Separate But Not Equal

Chapter XIV

Yes, but I had some extra inspiration. Instead of sympathy, the kids found Mama's death humorous.

"What's that?"

He's looking at a small rose necklace next to the photograph.

"That was my mother's aswell. I think my dad gave it to her, I don't really remember much either"

"How old were you?"

I pause for a second, then respond, lying.

"Young, probably four or five."

"i'm sorry."

I wish he'd stop apologising, as if he had anything to do with it.

"She really loved me and Papa, she cared about everyone. She gave everyone a chance. She was my role model, the reason I wanted to become a better person. Sometimes I think she cared too much for her own good," I explain, with a sad smile. "She cared so much that she died for someone else. She got killed trying to protect someone else."

Traumatic flashbacks of Mama yelling at me to go with Papa and run away suddenly hit me.

"Listen, Ivory That thing I said, a couple of weeks ago, about you being... well whatever I said, it was wrong."

My heart rapidly softens from its temporary guarding and self-preservative position.

"No, no for once you were actually right, what I did was so stupid, I put Papa in danger, and that's the last thing I'd want to do."

I wasn't thinking properly.

"Shouting at you didn't help I ju-"

"No, It made sense. I would have been just as angry, I don't need you to feel bad for that," I state.

"Jones?" he randomly stops.

"What?"

"Why are there bruises on your legs?"

I lower my head down to the rolled up end of my bottoms, which are exposing a large amount of red wounds.

Oh.

I should have covered that up.

"I don't know," my response rolls of my tongue, a bit too easily.

"There are huge bruises on your legs, and you 'don't know' why?"

True, my answer doesn't seem really plausible.

"Well."

What reason do you have to lie to him?

"Tell me."

His Father, His friend, his life.

I keep my mouth shut, looking at my crossed hands which have started shaking vigorously.

The reminder of the silent self-loathing I felt instead of the pain I should have felt affects me more than expected.

"Erm, Idk, normal stuff, group of guys, I couldn't really see them that well," I stare at the window, waiting for Christopher's response.

Silence.

Just dead silence.

"When?"

"Can't really remember."

"When?" he repeats with a tone of concern.

"Yesterday"

I look up at him as he leaves slamming the door behind him.

I almost follow him until I hear the loud sound of chanting and singing from outside the window, the voices penetrating and growing in numbers, some in perfect melody but a majority of them completely out of tune, yet somehow laughing at their minor trip-ups and starting all over again.

It's the parents, adults, elderly.

The African-Americans.

I was promised.

It was promised that they would March.

Their cheering, happy, singing, shouting and holding up large signs, and whether it's dangerous or not, they don't care.

There are hundreds of eyes on the streets giving them dirty looks and rushing away from them as though they carry a contagious disease, a few children crying and pointing at the 'monkeys' running wild in the road, adults start trying to disband the growing crowd by shouting over them. Immature teenagers throw and waste food, by throwing it at their heads. It doesn't matter, there's too many of them, they're too loud. Too strong. No-one can stop them.

It's Wednesday, they shouldn't be outside, and they're doing it anyway, no matter how displeased other people are.

Slowly, I feel myself smiling, widely. Itching to go outside and join in with the chanting and protests.

I almost jump with joy before I hear the rattling of the keys from downstairs.

Papa

No.

No, Papa can't go.

Papa can't get hurt.

I need to stop h...

Well, that's what I was thinking, until I realise it's too late, seeing him outside.

He's happy.

Happy.

I haven't seen him happy for years.

He's singing, horribly, but he's enjoying himself.

Talking to other people, being there, protesting, marching, that's what he wants.

That's what makes him happy.

To fight for his freedom.

So that's why I'm not going to stop him.

I'm going to leave him, leave him to walk as far down the blossomed sides of Birmingham as he pleases. I'm going to leave him and be proud.

Be proud knowing that Mama would have been too, knowing that this is what Mama would have done.

The short road ends at a turn. Standing at the turn is a shadowed, awaiting figure

I don't care.

Whoever it is can try to stop them, he can try to stop my Papa as well, he or she will fail.

I trip again, shutting my eyes by instinct.

Then I blink.

Twice.

Well he or she will fail, that is unless he or she is an armed Mr Evans.

Christopher's father.

Waiting for mine.

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