We Are Not Like Them

by Christine Pride

  “Yeah, I did, thank you.” They were literally the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen.

  “Are you hanging in there? What are you gonna do for New Year’s?”

  “Um, watch a marathon of old episodes of Super Soul Sunday?” The truth is, I volunteered to work tomorrow night, because what else do I have to do, but if I tell Gaby that, she’ll give me another lecture about working too much.

  “We can all use a little Oprah fo’ sure, but that still sounds sad. You sound sad.”

  “I’m okay, just in my head.”

  “Who, you?” Gabrielle laughs.

  But I’m in no mood for sarcasm.

  “Okay, for real, what’s going on, girl? You’ve been a mess. I’m worried about you.”

  I lower my voice, but the newsroom is buzzing along around me and no one is paying me any mind. “I know, Gabs. It’s like… I don’t know, I’m just pissed off at the whole world right now. It’s been building and building… everything that happened to me in Birmingham, more Black men dying in the streets, a president whose dog whistle is so loud you can hear it from space. I’m just so raw and on edge. Like I’m so much more aware than I ever was before about all the ways the world is so unfair. It’s getting harder and harder to let it go or to figure out how not to stay mad all the damn time. I’m even mad at Gigi for dying. Or maybe at God for taking her. I don’t even know.”

  I can unload some of this anger on Gaby, like putting down a burden and shaking my arms out before I have to pick it back up again.

  “Shit, Rye. I’m sorry. That’s a lot. Of course, you’re right to be mad—well, not at Gigi, that woman was a national treasure and lived a long life—but I hear you. But everything else? Yeah, I get it. I mean, maybe it’s good that you’re mad now, that you’re letting it all out; maybe you haven’t been mad enough?”

  Maybe that was it. Maybe all the ways I’ve trained myself—even prided myself on being able—to let things slide, the snide comments at work, the teachers who accused me of cheating when my papers were too good, everything with Shaun, it was bound to take its toll. I’d always tried to take it in stride—a real Booker T. Washington. Work hard, excel, be respectable—that’s what we were supposed to do. It was the only way to play a game where you didn’t make the rules, a game set up to make you fail. But it wasn’t a game at all—it was survival. And to survive, you couldn’t get too mad, too upset, too defiant, because there would be consequences… a lost job, a lost mind… or worse, a lost life. It was a message that wormed its way deep inside of me, and stayed there like a clenched fist.

  A memory comes: me turning to my dad after we watched a documentary together about Bloody Sunday, and I asked him, “How could you stand it?” He knew what I meant: the oppression of Jim Crow, all the slights and humiliations he’d experienced growing up in rural Georgia, drinking from segregated fountains, averting his eyes from any white person walking his way, being called “boy”—or worse. He was quiet for a moment, hands resting on his round belly, a sliver of skin showing above the waist of his pants.

  “There are some things you can’t change, baby girl. White folks are gonna do what white folks do, and the way I see it you can be resentful and angry all the time and let it eat away at you, which some people do, and how can you blame them? Or you can choose to control the one thing you can: your mind-set. You can decide, Nope, I’m not going to let them get to me. I won’t be bitter, I’m going to be better—and better doesn’t mean just working hard. It comes down to character, an ability to be defiant in your joy no matter what they do. That’s what your mom and I tried to teach you kids.”

  But what’s the point of the high road or of being the exception, the anomaly, of rising above, when your whole community is struggling, unable to catch a break, the thumbs of oppression on their necks?

  Gaby takes a deep breath. I can tell she’s gearing up to tell me something about myself, one of her favorite activities. “Look, you need to talk to Jen. You know, she’s not necessarily my cup of tea, but I respect how close y’all are, and I’m sure if you guys talked it all out… You need to try to tell her how you feel. You’ve got to trust that on some level she’ll understand, and if she doesn’t, well, then she wasn’t the friend you thought she was.”

  Maybe that’s why I have a folder full of unsent drafts. At the end of the day, I’m afraid that Jen won’t get it. Maybe I’ve always been afraid. That’s why I didn’t tell her about when Ryan left that note in my locker, or Birmingham, or even Shaun last year. She could listen, but she could never truly get it. I can’t necessarily fault her for that, but it nags at me: Why don’t we talk about race more? Gaby and I talk about it pretty much every single day, specifically some fucked-up thing in the news or our lives—like venting about ignorant BS like someone mistaking us for the sales clerk at the mall too many times. But I talk to Jen about things I rarely share with Gaby too, like my anxiety and depression and feelings of inadequacy. And besides, Jenny and I met when we were so young, during that brief, elusive period when kids are truly color-blind. We didn’t talk about race when we were five, or ten, or fifteen, and now… it’s a muscle we haven’t used. So is it that I can’t talk to Jenny or that I don’t? Which leads me to an even more gut-wrenching question: What if, when it comes down to it, there will always be some essential part of me that is unknowable to her because of our different experiences? It’s as if an unnoticeable crack between us has stretched into a chasm and our friendship risks falling right through it.

  “What am I supposed to say, Gaby? ‘I can’t ever forgive your husband for what he did’? ‘He’s part of the chain of systemic racism that’s killing men who look like my father and brother’? ‘If you don’t think race is the problem here, then you’re completely clueless’?”

  The fist in my stomach squeezes tighter at the fact that I even have to explain that.

  “Um, hell yeah. That’s a start. How can you have a friendship if you can’t be honest with each other? I’m just gonna say it—you dance around things with her, from what I’ve seen over the years. I mean, I have about one white friend—you know, Kate, from work. She’s like a half friend to grab lunch with, but whatever, I still tell her what’s up all the time. And I call her out too. Like last week when she said our other coworker Lakeisha was being ‘ghetto’ in a meeting. Uh-uh, Katie, girl. We had to have a good, long talk. I mean, maybe I’m too much—don’t answer that—but that’s me. Bottom line: You should feel like you can say what you need to say to Jen. You need to get it all out there now.”

  “You’re right, Gab. My mom said the same thing. I just have to find the time.”

  “Story of your life, girl.”

  “Speaking of, I’m late for a meeting. I gotta run.”

  I abandon my Cheeto dreams, grab my notebook, and dash into the conference room. I’m three minutes late and Scotty gives me a withering once-over, but he doesn’t stop speaking. “Okay, who’s on Mummers?”

  Every year with the stupid Mummers—a century-old tradition where a bunch of xenophobic old white men dress in blackface, brownface, redface, and women’s clothes to parade through the city on New Year’s Day. Shaun forwarded me a link this morning with an op-ed by Ernest Owens that ran in Philly mag a couple years ago with the headline WANT TO SOLVE THE MUMMERS’ DIVERSITY PROBLEM? JUST CALL IT “THE WHITE HERITAGE PARADE.”

  I’m hardly going to raise my hand for this one, and Scotty has better sense than to even look my way. With everything happening this year you’d think they’d shut the parade down, but so far the mayor has simply issued a stern warning to the Mummers to be on their best behavior… or else.

  My phone buzzes with a call. Because it’s a newsroom, no one bats an eye. When I see who it is, I launch myself toward the door, pointing at the phone to indicate to Scotty that I have to take it. He’ll be glad I did when he learns that it’s Sabrina Cowell, who is hopefully calling to say she’ll do the interview with me, especially since Scotty asks about it every other day
. I haven’t seen her since the fundraiser. I also don’t recall giving her my number, but I’m not surprised that she managed to get it.

  “Hello, this is Riley.”

  “Hi, Riley, it’s Sabrina.”

  “Oh, hi, Sabrina. How are you—”

  “Listen, the OIS has completed their investigation of the shooting and kicked it over to us. We’re going for an indictment for Kevin Murphy and Travis Cameron.” She pauses. “My plan is to bring the case to the grand jury next week. We’re going for murder one. Now, I don’t think a grand jury will go for that, but it sends a message.”

  The words hit me with such force I have to steady myself against the hallway wall. A part of me knew this was coming, and another thought Kevin would slip through the cracks of the justice system like so many others before him. Or at least he would face lesser charges, a slap on the wrist.

  Then there’s Jenny in my head.

  I asked for this. I wanted it. I courted Sabrina so she’d give me a scoop, and now I hate that I have this information.

  “Riley?”

  “I’m here.”

  “We have some new information about Officer Murphy….” Her pause seems to last a lifetime. “That he may be… less culpable than Cameron.”

  Less culpable. My heart is racing. “What information?” I’ve been pressing my source at the district to get the police reports for weeks now, but given how high-profile and sensitive the case is, I’ve had no luck.

  “I can’t tell you that right now. What I can tell you is my singular goal here is justice, justice for Justin’s family. I’d be satisfied punishing the officer who’s most culpable, especially if we have evidence that justifies that and also sways public opinion. In fact, we would see it as a win for the Dwyers, especially if it saves Tamara Dwyer from a drawn-out trial reliving what happened to her son, and all the media attention that would come with it. But that would mean Officer Murphy testifying against his partner. I want every officer on the PPD to understand that they’ll be held accountable for their actions, but that they are also accountable to the larger ethos and credibility of the whole department—no more cover-ups, no more turning the other cheek, no more blind loyalty. Every officer has to hold the others to the highest standard, and that means honesty and transparency, from the top down. It also means we send a message to officers who don’t cooperate. In light of our talk and of your tricky position, I wanted to give you a heads-up on this.”

  Why, I wonder. Is it because of my connection to Jen? I haven’t seen her for weeks though, and I don’t have any influence over what Kevin will do. So if that’s Sabrina’s angle here, she’s out of luck.

  “Okay,” I offer noncommittally.

  “Part of the reason I wanted to loop you in is because I’m considering doing the interview you asked for when I announce the indictments. This isn’t going to be an easy case, and shaping the story in the right way is going to be critical.”

  “What do you mean by ‘shaping the story’?”

  “You know as well as I do that the court of public opinion matters just as much as that of any court of law. I also don’t have to tell you these cases are difficult to prosecute; the legal bar favors cops, which is something that we’re going to have to change. I want a conviction here, I want some justice for the Dwyers, and I have a strategy for that. But I also want public pressure and attention. I want any potential jury pool and any Philadelphia citizen to understand what’s at stake here, and how and why I’m—we’re—trying to reform our city. That’s where you come in.”

  In other words, I’m the stepping-stone for Sabrina’s soapbox. Which is fine; she’s not the first person to try to manipulate the media to her own ends and tilt her head toward the spotlight—she wouldn’t be where she is if she hadn’t. But still, the self-serving undertones and the means-to-an-end vibe make me wonder: Is Sabrina truly out for justice for Justin, or just out for Sabrina? But that line of thinking cuts too close to questioning my own motivations.

  “In the meantime, this has to stay under wraps. If we can’t get this indictment, I don’t want the public to know we tried and failed. It wouldn’t be good for the DA’s office, the Dwyers, or the city of Philadelphia. There’s too much at risk. It’s a powder keg out there. I don’t want to be the one who lights the match.”

  “Okay. I won’t repeat any of this, Sabrina.”

  Whatever else this little disclosure is, it’s a test of trust too.

  Whose side are you on?

  “Great, I’ll be in touch,” Sabrina says, then hangs up.

  I’m still not sure what type of game she’s playing, and I definitely don’t know the rules. If staying quiet about this lands this interview, I’ll play along, but I’m still stuck on two words. Murder. One.

  The weight of the secret settles in my gut like a sinking stone, slowly, and then boom, it’s lodged there, a part of me. Before I can even drop the phone from my ear, Scotty is bellowing my name. What now? Bart comes jogging over, eating a banana, because Bart always seems to be eating a banana. “Hey. Bad car accident on 676. Scotty wants us there stat.”

  Scotty’s voice booms across the newsroom. “Riley, get there, now! I want you first on scene. Be ready to go live at the top of the show.”

  I dash around grabbing what I need, as efficient as a firefighter readying for a blaze. Coat, hat, heels, makeup bag in hand, and I’m climbing into the news van in under four minutes. Bart takes off before my door is even closed and then guns it like the NASCAR driver he once confessed he’d always wanted to be, racing through the neighborhoods, avoiding the clogged freeway until we’re closer to the accident.

  More than a decade in local news and I’ve seen my share of accident and crime scenes, blood and guts and dead bodies. It’s easy to harden yourself to it all—sometimes it bothers me just how easy. As we pull up to the snarl of twisted metal, I take in the dark circles of bloodstained pavement, the one blue tennis shoe lying on the road, the acrid smell of burning oil and rubber. I try to focus on gathering the facts from the officers on-site. I’m happy to see Pete on the scene. He and I have crossed paths a few times on the job. At twenty-one, he seems more like a kid playing dress-up than an actual cop. The viewers in Joplin must have thought the same thing about me at that age, seeing me on their TV screens, a kid dressed up as a newscaster. It’s amazing anyone can have a first job and be taken seriously; it’s like we’re all doing the career equivalent of walking around in our mothers’ high heels.

  I’m not a fan of most cops, but I like Pete, and the feeling seems to be mutual. He’s always eager to help, unlike some of the other officers I’ve met on the job, who like to lord their information and access over me, make me work for every little scrap. He tells me there are two dead on scene and two going to the hospital. Paramedics work feverishly on an unconscious woman sprawled on the pavement, her shabby bra and fleshy belly completely exposed. Then I hear a sound I can’t ignore, a hysterical shriek.

  “Is that a baby?” I ask Pete.

  His eyes dart over to the ambulance. “Yeah, three-year-old’s about to head to the hospital. He’s okay though. He was strapped into the car seat. It flipped but held him in. He’s just scared. That’s the mother.” He nods at the woman on the ground. “She’s touch-and-go. Other driver en route to the hospital may have been drunk. You can’t report that until I get confirmation that I can release it.”

  “Will you have it by the time we go on air?”

  “How long?”

  “Maybe five minutes?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I race back to the van to touch up my makeup and get mic’ed, giving Scotty an update all the while.

  “When it bleeds it leads, as they say, so we’ll throw to you at 5:03, 5:04.” He’s already barking orders at someone else before he hangs up.

  There’s five minutes of downtime before I go on air, long enough to check my email. I then spend the next four minutes and fifty seconds regretting that decision.

&nbs
p; “You have to be fucking kidding me.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Bart looks up, shocked.

  “An f-bomb from Riley Wilson. Whoa. What’s up?”

  “Nothing, nothing, it’s fine.” I tug at the scarf around my neck, which suddenly feels like it’s choking me. I yank it off and open the passenger door to the van, toss the phone into the passenger seat like it’s delivered an electric shock. Maybe by the time I pick it back up, the message won’t be there anymore. It will be some trick my mind played on me. That name no longer at the top of my in-box.

  Corey.

  I accepted that he was never going to get in touch again, and why would he? Especially since I was pretty sure he’d moved on. I let myself look at his Facebook a couple of months ago. There was more than one picture of him and some girl, the exact kind of woman I’d imagined him with—an artsy bohemian type, judging from the peasant dresses and asymmetrical haircut; perky, white. All the things I’ll never be.

  So why now? Maybe they’ve broken up? Maybe he saw my interview with Tamara? Or maybe something’s wrong with him? He has cancer, needs a kidney? I briefly allow myself to entertain a much more dangerous thought. Or maybe he never stopped loving me?

  “Time to get the show on the road,” Bart says, and releases a long, low belch.

  “You’re a pig, Bart.” I muster a wobbly laugh.

  It’s a blessing and a curse that live TV stops for no one. I slam the van door shut with my phone inside, the email away and out of mind for now. I attempt to smooth my bangs, pressing them close to my forehead, taking one last look in the side mirror to make sure my makeup is in place. It’s a miracle: I look serene and composed; only my shaking knees would give me away.

  As I get in place in front of the camera, Pete gives me a thumbs-up, letting me know I can report on the drunk driver in the broadcast.

  It can be either invigorating or exhausting, switching to the on-air sparkle for the cameras. After all these years, it’s become second nature to me to be able to turn everything else off and focus only on the three-inch camera lens ten feet away. It’s taking a stage and the only thing that matters is delivering my lines, which happens now as I assume the position—mic held tight in gloved hand, eyes directly forward, back straight, warm gaze—and begin sharing the gruesome and tragic details of the car accident when Bart cues me in. Less than three minutes and the segment is over. In my earpiece, Chip and Candace move on to a story about a house fire in Point Breeze. My work here is done.