Surviving The Blues

1

   My name is Faith Sojourner Williams. I was born to Darrius Williams and some lady whose name I rather not utter. I was born at night. 10:23 pm to be exact. It was a vaginal birth if you were wondering. It was a home birth—unintentional of course. Who would want their child to be born in a two-bedroom apartment housing thirteen other people? Exactly.

I weighed a solid ten pounds, one ounce. When I cried, daddy said it was like a lion's roar pierced the air shattering all eardrums. He always says, "From the moment I met you, I knew you'd be great and shit. That's why I named you Sojourner." My uterus donor picked out Faith. I tried convincing my father to let me change it, but he would say, "It's the part of you you should never change."

I grew up in a single-parent home in the south Bronz and went to a school right down the block from the two-bedroom apartment my father worked hard to move us into. That all changed though when I got to high school. I had been going to the same school since pre-K. I went through metal detectors, bag searches, and school safety guards. Some people say my school represented what would lead to the school-to-prison-pipeline while others say it keeps the kids safe. Hey, call it what you want.

On October 19, 2015, however, something changed. A kid got stabbed and my dad thought enough was enough and sent me to a predominantly white private high school in Staten Island. He figured what most people think, white schools are safer than minority schools. There are no metal detectors and there's plenty of resources you would want a school to have.

Where did he get the money? He told me 'that's grown folks business and all I need to worry about is being great'. No, he meant great times every single kid in the school.

He gave four main rules. 1)Don't be the stereotype. 2) Prove them wrong Sojourner. 3) Don't let them put you down, you are great. 4) Don't let your guard down Sojourner because the second they see your crown tilt, they will try to pull you down. Pops has knowledge. He's been around, so I don't doubt him.

Every morning I wake up at 4:45 am just to make it to school on time. It's about two hours and thirteen minutes away, sometimes more depending on the mood of transit. Somedays, my dad takes me. It's more frequent lately. He's scared. He's trying to be strong for me and I have to be strong for him. So I try to assure him I am okay. I smile and pretend that I am okay.

By 8 am, I am already in school where I now have to also pretend I am okay yet again. Before the incident, it was easier. Now, sometimes being surrounded by people triggers me. So I fake it. They don't know. It's a Emmy worthy performance.

  I have to give up all aspects of the stereotypical black girl. You know, the slang talking, gum-smacking, loud talking girl that many t.v. shows portray. Instead, I use words like perplex or trenchant and I pronounce all my syllables so I don't sound hood or ghetto. I keep my hair in acceptable hairstyles: flatiron, slick ponytails, or buns. I wear my skirt at an appropriate length to not draw attention to myself. I keep my uniform clean and neat and I am kind and calm. It's all in hopes of conforming to a society pinned against me. I guess it doesn't change the fact that I am still black and all this 'I don't see color' talk is just an act so people won't seem racist.

I am on my way to my class nodding and answering some greetings for some people I happen to know the names of. It's rare for me to know names.

I head straight to my first class saying some more good mornings. I make it to my Ap Chem class where my teacher gives me a dismissive nod when I tell her good morning. In her defense, I am interrupting her morning coffee and morning scroll through Twitter.

I set up my desk and wait. Soon, kids stroll in with their phones in hand going on about something as usual. I zone it out. I zone out much more these days.

"Faith." I faintly hear. "Yo, Faith." A hand touches my shoulder and I flinch. I try to play it off by smiling. He buys it, but my heart is beating fast. There's a buzzing sound in my ear and it's almost like I can smell the air from my night of trauma.

"Sorry, what's the matter?" I ask adjusting back to reality. If the kids from my neighborhood could hear me now.

"Oh, we were just wondering if this protest thing wasn't around your area?"  Emily, the girl who I guess started the conversation holds up her phone to show me.

"It might be. I am not all that sure." I smile to cover up the big fat lie I told. The protest they are talking about was three blocks away from my home. It's exactly where it happened. I don't want them to know that. Then they'll ask questions. They'll wonder, awe, what's life like for the poor hood people? Did you know the people who got shot? Do you know who the mystery person is? You know, the one who lived and won't tell the world.

"I thought it was established that black lives matter was a banned saying." One of the girls says. "Isn't it supposed to be all lives matter?"

"Oh yeah." Another girl agrees. She then looks at me and fumbles. "I mean not that black lives don't matter isn't important, but it makes it seem like only the lives of black people matter when we all matter." She says, looking at me.

"Mhmm." I nod and smile.

The bell rings. They begin to sit in their assigned seats. The guy that tapped me says one more thing. "I don't even know why they're protesting in the first place. The only living witness isn't even coming out which means the cops were right. One of the cops is my uncle. This is ruining his life."

Ruining his life? I didn't know he died. I didn't know he's suffering from trauma. I hate it that I don't correct them. I just can't. I can't be that girl.

---
I make my way home. School is done by 3:40. I have a 6 PM curfew on days I have no activities and I am not allowed out after that. Ever since that night, I've been sheltered.

5:47 pm.

I am walking towards my apartment.

"What do we want?" The megaphone echoes.

"Justice." The crowd answers.

"And when do we want it?"

"Now."

I cross the street to avoid it. I am in front of my building where Ms. Brown, an old lady in the building sits along with some others.

"Good Evening," I mutter.

"Young lady, you can't keep quiet forever. It's a small community."

"Sorry, I don't know what you are talking about." I walk through the open door.

"Leave that child alone. She's hurtin'."

"And I am hurting too. They shot my grandson." I hear before I head up the stairs.
___
For the year so for 425 people have been shot and killed by police. A 25% estimated of police shootings are black. This doesn't include Hispanics which is also a minority. Looking through some of the names I saw some Native Americans.

On that note, purple_sky15 is out. Byeeee.