“I don’t want anyone mourning my loss,” she had said once, while watching on TV hundreds of people gathering to mourn the death of a celebrity. “Make it a party and just, like, keep on keeping on. Think of me with joy, not sadness.”
But Ghana couldn’t stop the flood of sadness that overwhelmed her in unsuspecting moments. She forced a smile, lifted her bottle and said, “Just keep on keeping on.” The others responded by raising their bottles and clinking them together.
“Man, it’s scary what’s happening out here these days,” Allan said. “You know what I think? I think white people are acting out ’cause we had a black president and now they have someone in office they can relate to.”
“You think so?” asked Ryan, leaning his elbows on the table.
“Oh, yeah. No question. White folks, especially on the right, they were pissed that a black man won the highest office in the country, and now they’re trying to assert themselves once again as dominant. And these cop shootings, man, these guys are out of control.”
The table was silent for a moment until Cass said, “Um, Ryan is a cop.”
“Oh, dayum, that’s right. I forgot. Sorry, man. Here in the District?”
Ryan nodded.
“I mean no disrespect,” Allan said, “but seriously. I mean, help me out here. What’s with this blue on black crime?”
Ryan swirled the beer in his bottle. “It’s not blue on black crime.” He looked at Allan. “Just a few cops who are out of fucking control.”
“A few?” Allan chuckled and moved his head slowly from side to side. “Again, no disrespect, but every week we’re getting news of another cop killing a brother or beating up on a sistah.”
Cass put her hand on Allan’s arm and said, “Al, c’mon, just leave it.” She looked at Ryan and added, “He had a few drinks before we got here.”
Ryan shrugged as if to say it’s fine.
“No,” Allan said, pulling his arm away from Cass. “Let’s have an honest conversation about this. As a black man—my parents are from the South, Georgia to be specific—I’m truly confused by what’s happening. You’re a good man, Ryan, I can see that, and I’m not placing no blame on you, but help me understand.”
“You just said it,” Ryan said. “White people are acting out because they want to establish control. Isn’t that what you said?”
“It’s not just black people getting hurt,” said Cass. “Hispanic and Asian folks are dying, too. And not just by the police.”
“True. True,” said Allan. “But right now, the police are killing a lot of black folks. You can’t deny that. I mean take Tamir Rice, what was he, twelve? He had a toy gun and cops shot him down like he’s some kinda mobster. I mean, it was a toy gun.”
“Some of these toy guns don’t look like fucking toys,” Ryan said.
“Did they have to shoot him, though?”
“Look, I wasn’t there, but what I can tell you is that we live in a society where kids as young as eight or nine are carrying weapons, and when we get called to a situation where there’s the threat of a gun, we’re on alert. And if a kid is reaching into his pants or coat, we don’t know what he’s going for.”
“So why not shoot his leg instead of killing him?”
“This isn’t the fucking movies. Every cop is not a sharp-shooter who can hit a moving target exactly where he wants to. It’s easy to second guess after the fact, but in that moment, you fucking react, and sometimes the result is tragic. I’m sorry the boy died, but in that moment, he posed a legitimate threat to the responding officers. He was brandishing what appeared to be a weapon.”
“Yeah, okay, blame the victim.”
“I’m not blaming the victim. I’m trying to explain the situation from the cops’ perspectives. Isn’t that what you asked?”
“The situation is that black men are assumed to be guilty of something just because they’re black. The police profile black men all the time.”
Ghana tapped the table with her beer and said, “They wouldn’t have shot him if he’d been a white child.”
Ryan gave her a look that asked, whose side are you on. She held his stare, silently challenging him to say something else, until he looked away. He was quiet for a moment, then said to Allan, “Tell me something. What is your immediate reaction when a man with a turban and a beard walks into a store and stands by the door with his hands in his pockets just looking around? What do you think?”
Allan sat back in his chair. “I don’t think anything.”
“Really? You sure about that?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, we got a call one afternoon, few months back, from the manager of this convenience store complaining of suspicious activity by a customer. I get there, and this guy, he’s wearing a red turban and has a beard. He’s standing outside the store looking at his cell phone. I go inside and talk to the manager. Happens to be a black guy. Tells me the ‘Muslim dude’ as he calls him has been standing out there for thirty fucking minutes. ‘Doing what?’ I ask. ‘Nothing. Just standing there.’ So I go outside and ask the guy if he needs any help. Turns out his car won’t start and he’s waiting for his brother to come get him. He takes me to his car, and looks like the battery is dead. We chat a bit and his brother finally shows up with a new battery. They fix the car and they’re on their way.
“Sure, there’s a ‘no loitering’ sign on the premises, but what was the guy supposed to fucking do?” Ryan took a drink. “And, turns out he’s Sikh. Not even Muslim. The manager makes this assumption about the man based on what? Fear. When does anyone know if someone is going to commit a fucking crime or do harm? No one knows for sure. But we respond from a place of fear because the politicians and the media like to create this environment where everybody is afraid of each other. Like you said, white people are afraid because they think that a black president meant black people were taking over, so we have to push back and put them back in their place. Right?”
Allan’s face was stony and Ghana was holding her breath. She looked at Cass who stared daggers at Allan, who said, “You wanna put us back in our place, huh?”
As Ryan took another swig of his beer, Ghana placed her hand on his thigh. She wanted him to stop. He glanced at her and winked, as if to say, “I got this.”
“Course not,” he said. “But, yeah, some people in power, I believe that’s the way they think. It’s easier to control people when they’re afraid. What if the store manager had gone out there and done what I did? What if the guy had been a terrorist? Sometimes there’s just no way to know for sure. Sometimes we don’t know the fucking truth until it’s too late. But if we always react from a place of fear, there’s no helping any of us. Black, white, or whatever fucking color you are.”
Cass asked, “How did you know he was a Sikh?”
“I read.” He smiled and tilted the bottle to his lips, downing the rest of his beer. “The Sikh community has been a target since Nine-Eleven and I’ve responded to a number of calls where their temples have been vandalized or members have been attacked. Just ’cause people think they’re terrorists. It’s not just black people getting targeted.”
“You’re a good guy, Ryan,” said Cass, raising her beer to him. She glanced at Allan who was looking at the table, as if contemplating something.
“Look, I get it,” Ryan said. “Right now there’s a focus on cop shootings and everyone is playing the blame game, but there’s a fucking bigger issue at play here.”
Allan looked up. “What’s that?”
“Who’s getting the next round?”
Allan broke into a smile. “It’s on you, man,” he said and laughed.
Ryan pressed Ghana’s hand against his thigh, and she smiled, relieved that everyone was laughing. Ryan nodded at Allan. “Sure. I’ll get this one,” he said and waved over the waiter.
“But what about—” As Allan began again, Cass interrupted him, asking him to stop. “I just want to ask this one thing,” he said and looked at Ryan. “What
about gun control? How do you feel about that?”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t think we need to revert back to the Wild West with everyone carrying guns, but I believe in the Second Amendment. People should have the right to arm themselves if they want.”
Ghana moved her hand away from his thigh, her body stiffening, her heart beat quickening.
Allan said, “So if we’re all packing some heat, we can stop all these mass shootings?”
“No—”
Allan chuckled. “Arm all the teachers, huh?”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Ryan. “Shit, far from it. There should be some fucking controls. But with a license and training, people have the right to own a gun, and use it for protection if they feel they need it.”
Ghana glared at him as if she’d never seen him before. Her heart pounded in her throat. “And what if they make a mistake?” she said, her voice shaking. “What if they shoot the wrong person?”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “Baby, I didn’t mean—” He reached out to her but she jerked her arm away.
“Even with all the training and a license,” she said, “what if they still shoot someone just because they’re black?”
She stood up and rushed through the bar to the exit. Outside, the evening air was warm and an ambulance—siren wailing, lights flashing—passed by in a blur. She adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and started walking, unsure where to go. Ryan called from behind and in a moment he was there tugging at her arm. She snatched away and continued walking, quicker now, determined.
“Please wait.” He gripped her arm tighter and stopped her from moving. She looked at his hand then at his face. He released her and raised both hands, palms toward her. “Baby, I’m sorry.”
She could feel the tears coming, a tightness in her throat, an itch in her nose, but she stood motionless looking at the pavement, at his feet.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
She noticed the torn threads on the bottom cuff of his jeans and the scuffed sneakers. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently tugged her toward him then stepped forward and engulfed her in an embrace, his lips pressing against her forehead. She began to cry, weeping into his chest and he squeezed her closer.
Ryan was gone when she woke up. Her thoughts swarmed around his pro-gun comments last night. They had never talked about gun rights, though she knew he wasn’t a member of the NRA. He owned two handguns, one he used at work and a personal one he carried when he was off duty, and he was almost obsessive about securing them safely at home. Once, she’d asked to look at his personal handgun and he responded with a firm, “No.” Then he added, more gently, “It’s not a toy.”
“I know that,” she said feeling chided. “I’m just curious.”
“Guns are not for casual curiosity,” he said.
A week later, he took her to a gun range and let her handle the weapon, which was heavier than she’d expected. Ryan ran through a litany of do’s and don’ts that turned to gibberish in her head. He demonstrated how to pull the slide back to look into the chamber, how to load the magazine, and how to position her hands. He stood behind her, helping her get into position. “Widen your stance. Bend your knees. Relax your elbows. Don’t grip the gun so tightly.” She could feel the sweat on her palms. “The tighter your grip, the more you shake,” he said. Outfitted with safety goggles and earplugs, she took a deep breath and tried to relax, yet her body froze into place. With Ryan guiding her, she fired at the paper target and the explosion, the power and potential violence of the gun frightened her. She jerked backwards and almost dropped the gun, the bullet hitting the wall far above the target. Giggling uncontrollably, she gave back the gun and never asked about it again.
To think of Malawi being shot dead with a shotgun made her blood harden and her body heavy and slow. She recalled the explosion of the handgun, the noise—even with earplugs—had echoed in her ears, and now the image of two bullets shattering her sister’s body ricocheted through her mind.
After Monday, Ghana had taken the rest of the week off from the spa—she’d had no energy to give to the physical effort of massage, instead spending her days reading, watching the news, and thinking about Malawi. She dumped a load of clothes in the washer, then turned on the news channel while she slumped on the couch and ate a bowl of muesli. She soon turned off the television in disgust; reports of fighting in the Middle East, more race-related protests around the country, and a brutal attack in the District on a young gay man all turned her stomach. She was sick of all the hatred.
As she filled the drier with freshly washed clothes, she thought about her mother. They were far from close, but under the circumstances, perhaps a visit was in order. Kenya had set a tough act to follow—graduating top of her class, following Dad into law, marrying a successful businessman, and having two adorable kids. Ghana never wanted to fit into a box the way Kenya did, and Mama always resented that she followed her own path and spoke her mind.
She hadn’t seen her mother since Christmas—the dreaded annual family gathering with the expectation that everyone arrived on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, helped in the kitchen to prepare a feast, attended the evening church service on Christmas Day—mandatory when the girls were younger—and joined in the candle ritual on the first day of Kwanzaa. When they were small, the family honored each of the seven principles before dinner every night for the seven days.
“This is so dumb,” she told her mother one year when she was around nine or ten, while cleaning the candleholder. “Nobody celebrates Kwanzaa. It’s a made-up holiday.”
“Ghana Caroline, you will do as you’re told,” Mama said, stabbing the air with her finger just above Ghana’s nose. “This is important to your father, and you will celebrate like everyone else in this family.”
“None of my friends celebrate it.”
“We don’t do things because your friends do them. We Walkers follow our own path in this world.”
Her mother never seemed to see the irony in her words, but Ghana took the opportunity to repeat the line back to her mother on several occasions throughout her teens.
Once she and Kenya moved out, Kwanzaa became a condensed event—they mostly acknowledged the seven principles on the day after Christmas. When Kenya married Sidney, Ghana was envious that her sister had an excuse to spend some of the time with her in-laws. Ghana wished she could have simply skipped the whole thing every year. Between her mother and Kenya’s criticisms, those three days were unbearable, yet she kept going. It was family, after all. What was worse: hearing the criticisms about her life choices, or the moaning from her mother if she didn’t participate? Last year, she’d shown up a day late, on Christmas morning, much to the chagrin of her mother who’d kept commenting on how a family tradition should be honored and not ignored. In retrospect, Ghana was grateful for attending; it had been the last holiday with Malawi.
On that Christmas Day, they’d stood in their parents’ foyer, hugging and hugging, despite having talked almost every day after Malawi had moved to Palm Beach. Malawi hadn’t mentioned the married man and Ghana hadn’t asked, not wanting to dig up feelings her sister may have been trying to let go. But she’d seemed happy, saying she had settled into Florida life and had made new friends, which had cheered Ghana.
That had been the last time the family had seen Malawi. The thought took Ghana’s breath away. She stood in the narrow hall, listening to the chug of the drier as the clothes tumbled around inside the machine, neatly hidden away behind metal closet doors. Yes, she would surprise her mother with a visit. It was time.
Ghana cut through the Columbia Heights neighborhood in Northwest to 16th Street, and from there Crestwood was a straight shot. Though she lived closer now after moving in with Ryan, she still didn’t visit. Kenya had called her childish when Ghana said their mother disliked her. And though it seemed wrong to admit it, somewhere deep inside, she didn’t like her mother, either. It was better to keep her distance. When s
he dropped out of college, Mama complained about all the wasted money.
“I’ll get a job and pay you back,” Ghana had said, knowing she hadn’t really meant it but was trying to get her mother to stop ranting on. Her father had said money wasn’t the issue. His concern had been her future. Ghana had masked her shame in sarcasm and bravado, and her mother wouldn’t let it go; the argument raged on for months.
“You’re just embarrassed that a daughter of yours didn’t get a fancy college degree. Whatever will you tell your friends?”
Her mother had slapped her face causing her brown cheek to flush a deep apple red. Ghana packed a suitcase that night and slept on her friend’s couch in a one-bedroom apartment on Chillum Road until she’d found a job as a bartender in Adams Morgan. With her first paycheck, she moved into a two-bedroom apartment with another friend in Laurel, but that was too far out. When she moved into a tiny basement apartment in Anacostia, her mother—as was reported to her by Malawi—had been terrified, as if she’d moved to Afghanistan.
That year at the annual holiday gathering, Mama had raised the issue and Ghana tried to explain that it was a beautiful part of the city no one seemed to care about. “All anyone talks about is the crime,” she’d said.
“The crime there is outrageous,” asserted her mother, though Ghana suspected her mother’s knowledge was from a few news headlines, and she’d refused to engage in any further discussion. Her mother hadn’t been any happier when she announced she was moving in with Ryan.
“Who is this man, anyway? I haven’t even met him.”
Ghana had rolled her eyes. During the summer, she had been returning a book to her father and Ryan had driven, so she’d invited him in. Mostly to meet her father, who smiled broadly and shook Ryan’s hand.
“Yes, you met him once,” Ghana told her mother. “I brought him over and you said he seemed nice.”
Malawi's Sisters Page 9