TBD

Understand me. Don't assume

I didn't want to be a murder. This wasn't some Columbiana shit where I said, "I want to be a killer". I wanted to be a lawyer. I will be a lawyer. Despite my circumstances and the things that I have done, I will become someone my mother can be proud of again. I will be pure of heart again.
​"You really still think that's an option for you? You know, considering the circumstances", her eyebrows crunches together. She sits across from me attentive to my every move as if she's my next target. I gaze over this waste-of-space reporter. I know that I am queen compared to her thrift store clothing. Her glasses look like Wal-Mart knock offs. White girl with a messy bun, how cliché. Her faded navy blue skirt three sizes too big, wrinkled, with a dingy khaki shirt to match saddens me. How dare she fix her mouth to ask me anything?
​This awkward silence fills the air. These wooden chairs creak at any and all movement. The fresh breeze forces its way in, to caress the powder yellow wallpaper. When my great grandmother moved from Lakeland, Georgia to Chicago, she brought the sweetness of the south with her.  She called the dining room her honey room. The yellow wall paper, huge dark oak table with sweet yellow tulips in a glass vase on top which she bought every Sunday, and golden curtains that flowed like a honey river made it so.  My grandmother's house was always drenched in love.
"Yes. I don't see what that has to do with my academics", smirk on my face waiting for her to dig herself into a deeper whole. I've murdered 47 people but was never convicted. I do however have acceptance letters from Spellman, Harvard, and Yale that express how honored they would be to have me attend. Granted it was before the incident, but considering that I was never convicted and acting as my own lawyer, should say something. Does she not know that I am smarter than her? I am everything she wishes to become. Her ignorance makes me cringe and laugh on the inside. Somewhere in corporate America, they pay this pencil-pushing-imbecile to interview me. Me?  I am pretty sure she is just another pathetic little white girl whose daddy had enough money for her to be a writer without ever attending an English class. She doesn't want to be here and nor do I. Her flats tap on the floor at an alarming pace. She munches on her pencil. I feel my veins in my forehead pulsating so hard the droplets of sweat jump off my forehead and onto my arm to the rhythm of her foot. The square fan sitting on a chair in the corner is blasting the back of my neck, sending chills down my spine and sending the loose strands of her hair everywhere. My rage started simmering when I heard the sound of her cab door slam. Now I am boiling.  I lean in closer to her so she can hear the suckling of my teeth and hopefully be splashed with the venom of my words.
"Why are you here?" My voice slides through the air with a sharp tone. Inching closer to the edge of my seat, my eyes pierce her soul. My words spewed at her and she almost look insulted, but it is overcome by the wavering insecurity in her eyes. "Are you looking for me to cry on your shoulder and tell you how remorseful I am? Are you looking for me to tell you that my baby daddy has beaten me or that I've been abused by my drunken father? O I know, You want me to tell you that I'm some stereotypical teenage girl living in the hood, goes to a school that has security guards, and metal detectors as soon as you walk through the doors. I'm one of the multiple illegitimate children my mom popped out to get more money from your precious government. I am the definition of a welfare and food stamp baby parading around the projects with my $300 Brazilian Remy hair propped on top of my head. I've stepped through the trash, jumped over the game of hop scotch that is long overdue to be repainted, just to reach the muddied blood water from Shaquan's dead body. Is that what you want me to tell you?"
​Silence. I straightened up in my chair and crossed my ankles.  My bosom rose to have the full use of my diaphragm. My lips made a smile so sinister, the Devil himself now fears me. My brown skin is strong and unremorseful. I made sure that all my blackness radiated today. I wanted it to be hammered down her throat, so that she would have no choice but to categorize me as a pure black girl. The curls of my hair possessed the power of Tut and the wavy pieces are the unforgotten memories of the slave owners that raped my ancestors so long ago.  She will acknowledge all of me today.
I belt out my words unapologetically.
"I'm not sorry that I won't. My name is Diana Nicole DuBois-Carter. Mother is Debra Alice DuBois-Carter and my father is James Malcom Carter, who was killed by Officer Kendall Wallace. My mother is college educated. She has a PhD in psychology and a master in fine arts. My father owned a small restaurant that gave his community hope and good food. Once a month he opened his doors to the homeless and provided them with unlimited food, clothes, and opportunities that this world didn't have funds to offer. I will not sit here and allow you to paint out this picture of my family that is anything short of greatness. Yes, this "Black or African American" family was able to attain excellence without doing anything illegal, shameful, or that required a handout from someone like you". I sit, waiting for her to put her precious white thoughts together. I'm so excited to see her brain comes up with a story that she can actually make sense of because you can see in her eyes, she was taught that black cannot be good.
Let's make something abundantly clear now. I am not a racist. I just have no tolerance for ignorance. People for so long have been judged and prosecuted for things they can't control because of the lack understanding amongst the majority. Instead of trying to gain clarity and embrace people they decide to create these outrageous opinions on things that they have never personally experienced and are judgmental.  In this day in age knowledge is all around us.  If you want to be ignorant now in the modern day world, you really have to try.
"That is exactly why I wanted to talk to you" she said perched on the edge of her seat with complete intent on understanding this foreign language that I speak. Truth. She leans in closer to me like a five year old trying to tell you a secret. She does not have the general understanding of personal space. "I've done my research on you.  You have a 4.0 GPA, perfect attendance, you come from a prominent family of great men and women. You've never drank, smoke, or even went for a joy ride. You don't even have a parking ticket", she never breaks eye contact with me. It is like she has my life stats memorized. Her voice has a sort of enthusiasm that can get agitating if she talks too long but her pitch is not deafly high. She is tolerable. "You are the complete opposite of the scripted serial killer and here we are.  You are right about one thing, that stereotypical black hood chick is what everyone is expecting me to write about. However, what I'm wanted to write about is how did we get here. What made you decide to take justice into your hands at 17? What made you snap? What did you see that we couldn't". I don't know if it's me or she has lean in closer with every word, causing me to lean back in to my seat. I realize not that she does not know. Her child like demeanor finally make since to me. We've been sitting here for possibly thirty-five minutes and it has finally hit me. She does not know what her precious government can do.  She only sees the pretty Fourth of July fireworks and the waving flags.
"It's not that you couldn't, it's that you did not want to. My eye lids were taped open and I was forced to watch from a young age the disgusting idea of justice and judgment. I was penetrated by the false advertisement of freedom, belittle by the beliefs that segregation was over, and taunted by teachers who said that I could do anything. If you want the truth, I'll give it you but I will not sugar coat it for your primitive eyes. You will have to take it and accept it as raw as the day the scars were made" I say this praying to God that she listens to understand and not to respond.
I hope that what I tell her will not be watered down, left out, or just lost in translation. I don't blame her for being white and not knowing. I blame her for believing in the one side of the story and never questioning it until now. Women of color tend to seek for another side because we need hope. We hope tomorrow will be different. We hope tomorrow won't hurt as bad as yesterday. We hope that this is not it for us. We, women of color are born with our third eye open and our mouthes are sewn shut.
She looks at me with big green eyes and eyelashes that flutter to gain focus as she slowly shrinks back into her seat digesting my words. I think she has just realized that she has received confirmation from me that we can continue.
"Alright. I won't promise anything because I am pretty sure you don't like m" she shuffles through her papers while speaking to me. As the talks shakes her head in what I think is disbelief that she has gotten this interview. They have been multiple reporters that come by trying to get the "scoop". They try year round to get the story. They usually come when it is one of the victims' birthdays or the anniversary of the police parade. The reason I was choosing to say something now, five years later, is because I was tired of seeing all of those police officers being praised and adored year. It's about time their families see them for who they really are. Murders.
"I will give you my word that I will write to know and not assume" she looks at me waiting for a second confirmation from me to continue. I nod in compliance. She starts her tape recorder with a loud click. "Can I have your name, birthday and birth place?"
"My name is Diana Nicole DuBois-Carter. I was born on August 17, 1996. I was born in Loyola Springs Hospital.