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.
A week later, she was so fed up with my parents after telling me to "stop crying and get over it." She drove away. That's when she crashed and died immediately.
I rounded the corner, my eyes watery after thinking about my siblings.
My brother would have been six.
I constantly think about how different my life would be if they still lived.
They would have already made fun of me for my first crush. Been there to understand me when my parents didn't. My brother would have been six. My sister is in college.
The dim streets suddenly turned extremely bright. As a tall, hooded figure ran past me and knocked me over.
"Oh, sorry," His husky voice apologized.
"It's ok," I brushed off, "Would you happen to know what just happened over there?"
"Yeah, there was a protest, and the police showed up and started throwing tear gas, so I lit the playground on fire." He answered nonchalantly.
"On fire! But it's...why?"
"They killed that little boy six months ago. The cop who did it is still "not guilty," so I'm still fighting." He said everything was normal.
I smiled wearily, "Jake was my little brother."
"Wow, you must have been going to that protest, huh?"
"I was going to any protest. I've never been."
"But what about for your brother?"
"My parents aren't the grieving type."
"Dang. Well, you can protest with me any time."
"Really!?"
"Yup, but only if you're ok with fire. I have a little tendency to light things up," He said with a grin.
"Whatever it takes?"
He smiled, "Whatever it takes."
Suddenly, we heard shouts and footsteps coming toward us. The guy cursed and pulled us into the nearest bush.
"The cops. Probably looking for me." He smirked again.
"Um...may I ask you something?" I asked him, getting nervous.
"Go for it," he was still looking out the bush.
"What's your name?"
"Nathan." He quickly answered, "You?"
"Addison. Why are you so into Jake's protests?"
"Is that because I'm white?" He joked.
"No! I'm sorry, I just...I don't know."
He chuckled at that, "I protest because of my sister. We adopted her when she was two, and when she turned fourteen, a school shooting killed her. It was one of her teachers, and he only shot the black students. The judge decided he would only go to prison for three years, so I decided to start a protest. He got a life sentence; I then decided to help whoever I can."
Jake was adopted as well.
"But why fire?"
"It speeds up the process," He replied coolly, "I think we're free to go now. If you're serious about this, meet me in two days here. I'm bringing some friends, so don't freak out when you see more people."
"Ok, I'll be here."
"Good," he turned around to leave but spun back, "Oh, and don't forget to wear black or gray. And preferably something to cover up that gorgeous face of yours." Then he left for real.
How old did he say he was again? He looked twenty-something. I'm only eighteen!
My parents had always told us to try and look bad not to distract and seduce innocent young men. That's why my sister never got along with them.
We would always argue, "If any young man is looking at my butt, then that's their problem! Girls should not feel the need to wear layers of clothes because an immature boy can't keep his eyes to himself. Honestly, they need to grow up! I should be able to wear shorts that don't come down to my knees without my parents, school, and church bashing me for being one of "those" girls. I should be able to show my shoulder without people thinking I'm trying to draw someone in. I'm not saying we should walk around naked, but at least make it somewhat fair! Don't tell girls not to exercise in a sports bra and leggings, and let boys exercise in underwear and shirtless! Similar, what the heck! We say we're all for equality, but are we? And don't tell me dress codes are so people learn and aren't distracted because I'm sorry that I have to be uncomfortable all day so you can not be a creep! Self-control, jeez!"
She had a way of speaking the truth.