Anger Is a Gift Sneak Peek

by Mark Oshiro

  “‘To my friends, family, and community in Oakland,’” she began, reading from her phone. “‘This was not an easy thing to write, but I wanted Kaisha to have something to say to you about what happened with me. She also helped me with my writing ’cause I’m not very good at it.’”

  The crowd laughed at that one, and Kaisha took another breath. “‘When I woke up that morning, I just wanted to make it to Ms. Edmunds’s art class because I love to draw. It’s what I’m good at, and Ms. Edmunds makes me feel good, too. When I tried to enter school that day, I ended up experiencing the worst thing I’ve ever gone through.’”

  Kaisha paused for a few seconds. “‘When I was fourteen, a drunk driver hit our car, and I almost lost my parents. It shattered my leg, and I’ve been goin’ to rehab since then to get better. I’d even started being able to walk on crutches a couple times a week this summer. I was proud of my progress.’”

  She turned her head to the right, and Moss saw the tears running down Kaisha’s face.

  “‘What happened to me,’” she said, her voice cracking, “‘ruined that chance. The doctors expect that with the bone and muscle damage, I’ll never be able to walk normally again.’” The crowd gasped, but Kaisha’s head jerked upward, and she dealt the audience a fierce glare. “Please don’t feel sorry,” she said, and Moss knew she wasn’t reading from her notes. “He doesn’t want your pity, he wants your anger.”

  Someone whooped from the back of the crowd. “Damn right!” they said loudly.

  She bowed her head and continued reading. Her voice carried through the room, and Reg’s words, simple and straightforward, captivated them. But it was Kaisha’s delivery, so nervous and sincere, that broke Moss’s heart. She really loves him, Moss realized, and he knew that this whole affair had taken a toll on Kaisha, too. How often had she put Reg before herself? How was she coping with this nightmare?

  He looked to his mother, whose arm was locked around Reverend Okonjo’s, her chin up, her face proud. I want to make her proud, too. The thought flashed through Moss’s mind, and he felt a determination spread in his chest.

  Kaisha folded the paper up and pushed it aside on the pulpit. “I know y’all don’t know me,” she said, and she wasn’t looking down anymore. Her eyes were jumping from person to person. She gave Moss a quick glance and smiled. “And many of you don’t know Reg, either. But we just want to go to school.” Her voice broke again. “I’m sixteen. I shouldn’t have to beg for that. But we just want to get to class without fearing for our lives.”

  She stepped away from the pulpit to applause, but it wasn’t celebratory. Moss felt the ripple through the crowd. Anger. Rage.

  His mother took Kaisha’s place as she came to stand next to Moss. He pulled her close to him in a side hug. “You did real good,” he said as quickly as he could.

  She wiped another tear off her cheek. “Thanks,” she said.

  “I wanted to bring up another young woman to speak to you,” said Wanda, and this time, she gestured out into the crowd. Moss watched Shawna stand up, saw her mother and father cheer her on. She took her beanie off as she got onstage, and Moss realized he’d never seen her without it off. Her hair was as short as his own, and he thought she looked incredible with her fade. She grabbed the sides of the pulpit as Kaisha did, but the poor girl looked even more nervous.

  “Yoooo,” she said into the mic, then chuckled nervously. “Sorry, I don’t do this kinda shit often.” Then she clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, shit, man, I’m sorry, Reverend.”

  That brought another round of laughter from the crowd, and Reverend Okonjo smiled. “Continue, Ms. Meyers,” he said.

  She breathed out, a little to close to the mic, and it popped. “My name is Shawna Meyers,” she said, “and I also go to West Oakland High. I wasn’t there when Reg got hurt, but I was also a victim of my school’s policies.”

  She looked out to the crowd, and Moss saw that she had locked eyes with her father, who gestured at her to keep going. Another deep breath, another burst of air let out over the mic. “The reason the metal detectors were installed was because of me,” she continued, “but it’s important that you know that it wasn’t my fault. When one of our campus police officers overreacted and assaulted me, the other students came to my defense.”

  Shawna glanced over to where Moss, Kaisha, and Javier stood off the stage. “You know, I feel the same way,” she said, and she was speaking to them. “I just wanna go to school. Get to basketball. Play. And now I gotta worry about cops running free over our school. How many of us knew that Officer Hull had a temper?”

  The response from the students in the crowd was instantaneous, a raucous bout of yells and cries of anger.

  “And it sounds like this other cop who hurt Reg had just the same type of temper. So when we gonna say that this is enough?”

  More applause, more rage. Moss’s heart soared.

  “That’s all I gots to say,” said Shawna, and she hopped off the stage and sauntered back to her family, who welcomed her with open arms.

  Reverend Okonjo strode up to the pulpit right as the crowd broke out in applause and cheers, the group agitated and eager to do something, anything. “What we gonna do?” a man shouted out, and Moss couldn’t even tell where it came from.

  Reverend Okonjo raised his hands as people shouted out suggestions. “My friends, we must do this one at a time,” he said, and that seemed to work. The crowd quieted down until the only sound was the reverend’s breathing, amplified by the microphone just inches from him. He lowered his hands, grasping the edges of the pulpit. “I want Miss Jeffries to lead this part,” he said, inclining his head slightly in Wanda’s direction. She walked up to him without a glance behind. The reverend stepped to the side, and then Wanda took control of the entire room.

  She would point to people, call them out by their first names, sometimes throwing in a last name if it was too common, and she seemed to know who everyone was. They’d shout, speak their piece, make a suggestion, and then sit down, the crowd roaring to life whether they disagreed or agreed with whatever someone said. And yet, Moss’s mother always managed to get the crowd silent enough so someone else could speak and get their turn.

  The suggestions themselves came pouring out of the people from this community. Boycotts. Demonstrations. Letter-writing campaigns. Someone suggested that some of the more industrious members of the community “uninstall” the machines after hours. Wanda shot that down quickly, though, pointing out that the school would most likely have extra security after hours.

  “What if we take it to the news?” a woman holding a newborn suggested from the front row, bobbing up and down to soothe her child. “It’s already being reported.”

  “They’re not going to be on our side!” Njemile shouted. Wanda nodded her head at her, a gesture meant to tell Njemile to continue. “Did you see the stories that already aired since this happened?” she asked loudly. “See how they’re already shifting the blame?”

  “Maybe the blame is right where it belongs,” an older man shot back from the other side of the room. That response sent a rustle through the crowd, but they quieted upon the reverend’s upraised hand. Moss tried to see who had said such an awful thing, but it was coming from too far away.

  The man cleared his throat. “I just don’t understand why this younger generation can’t just respect the process,” he said, and that was met with a number of boos and hisses. Moss squinted, hoping his eyes would adjust to the darkness in the back of the church. The person rose, and he stood out for one reason only: He was one of the few white men in the room. The guy was tall and one of his arms was raised up above his head. “Why are we even talking about this?”

  Wanda did not miss a beat. “Because we care about what happens in this community,” she shot back. “West Oakland High is in this community. It’s our school, filled with our students, one of whom happens to be my son. So I think it’s pretty damn relevant that we talk about it.”

  “And
what’s the problem with just talking about it?” Moss saw who had stood up and said it: Shamika. “We just talkin’.”

  “About what?” The man had moved out into the aisle. “Why are we assuming that there was anything done wrong here? Wasn’t this just an accident?”

  “What do we do if there’s another accident?” Shamika said. “What then? Do we always just write it off as an accident?”

  “If it is one,” he said. “You call a spade a spade.”

  The crowd murmured again, some in anger, others in frustration, but Moss was disturbed to see others nodding their heads.

  “You really gonna use that phrase, aren’t you?” Shamika said.

  “If I may?” Moss looked back to the pulpit and saw that Kaisha had returned. His mother gestured her to take her place. She pulled the small microphone back down to her height. “Since y’all are talking about my friend, perhaps I should explain.”

  “Look, I’m sorry your friend got hurt,” the man shouted, shaking his head, “but it was an accident. What’s the problem here?”

  “The problem is that there never should have been a situation like this in the first place,” she said, the anger creasing her forehead. “Why does our school need metal detectors?”

  “That’s not the question at hand—” he began, but Kaisha cut him off.

  “No, that’s exactly what I’m asking. Why should my school even have metal detectors?”

  He didn’t answer at first. He shuffled from one foot to the next. “For safety,” he said, his words echoing in the church. “Especially after that brawl your friends got in last week.”

  More voices of affirmation this time. Moss felt the roiling anger under the surface, and he was envious of how calm Kaisha seemed up there. She took a deep breath and smiled, and he knew exactly what was about to happen: She was going in for the kill.

  “Do you go to my school, sir?”

  The question was met by silence. The man scoffed, his shoulders up in a shrug, and he looked about the audience as if he needed validation that Kaisha was absurd. No one said anything to him, so he turned back to her. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “No,” he answered. “Of course not!”

  “Since you don’t, then you couldn’t possibly know that last week, Shawna Meyers, who you just heard from, was assaulted by Officer Frank Hull, who suspected her of bringing drugs on campus. Instead of taking five seconds to learn that it was her medication, he nearly killed her. Whatever video you might have seen was taken out of context. Did students overreact? Probably.” She stopped and shook her head. “I don’t know who threw that chair, but your aim was terrible.”

  Some laughter at that. Kaisha pressed on. “I’m just saying that I understand why that happened. It was the last straw. We are tired, sir, and what you saw was a reaction to that.”

  He started to sputter out a response, but she held up a finger. “No, sir, I’m not finished.” A few people in the audience giggled or gasped at that, but Kaisha pushed on once more. “Let’s assume that you’re correct, that there had been a brawl, and that it had not been a reaction to a security guard choking a student against the lockers. No weapons were used in that altercation. We do not have a history of weapons being brought into campus. There was nothing that could possibly have justified Mr. Elliot and the other administration bringing in the Oakland Police Department to have full run of our school. Nothing. And that’s the problem you can’t see. To you, it’s an answer, but to us, it’s a question that never existed in the first place.”

  She sighed, and she rubbed her temples with her left hand. “I’m trying not to be personal, but it’s hard not to take this personal. That’s my boyfriend whose leg was hurt. That’s my boyfriend who is gonna have years of trauma to deal with. And some of us go to that school, and we’re going to wonder every day if we’re next. Are we next?”

  Moss stood up, the energy of Kaisha’s words flowing through him. “And why should we worry about something like that just for goin’ to school?”

  “What’s wrong with caring about the safety of our kids?” A woman near the unnamed man stood up, her hands on her hips. “Why are we demonizing this man for speaking his mind?”

  “Who’s doing that?” Moss said. “No one did anything of the sort.”

  “My son goes to the same school, and I hear the things he brings home with him,” she yelled. “The music, the language, the way you kids wear your clothes. I think it’s a good thing that someone is willing to protect him from hooligans like you and your friends.”

  The chaos that followed drowned out any single response; people stood, shouting angry responses at the woman, while side conversations began to spring up, too. But Moss kept his focus on her.

  “She sounds pleasant,” Javier whispered in his ear.

  “Please, please,” Reverend Okonjo said, and his voice boomed over everyone. “Please, we have to do this one at a time.” The crowd began to quiet down and return to their seats, but Moss remained standing, glaring at the woman who spoke, hoping she saw the look he was giving her.

  The reverend continued. “I’d also appreciate it if we did not insult other people in this community. We want everyone to speak, but we cannot treat each other with such suspicion and anger. Please. Now, Wanda, would you like to continue?”

  She stepped back up to the microphone. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I didn’t think any of us needed to justify our feelings on this new pilot security program at the school.” She tapped the side of the pulpit while scanning the crowd. “There’s a history in this city, one that y’all should know, of law enforcement agencies treating our youngsters with disrespect, disdain, and mistrust. Now, we can argue all night about how we feel about the police, but that’s not the point of this meeting. I hope that we all agree that we want these dangerous metal detectors out of the school as soon as possible, police involvement or not.”

  A round of applause passed through the audience at that, and Wanda smiled. “So, again, the topic at hand: What are we going to do about it?”

  “Well, I work at the local NBC station,” said an Indian woman off stage left, her hand in the air. “I know some of the staff writers.”

  Wanda nodded her head. “You should come speak to us”—she gestured to herself and the reverend—“once we’re done. What’s your name?”

  “Kripa,” she shouted. The woman sat down, and Wanda kept the conversation moving. It was a spectacle to Moss, seeing his mother’s eyes wash over the people in that church, jumping from one raised hand to another, always knowing when to shift the conversation to the next person. Esperanza came up to the stage to join him on his right as he sat down on the edge, her head resting on his shoulder. Javier followed and snuggled up against him without a word. Moss put his left hand on his leg, and Javier looped his fingers into Moss’s. A jolt of nervous energy filled him; he had never held hands with anyone in front of so many people.

  But it felt right.

  The three of them watched Wanda for a while, transfixed. The suggestions felt nonstop. Like the woman who said that she knew someone close to one of the superintendents of the Oakland school district, which opened an administrative avenue they had not considered. Or the Haitian couple who lived a couple of blocks over from Moss, the ones who had the Siamese cat who intimidated passersby from the window. The wife suggested that they find some way to get the permit pulled from the school, so then they’d have to keep the metal detectors off.

  But the consensus came about through this conversation: This community needed to stage a demonstration outside the campus during school hours, something that would be dramatic, distracting, and unable to be ignored. “There is that student parking lot across the street,” Bits suggested when they got to the microphone, their voice low and even. “What if we ask people to leave a couple of rows empty near the front so that we can gather there later in the afternoon?”

  Wanda nodded her head. “That’s a fine idea, Bits.”
She turned to Kaisha. “We can use the Facebook group to let students know about that, right?” Kaisha excitedly nodded back. “So what time works best for a rally?”

  “I think we gotta do it before school ends,” Bits continued. “Most classes are out at three, but it’s not gonna be effective if we wait until after that.”

  The idea came to Moss suddenly and he thrust his hand in the air from the side of the stage. “Mama,” he said, and she bowed her head gently to him, and he said, as loudly as he could, “we should stage a walkout.”

  There were a lot of people talking after he said that, and he felt that charge run through him again. His mother motioned for people to quiet down, and they obeyed her. “Come here, baby,” she said. He looked to Javier, whose face was full of excitement. Go, he mouthed. Moss moved to her side and she scooted out of the way so that he had the microphone. His heart leapt as he looked out at all the people whose attention was directed to him. He cleared his throat, and the microphone carried it through the room.

  “I just think that if we’re going to do something that will make the school think twice about these metal detectors, we need to disrupt class. Like, really disrupt things.”

  More murmurs from the crowd. More rustling from those moving about. Moss was onto something, and so he pressed forward, more certain than he was before that this was the best idea. “I think we should organize a time for the entire student body to walk out of class next week. Sometime in the middle of the day. Everyone just picks up their stuff and leaves. It’ll be eerie, right?”