We Are Not Like Them

by Christine Pride

  Our entire college experience was four years of her telling me about myself, recognizing some unrealized potential in me to be cooler than I was. I showed up at Northwestern a shy, nerdy brown girl from Philly who’d never had sex, wore hideous khakis (cuffed!), and knew exactly one reggae artist: Bob Marley—and Gaby made it her mission to change all that. (The khakis were the first thing to go, my virginity next.) I didn’t mind being Gaby’s project at all. Actually, I loved it; I was all too happy to have someone else be responsible for turning me into the adult version of myself. So I latched on to her, right then and there, and she became—and still is—my anchor, the person I can count on to tell me how I feel even when I’m not sure myself. That’s exactly what I hoped she’d do when I called her last night. She’d cursed and muttered in patois as I told her every detail.

  “So Jen’s husband just mowed this kid down? Here we go again with this shit. What does she have to say about it?” She sucked her teeth dramatically when I told her I hadn’t really spoken to Jen about it yet and related the comment Jen had made to reporters.

  “Excuse me. No! ‘My best friend is Black’? That’s some Don’t Do 101 shit. You’ve got to call her out on that BS, Riley. How could she not know that’s a fucked-up thing to say?”

  Good question. But I didn’t call Jen out, just like I hadn’t all those years ago. I didn’t have it in me—the thought of opening this door was overwhelming. I’m just relieved Jen didn’t mention me by name on camera. If Scotty knew I was friends with the wife of one of the cops involved, he likely would have taken me off the story. For a split second I had considered telling him, but I couldn’t risk it—there was too much at stake.

  I should have known better than to think I could escape Jen and the shooting while in church, because of course Pastor Price opens the service by talking about it.

  “Our hearts are heavy this morning. One of our young brothers is fighting for his life over at Jefferson Hospital.” Each syllable vibrates with emotion, conjuring a somberness that permeates the air, as thick as the scent of White Diamonds, the perfume all the older ladies favor.

  “What has become very clear to me is that Black lives do not matter. Not in 1719, not in 1819, not in 1919, and not right now in the year of our Lord 2019 either. Black lives do not matter when a little boy is lying there bleeding out on the street for doing nothing more than walking home from school. What do we do? What can we do? What is the purpose of this church, this congregation, our community, in the face of this slaughter?” He lets the word sink in; the congregation responds with urgent murmurs: “Tell us what to do. What do we do? What does the Lord want us to do?”

  He answers his own question. “We can’t be silent. We will speak. We will not stop speaking. We will march. We will not stop marching. We will no longer let our babies be cut down in the streets. We will demand justice. For each and every boy and girl unfairly and unjustly slain. Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray…” He counts each name with a knobby finger, a roster that’s too long and hauntingly familiar. At least to some people. I wonder who holds these names in their memories, a reminder and a warning. Does Jen? Does she know all these names? Does she carry them with her as I do?

  “We will make our voices heard. We demand to be treated with dignity. I hope you all will join us and our brothers and sisters all over town for a March for Justice in Justin’s honor. Next Saturday, right down Broad Street. And in the meantime, we’re going to pray for that boy, aren’t we? We’re going to pray with our hearts that he pulls through. Now we need some inspiration today, don’t we, church? We need a reminder that God calls us to turn our faith into action, for He surely does. Please turn to James two verse fourteen and let us read.”

  I grab the Bible in front of me, its burgundy leather cover worn soft as cloth with age, and turn dutifully to the appropriate verse, but my mind isn’t there. I’m already thinking about how I’ll cover the march Pastor mentioned and how to reach Tamara Dwyer. Scotty made his orders clear: “Get the mother, Riley. We need Mrs. Dwyer.”

  So far, Tamara has given only one comment, in front of the hospital Friday morning: “That’s my baby in there. Please pray for him.”

  When Pastor calls for us to bow our heads in a closing prayer, I do so reflexively, respectfully going through the motions. I rarely pray anymore—it feels selfish and disingenuous given my shaky relationship with God, the fact that I’ve been to church only a handful of times in the last ten years. The last time I prayed, I did so without even meaning to—when I was crying my eyes out, pathetic and hopeless, on my bathroom floor last fall in Birmingham. I didn’t have the right to ask God for much then, but in my desperation, I did it anyway. I’m surprised when I find myself doing it again now, offering up sincere, fervent pleas, for Gigi and then for Justin. Please don’t let him die. Not another one.

  The choir starts a rousing rendition of Kirk Franklin’s “My World Needs You,” signaling the end of the service.

  “Well, that was a blessed sermon,” Momma says as we file out and join the long receiving line.

  Here we go. I plaster a smile across my face, knowing that despite the tragedy hanging in the air, Momma wants to show me off on my rare church appearance, perfect Riley, with the perfect grades and the perfect manners and the perfect education and career. The thought of it is exhausting, but I ready myself for showtime, standing a little straighter, remembering never to say “yeah,” always “yes,” and to make sure I look everyone in the eye and ask after their family. In other words, I’ll do Momma proud like I always do. I’ll uphold Momma’s carefully maintained image that we are a model family, basically the Huxtables, only with a lot less money. Though the irony of the Huxtables as the epitome of Black success is not lost on me. I look behind me and see that Shaun, too, has transformed his scowl into a polite smile as we follow Momma down the aisle.

  Momma doesn’t walk, she glides, her hat angled just so over her fresh roller set, her backbone so straight she appears at least three inches taller than her true five feet, a strutting peacock mindful of a roomful of onlookers. For sure, she already has a list of accomplishments and updates running through her mind like ticker tape. Normally, she’d be arm in arm with Daddy, whispering gossip under her breath. But he was called in this morning for a plumbing emergency on Penn’s campus, where he’s worked for twenty years as a janitor—or “Ivy League custodial engineer,” as Momma calls it—so she forgoes the gossip in favor of pointing at me and loudly exclaiming, “Look at my baby girl here today,” to anyone whose eyes she catches. “You know she’s on TV, right? Channel Five News. Every night.”

  I’m not on every night, but I don’t bother correcting her. My role here is to follow obediently and smile manically. I reach up to smooth my hair, which I flat-ironed to within an inch of its life this morning in preparation for church and to pass muster with Momma. I have a flash of getting ready for church as a little girl and Momma pressing my hair with an ancient metal comb she heated on the fiery red stovetop burner and inevitably gave me singed ears no matter how still I sat.

  When we reach the vestibule, Pastor Price’s voice parts the crowd around us. “Well, well, well, I’d like to say a mighty prayer for the prodigal daughter returned! If it isn’t Leroya Wilson right here in my church. Now there’s a miracle!”

  This time, I’m not surprised to hear “Leroya,” and I glance over at my mom guiltily, reminded of how upset my parents were when I announced—emphatically—that I was changing my name, the wounded looks on their faces. But Momma is all smiles now, beaming up at Pastor like she’s presenting a prize.

  Stepping into Pastor’s embrace, I feel like a little girl, like Leroya again. I’m happy that he’s teasing me as he always did back then—like when I would press him with questions about why Jesus looked so white in the storybooks.

  “People need to see themselves in Jesus, Leroya,” he’d said. “When you see him, maybe you should see a whip-smart little Black girl.”

 
He stands back, placing both his hands gently on my arms, holding my body away, appraising me. “You’re all grown up, ain’t you, and as beautiful as ever. Just like your mother here.” This is another thing about Pastor Price: he was always a flirt.

  “You’re doing good work, God’s work, on the news. I watch you all the time. Don’t I, Sandra?”

  “You do, you do.” Momma grins so hard her face might crack. Shaun looks bored and small. Gone are the days when our parents stood right here in this vestibule gushing about his soccer talent, his game-winning goals, his scholarship to Temple, his big future. My little brother used to cast a large shadow. That was before. Now he hardly takes up any space at all.

  Pastor Price leans in and lowers his voice. “So this is some mess with Jenny.” Growing up, Jenny used to come to church with us. I always had a strange sense of pride that Jenny could hang, that she could be one of us, so comfortable being the only white person in the crowd. It was ironic given I was the one who had plenty of practice being the “only one” in countless places and situations, including ending up at one of the whitest high schools in Philly, but it had never come quite as easily for me—in fact, some nights I fell into bed depleted from the effort of it all.

  Before I can work out how to respond to Pastor’s comment, he’s moved on. “We’ll talk more this week,” he commands. “God sent you to us, Leroya. And right on time. We need your voice, your power, your influence. They’re going to cover for their own. They always do. We won’t let them get away with it this time. We need you to tell our story. Call my office tomorrow, you hear?”

  His tone of collusion doesn’t feel right. I’m a journalist, not an activist. But then again, I may need his help and connections to get to Justin’s mother, and I know better than to try to parse the nuances here anyway, so I just smile.

  Pastor Price grabs Momma’s hands in his. “I’m praying for your mother, praying hard. And the ladies’ prayer group is headed to the hospital to see her this afternoon. Sister Marla’s a strong woman.”

  We nod in agreement and gratitude, and Momma gives an overly detailed update about Gigi’s condition. Meanwhile, I watch Shaun duck away to the other side of the lobby, where he discreetly drops a $20 bill in the tithing box. The gesture pinches my heart. I know full well that he doesn’t have twenty to spare. I gave him a hundred bucks last week so he could pay his phone bill.

  “How’s he doing?” Pastor Price has followed my gaze, his concern plain. “He doing okay with the moving job?”

  After a year of struggling to find someone who would hire him, Shaun finally landed a job with a local moving company, thanks to Pastor Price, who knows the owner.

  Momma stands a little straighter. “He’s fine, fine.” She’s quick to remind everyone of this and then move the subject along. She does it whenever anyone dares mention what happened to Shaun. It’s “family business,” akin to an NSA document stamped CLASSIFIED. But we never discuss it with one another either. We don’t talk about why Shaun lives at home, or the crushing debt, or the fear and resentment that cling like a shadow to our entire family.

  “We’ll see you next week, Pastor,” Momma says. I can tell she’s happy for us to slip away.

  There’s a sharp chill in the air as we step outside; the temperatures have plummeted even since this morning, so now December feels like December, cold and gray like it should be. It’s a comfort when things are as they should be, which is why I don’t mind when my ears turn numb almost instantly. Momma dashes off to a women’s auxiliary meeting in the annex next door, while Shaun and I, compelled by good manners, are forced to linger on the vast stone staircase, flocked by people I haven’t seen in years, showering me with praise.

  “Look at you, beautiful girl. You’ve done so well. Ms. Sandra is so proud.”

  “I watch you all the time.”

  “You’re the best thing on the TV.”

  It’s overwhelming to be in their favor like this.

  Shaun shifts restlessly next to me as Ms. Nettle, whose mothball smell nearly bowls me over, is delivering a lecture about how I need to do a story on her grandson’s new business, a mobile barbershop he’s started in a converted RV.

  She clearly knew better than to talk to me while Momma’s around, let alone ask for a favor, since Ms. Nettle is Momma’s sworn enemy after she blackballed us from getting into Jack and Jill when Shaun and I were younger. Ms. Nettle, who’s descended from one of the first Black families to settle on the Main Line and the original members from when the organization was founded in 1938, held sway over who was worthy of being admitted into the local chapter back then. When word got back to Momma that Ms. Nettle said she and Daddy weren’t “professional enough,” Daddy’s response was, “Who cares, why do you want to hang around with those bougie folks anyway?” But Momma’s pride never recovered from the slight.

  “Can I steal her away, Ms. Nettle? I’m taking my big sister to lunch.” My brother rests his skinny arm on my shoulders. Shaun’s polite in a way that makes me wonder if Momma is watching, listening.

  “Well, this is a first!” I tease, in mock surprise. Then I lean over and murmur a thanks for the rescue.

  “No, seriously, I want to take you to lunch. Let’s go to Monty’s Fish Fry. Old time’s sake.”

  It’s been at least ten years since I’ve been to Monty’s, even though it used to be our Sunday place, all the Wilsons starched and shined, and packed into a booth after church before heading to the Broad Street soup kitchen to serve Sunday dinner to homeless veterans. Suddenly, there’s no place I’d rather be. The comfort of cornmeal-breaded mackerel and four-inch-deep dishes of mac and cheese beckons.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Once we’re situated at the yellowed Formica table, plates piled high after serving ourselves at the buffet, greasy fingers pulling at fish bones, I take Shaun in, searching for a sign that he’s okay. Of all the worries I have on a constant loop—Gigi’s health, Momma and Daddy’s finances, the end of democracy—I worry the most about my baby brother. He’ll always be that to me. He arrived two days after my seventh birthday and I just knew he was my present—a doll come to life. I carried him everywhere. I used my allowance to buy him his first Lincoln Logs and LEGO sets, and when he decided his freshman year at college that he wanted to major in architecture and design skyscrapers, I was so proud to have inspired his dream.

  Shaun’s okay, baby girl. He’s gonna be a-okay. Gigi’s voice is a whisper in my ear.

  Shaun is dousing his plate in hot sauce, oblivious.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what? The music? Yeah, this is the jam.”

  Shaun starts snapping his fingers and shaking his head along to “Return of the Mack,” which blares from a speaker bolted into the corner of the restaurant. “Seriously, I love this song, man. The nineties! Those were the good old days.”

  “Rodney King? O. J. Simpson? That wasn’t the greatest decade for us. There was also your Arsenio Hall haircut. We don’t need to go back there.”

  “Ah, man, you tell me what decade was good for Black people. I’m talking about the music, sis. Biggie. Tupac. Wu-Tang. And besides, my haircut was fresh. Why you tryin’ to clown with your Tootie bangs anyway.”

  I flick a piece of cornbread at him. “So how was the Landry move yesterday?”

  “It was fine, if eight hours of backbreaking work carrying boxes down five flights of stairs is your thing. The woman watched us like a hawk, like we were going to make a run for it with a forty-pound box of her precious china. What really kills me is you show up in work gloves and sweats and these people treat you like you’re a moron. I swear she was talking to me extra slow like I have two brain cells. I wanted to be like, You want to see my SAT scores, bi-atch? But whatever, it’s a paycheck, man. And with Mom and Dad at each other about money all the time…”

  “Dad still on Mom about selling the house?”

  A dark cloud passes over Shaun’s face, and I’m sorry I pressed the issue.
r />   “Yeah. She’s in denial about it,” he adds.

  Of course she is, that’s Momma’s way. How can she face losing our home, the house that has been in our family for three generations? Great-grandpa Dash bought it in 1941 with $8,000 cash he carted to the bank in a brown bag and handed to a banker who said, “Look at this Negro with a bag full of bills. How’d you get all this money?”

  “ ‘Did I ever tell you about how I would deliver the Philadelphia Tribune door-to-door at five years old?’ ” I do my best Gigi impression, attempting to lighten things.

  He picks up on the joke with his own Gigi impression. “ ‘I was a newswoman before you were, Leroya.’ ”

  Gigi has only told us this story a thousand times. How she earned enough money as a child to contribute a full $100 to the house fund. She joked that the front door was all hers.