Courage

by Barbara Binns

  In the end, the only charge made against Mr. Owens was resisting arrest, and the police dropped that charge shortly after Dontae’s video went viral. I can guess what would have happened to the poor old man without those images. But there’s not even an apology from the police. The rest of the world moves on, barely noticing. But I live here. I can’t not see what happens around me. I can’t stop hurting when my friends get hurt.

  Almost everyone in class has something to say about the video on Dontae’s screen.

  “Why’d they even stop him? What did he do?” a boy asks.

  “He musta ‘fit the description,’” another boy says, and laughs into his hand.

  “It’s not funny,” a crying girl says.

  “I heard the cops were looking for some thirty-year-old dude in dreds. I guess a skinny old guy with an Afro looked close enough.”

  “Let some cop try that with me and he’ll be sorry,” a guy next to me says, puffing up his chest.

  Carmela raises her eyes and gives an exaggerated neck roll to show her disgust. Dontae and I roll our eyes. Does that kid really think he’s different? Or is he just praying he’ll never really have to face the bad parts of the real world?

  Kids thump Dontae on the back and call him a hero for uploading the video. I come off as a did-nothing wimp.

  “‘He’s my friend.’ Is that all you could say?” Carmela asks, laughing at me. I can’t believe I even like this girl.

  I can think of a thousand things I could have, should have said and done. Why do those great ideas always come to me after it’s too late?

  “I just know I would never, ever, ever call the police, not for anything,” one kid says. A lot of others nod agreement.

  “Why wouldn’t you call the police?” an adult voice asks. We all turn to see Mr. Hundle entering the classroom. He’s one of the three teachers in charge of our class. In our school, seventh and eighth grades are taught by a team of teachers who work and plan assignments together. The other members in our team are Mrs. Niobe, a black woman who teaches math and science, and Miss Ruiz, a small Hispanic woman who teaches us Spanish, music, and art.

  We call Mr. Hundle the Hun. It’s a perfect name for a teacher who lives and breathes and teaches history. He also teaches language arts. He’s a tall white man, with broad shoulders and long arms. He’s like a bear who is all growl with no bite. Well, almost none. He can be brutal about homework and pop quizzes.

  “Calling the police could be dangerous,” I say to answer the Hun’s question since everyone else has gone silent. “You can’t trust them not to hurt people, even people who never did anything.”

  “I heard about what happened to Mr. Owens over the weekend,” he answers slowly, picking his words carefully, just like when he’s giving us a lecture. “I believe some of you know him personally. But the police are here to help us all. Don’t distrust everyone on the force because one officer makes a mistake.”

  “It wasn’t just one officer,” I say.

  “Or one mistake,” Dontae adds.

  “It’s not helpful to try blaming the police,” the Hun says, his smile slowly growing tighter. He likes to tell us our class is a safe place and we can say what we feel. But it doesn’t always feel safe. Like now, when lines cut across his forehead and his fingers drum on the top of the desk. I wonder if he notices how that sound silences us.

  “The police work hard, right, Carmela?” The Hun turns to her because her father is a cop, a newly promoted police sergeant.

  “What happened to Mr. Owens was wrong, but you can’t blame all police because a few go too far,” she says, always eager to defend her father. “My father only wants to help people.”

  She’s proud of her dad. Sometimes she acts like he wears a halo in addition to his gun. I understand—we all love our parents. I wish he worked in our neighborhood. He’s been assigned to work in the Kenwood neighborhood, north of us. We have strangers, mostly white officers. They all seem jumpy and unhappy to be working around here.

  “You come to our neighborhood every day. Do you fear for your life?” I ask Mr. Hundle.

  “Of course not,” he answers, holding his smile steady. “I know you, all of you. You are all important to me.”

  We’re studying the American Revolution in class, so I say, “Well, some cops around here are like the British soldiers who didn’t believe colonists were real British citizens. Loyalists might call the redcoats for help. The patriots knew better. So do we.”

  He gives me a long, silent stare before nodding. “Well, T, no one will ever call you a fence-sitter.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be.” Fence-sitters weren’t loyalists or patriots. They refused to pick a side. That’s not me. I side with my friends.

  Mr. Hundle looks around and says, “All right, class, we need to get back to our regular lesson.” When some kids groan, he adds, “I don’t enjoy making you memorize material, but these tests help determine your future. It is vital that all Americans know how our country was founded.”

  “It’s not our history,” I mutter a little too loud. The Hun turns slowly, panning the class. He stops and stares right at me. His brows pinch together. His expression demands that I say more. “No offense, Mr. Hundle, but you wouldn’t understand. You finish your work here and go home to your fancy North Side digs and forget all about us.”

  The Hun sits on the edge of his desk, facing us. I wonder if I’ve gone too far, if this safe place is about to become real unsafe. I know I’m supposed to care about his lesson. I’m supposed to pretend to forget that American colonists moaned and complained, but England never treated them as bad as they treated slaves. My leg starts to tap on the floor. I cross my feet at the ankles before the sound betrays me and makes things worse.

  “I don’t know how to walk in your footsteps. I can’t,” he admits. “I grew up in Ogle County, near the Wisconsin border. We all thought it was the best place on earth, but it doesn’t get more white-bread than that. I learned a lot, changed immeasurably after I left for college. But I accept there’s a ton I don’t know about your lives here.”

  Uncomfortable laughter skitters across the room. I try to escape the thoughts swirling inside my head and listen to what he really means.

  “What I do know is the past,” he continues, “and that includes why American history is also your history. Have any of you heard about the Ethiopian Regiment or the Black Brigade?”

  Linda’s hand goes up. “Weren’t they like the Harlem Hellfighters?” she asks, her voice soft and tentative. The Hellfighters were a black regiment that was one of the most decorated American regiments of World War I. I heard about them from my parents. But they never mentioned any Black Brigade. I lean close, waiting to hear more.

  The Hun nods. “Consider them the Hellfighters of the Revolution, or, as the British call it, the American War of Independence, since they fought for the Loyalists.”

  Black heroes we never get to hear about.

  “Our people were on the wrong side?” Dontae asks.

  “I’d fight on any side that promised me freedom,” the Hun says. “That was what the British offered to escaped slaves who assisted them in putting down the revolt. Some of the British soldiers were willing to fight right beside black soldiers.”

  “But the British lost, so we got shafted again,” Dontae says.

  The bell rings, making me jump in my seat. None of us move, we don’t want to leave.

  “What should we do?” Dontae asks. “Kneel before the all-powerful cops and beg, ‘Please, please don’t hurt us’? It didn’t work for the colonists.” We learned that from studying about the Olive Branch Petition the American Loyalists sent to the King of England. They begged and pleaded and received nothing but a laugh. Nothing changed until after the Revolutionary War. Why should we expect begging to work for us here and now?

  “Things only change when people act,” Linda says, almost as if she is thinking my thoughts. Carmela looks at her and slowly nods.

  The Hun stan
ds. “Get to lunch. You deserve it. But you also deserve one more thing. Extra homework. Don’t groan,” he says as our voices drown out the sound of kids passing through the hall outside our door. “I want you to look up the Book of Negroes. Tell me what was in that book, and why it’s important to all of you.”

  At dinner that evening, Mom waits until I reach for a second piece of fish before saying, “T, I’d like you to come to this month’s Take Back the Streets meeting on Wednesday. You’re a teenager now. It’s time you participated in the community more, Sweetie.” This is what being an official teenager gets me. She’s been wanting me to attend for a long time, but that’s all grown-up stuff. Mom uses her don’t argue with me young man voice while throwing in the Sweetie! I’d prefer Short Stack. She sometimes acts like I’m younger than Rochelle, at least until she needs me for something. Then she’s all, “Act mature young man.”

  I don’t want to be mature. I want to be with my friends. Adult meetings are always boring. I bet this one will be dry as dust. My brain frantically searches for words to turn defeat into victory and make Mom let me alone. “It’s just a bunch of old people sitting around talking.”

  “Adults of all ages,” Mom corrects me. “Including students. We’re a group of people who care about our neighborhood, the kids and their future. I want you to feel a part of things.”

  My brother used to talk about taking back the streets, but he meant something different. The gang was never about protecting families. He used to say the gang claimed our city streets for themselves to hold against the powers that be, namely the police and other gangs. No wonder gang leaders are sometimes called street politicians. I bet he would consider TBTS his enemy. Maybe, deep down, he thinks Mom and I are enemies too.

  Gangs and cops, sometimes I wonder if there is any real difference. Both act like turf is more important than people. It’s like a war, with both sides going after some hill they consider theirs without caring about the people who live there. If not for Sergeant Rhodes, I’m not sure I would ever be able to believe any cop cared about people like me.

  Mom continues, “Also, what happened to Mr. Owens is on the agenda.”

  Right then I decide I will attend the meeting. No more complaints. What happened to the old man wasn’t anything new. I’ve seen videos, heard stories of other takedowns. This was the first time I saw anything like that happen right in front of me.

  Two days later, I come straight home and do my homework, then Mom and I head for the church. Rochelle is staying with her babysitter. Our church is a very busy building and not just on Sundays. The building is three blocks north of our apartment building, and forms the center of our community. There is something going on inside the building almost every day, from the quilting circle on Monday evenings to Miss Ruiz, my music teacher at school, leading choir practice on Tuesday nights. My mother and Dontae’s mother are both choir members.

  Miss Ruiz also teaches piano lessons using the church piano on Thursdays after school to neighborhood kids. The Boy Scouts meet there too, and the pastor opens the door to weekly Alcoholics Anonymous and Al-Anon meetings. There are also prayer meetings and bible study groups.

  Take Back the Streets takes over the church basement one Wednesday evening a month.

  There aren’t enough chairs for all the people crowding into the basement area, so Mom “suggests” I stand to let some older person sit. I know most of the adults here: neighbors, some of my teachers who live in the area, even the school janitor, who gets up from his chair to let a pregnant woman sit. I’m surprised to see so many kids here. I expected Dontae. The church building is almost his second home, and his father helped start the group along with Sergeant Rhodes, Carmela’s dad. She and her mother have probably been coming to meetings from the beginning. Linda and her older sister are here too, both standing near the front beside their aunt’s wheelchair.

  I sort of hoped Mr. Owens would be here, but he’s not around. He’s back from the hospital, but people say he’s scared to go outside his home. Mom and some of the other church ladies take food over and help him with his cleaning.

  I move close to a refreshment table, beside Dontae. The meeting agenda is on a sign on the wall above us.

  Collection for Mr. Owens

  Neighborhood beautification project

  Increasing the playground patrols

  Street cleaning

  What to do about Lamont?

  Okay, that last item isn’t actually written down, but I wish I could add it. Maybe someone here will talk to Mom and tell her she is wrong to let him invade all our lives.

  Linda moves from her spot in the front to stand next to me.

  “Why did you come?” I ask, and offer her a cookie from the refreshment table.

  “Because I want to be part of something important,” she says. “This is how you change the world.”

  No, this is how I find myself volunteering to join the neighborhood beautification project to plant flowers around the school and playground. Mom smiles and nods when I add my name to the clipboard circulating the room. She looks even more pleased when I empty my pockets and add my change to the collection basket to help Mr. Owens.

  So many people in the room make the air hot. Dontae takes a long drink from his water bottle.

  Everyone is upset about Mr. Owens. Raised voices grumble at Sergeant Rhodes, as if they want to make him responsible for everything the police do wrong.

  “The police don’t listen. We live in the forgotten zone. The last to get protection but the first to be harassed or blamed!” someone in the crowd shouts.

  I’ve known that for a long time. Our streets take forever to be plowed after blizzards. We know we have to take care of ourselves because no one else will. The more I listen to the adults around me talk, the more I worry.

  “I know there have been a few incidents.” Sergeant Rhodes shakes a head covered by a short, salt-and-pepper Afro.

  “A few?” That comment is followed by harsh laughter.

  “He better not blame my dad,” Carmela says grimly to Dontae and me.

  “I wish your dad worked here. Maybe then cops would talk to us.”

  “No offense, Rhodes, but a lot of the men in blue get scared the second they enter our streets. Scared people with guns and a license to kill are a bad combination,” a man says.

  “We deserve to be heard.” The speaker is an older man with a heavy accent. He’s from Mexico, I think. “No disrespect, Sergeant, but I fear for my son’s life every time he walks out the door. I taught him to look both ways when he crosses the street. But how do I protect him from the people who are supposed to be the good guys?”

  Linda’s aunt rolls her wheelchair forward. “We can start by cleaning our own houses. I heard a new gangbanger will be coming to live in our neighborhood with Mrs. Rodgers.”

  Mumbling voices grow loud, and heads turn to Mom. Dontae pats my arm. I think, I wonder . . . maybe they will tell her he can’t come.

  My mom stands slowly and her voice is measured when she says, “My son is going to be released on parole.” Her arms cross over her chest. “His parole officer said being with his family offers him the best chance of success. I agree.”

  She looks at me. I know she expects me to jump up and tell everyone Lamont is a good guy. I’m supposed to be glad.

  I can’t. I’m not glad, and I won’t lie.

  “I want to meet your brother,” Dontae whispers as the discussion goes on.

  “No,” I assure him. “You don’t.”

  “I’m glad you came,” Mom says as we walk home after the meeting. The streetlights are on, the moon high in the sky. “I’m dedicated to making things better for you and Rochelle. And for Lamont when he gets here. Things will be different.”

  Neither her smile nor her confidence fools me. “What if he hasn’t changed?” I ask, thinking back to what Linda’s aunt said.

  “I promise you, he has,” she insists. “I see a new maturity every time I visit him.”

 
That sounds good, but mothers sometimes see what they want to see. Doesn’t she even worry Lamont might change me? Or maybe she expects me to fix him.

  I’m good, but I’m not that good.

  Chapter

  Six

  TWO DAYS LATER, I COME home from school to find Mom and a stranger sitting at our kitchen table. He’s an older Asian dude wearing a white collared shirt, khakis, a crooked tie, and a tired expression.

  “T!” Rochelle jumps into my arms and kisses my cheek. “Momma has a boyfriend,” she whispers.

  “I don’t think so,” I answer, returning her to the floor.

  “Who is this?” The man removes a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and uses them to gesture my way. I smell coffee from the half-filled cup in front of him.

  “This is my younger son, T’Shawn,” Mom says. “Sweetie, this is Mr. Arthur Cho. He’s Lamont’s parole officer. He wanted to come by to talk with me before your brother comes home.”

  I wish he was boyfriend material. That I could handle without this sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “Actually, I want to talk to the entire family, Mrs. Rodgers,” he corrects Mom. “I’ve come for a prerelease visit with all of you. I find it beneficial to check on the living arrangements before a prisoner is released. No one wants him finding his way back to prison.” He smiles at Rochelle, but she backs away, pressing tightly against my leg. “Little Missy here seems a bit shy,” he says with a sad sigh.

  He puts his glasses back on and studies me for a few seconds. “I’m glad you’re letting him stay with you, Mrs. Rodgers. Not every family does.”