and just shot.

I still vividly remember my older sister running into my room screaming that Jake had been shot.

He died thirty minutes after we arrived there. My parents seemed upset but said that they needed to look tough for God. My sister and I were falling apart.