Anger Is a Gift Sneak Peek

by Mark Oshiro

  Moss braced himself. He was surprised by what the mayor had said; he had not expected an apology, certainly not one that felt real. But as he watched Berendht fidget at the podium, he was electric with anxiety.

  The chief coughed into his left shoulder, then reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a white piece of paper folded in fourths. It crackled into the microphone as Berendht cleared his throat again. “The Oakland Police Department is committed to the safety and security of its residents.”

  “Bullshit!” The cry came from somewhere near the back of the crowd, and a rustling of voices passed toward the front. The chief of police looked up, but did not acknowledge the comment. His focus returned to the block of text on the page, too small for Moss to read from where he stood.

  “I believe in the integrity and professionalism of our officers.” Some of those in the gathered crowd groaned, while others shouted, incoherent, their words colliding with what others yelled. “In the execution of our duty, we try to treat each situation as unique and devise a plan that protects the safety of others and our own officers.”

  “Get to the point!” The exclamation evoked scattered applause.

  Was that Martin? Moss wondered. He saw him and that red cap, and Martin’s right hand was raised high, his middle finger a sign of defiance in a sea of anticipation.

  Berendht pressed on. “Yesterday, in our attempt to best deal with the situation outside our administration building, a young woman, Hayley Simpson, was killed by one of our officers.”

  Hayley, Moss thought. Oh god, it was her? But the thought faded out of his mind as a rumble of voices passed through the gathered crowd. Moss’s sadness fell to the background, dulled by a growing rage. This can’t be happening.

  “It was an unfortunate mistake,” Berendht continued, “and the officer responsible will have to submit to our rigorous internal review, as well as possibly face criminal charges.”

  “Possibly?” That was Rawiya, and he saw her step forward as she pushed between two reporters. “What about Javier Perez?”

  Her question set off a chain reaction, a chorus of voices shouting and screaming at Berendht, who seemed to get more and more uncomfortable, more rigid. He seemed like he was about to say something, but stopped. He looked so unsure.

  “Are you telling me a white girl had to get killed for you to finally pay attention?” Wanda said, stern and certain. “Now someone will get held accountable?”

  The chief answered none of their questions. He just looked back down to his wrinkled paper.

  “The Oakland Police Department is also ceasing its pilot program at West Oakland High as of this morning. The metal detectors will be removed by the end of the week.”

  A roar spilled out of that crowd. Clapping, yelling, whoops of joy. Moss was stunned, his eyes taking in the jubilation in the crowd. Oh my god, he thought. I did it. But he couldn’t form words, couldn’t conceptualize this as a victory. It didn’t feel like a victory. Yet Moss saw the excitement on his friend’s faces, saw Shamika point at him and smile, felt his mother embrace him in a hug. It was real, wasn’t it? This was real.

  “We have also established a victims’ fund,” Berendht continued, “that will help offset the costs incurred by the actions of our officers. These funds will go towards Ms. Perez for funeral costs and to those injured at West Oakland High over the past month. We offer our apology to Ms. Shawna Meyers, to Reg Phillips, and to anyone else hurt.”

  “On a final note, the Oakland Police Department would like to extend a sincere apology to Morris Jeffries, Jr., for his treatment yesterday.” Now, Berendht gazed toward Moss, his words seeming to be a sack of bricks in his throat. “We pledge to do better by our citizens, and we are sorry that you were harmed while trying to exercise your First Amendment rights.”

  He said all of that without any inflection, without any sincerity, without any meaning. Berendht folded the paper up meticulously, then tucked it back into his pocket.

  Moss had no idea what the protocol was here. Was he supposed to thank this man? It was clear that someone else—probably Johanna—had written the statement and that he had been compelled to read it to defuse the situation. Why should Moss express gratitude for that?

  Berendht had not moved. He was now glaring at Moss, his eyes searing into him. “As a sign of our support,” he said, turning back to the crowd, “and as a gesture of goodwill towards the community, we have asked Lieutenant James Daley to make a statement.”

  This was a freight train. This was a wrecking ball. It was the force of the universe dropping on them. Moss’s knees buckled, and then the smug, white face of James Daley was there, right next to the mayor and the chief.

  Where had he come from? Why didn’t Johanna tell him?

  Moss’s blood boiled, an instantaneous fury spreading so fully within him that tears leapt to his eyes. “No,” he said, to himself more than anything else, and then he shouted it. “NO!”

  Wanda did not hold him back, too shocked herself. It was Eugenia, standing behind Moss, who grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled. He deflated in an instant, embarrassed that he had forgotten about her presence, but it didn’t quell his rage. Why? Why was Daley here? What could he possibly do to help anyone?

  He looked to Eugenia, saw an anger spread over her face that reminded him of his own. How was she ever going to deal with seeing her son’s killer? But Eugenia’s face was set in a determined rage.

  “He’s mine,” she said, nearly under her breath, but Moss heard it, understood what this meant to her.

  His mom looped her arm around Moss, and he took Eugenia’s hand. The three of them stood still and faced James Daley, the man who had ruined all of their lives.

  He had lost weight, Moss realized. Daley seemed so small next to that podium, as if the world had crushed him down in the last couple of weeks. There was no smile on that pasty face; his close-cropped haircut was gone, his hair now puffy and uneven.

  “Good morning,” James Daley said, and there was no humor in his voice, no arrogance, none of the fury Moss had heard the last time. “After the events of the last two weeks, I have decided to voluntarily surrender myself to the Oakland Police Department.”

  Eugenia started to sob. Moss didn’t know what it was. Sadness? Relief? Rage? His own throat tightened.

  “The city prosecutor has already spoken to Chief Berendht, and she will be making a statement later today. But I wanted to preempt that, to show that I am ready to take responsibility for what happened at West Oakland High.”

  How was he so calm? This has to be a dream, Moss thought. The crowd was too quiet. This wasn’t happening, was it?

  “I wanted to apologize to Ms. Perez. Your son is gone because of me. I am sorry for that.”

  Eugenia sobbed harder, collapsing into Moss’s shoulder, and Moss wasn’t certain he could stay upright much longer. There was so much pressure weighing down his arm, and he stole a glance at Javier’s mother. There was no sadness on her face. No, he realized, she wants to kill him. The anger coursed over her features, twisted her mouth, and her eyes were piercing.

  “And I wanted to apologize to Moss Jeffries. I took Javier away from you, and you were right to protest what happened to him.”

  “You did,” Moss said, and he felt Eugenia squeeze him tighter. “You happened to Javier!”

  Daley looked at the three of them. He was crying, and it enraged Moss. He had nothing to cry over.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Daley said. “And I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  He stepped away from the podium and toward them, and Moss took a step back. James Daley stretched his hand out, the same hand that had held the gun that so easily killed Javier. The man walked over to them, right to Moss, his pale hand there in the space between them. Moss stared at it, then up at Daley, whose face was contorted in sadness and hope. The man had hope, that he had taken the necessary steps, that this apology was welcomed, that his world would eventually return to normal someda
y.

  Javier was gone. He wasn’t ever coming back.

  Moss spat directly into Daley’s face.

  He ignored the cries and shouts around them. Moss was sure he wouldn’t be heard over the noise, but he had to say something, anything—the last thing.

  “You don’t deserve my—our—forgiveness.”

  The three of them—Moss, Eugenia, his mother—backed away, then turned and walked down the steps. The mayor was calling after him, telling them to come back, and Johanna tried to follow, her heels clicking and clicking. But his family didn’t stop. They walked onto the grass on Frank Ogawa Plaza, and Moss went straight for his friends. Rawiya held Moss for a few seconds, and then Bits was there, their eyes alight in pride and respect, and Moss hugged them, hard and sincere, before leading them all away.

  The reporters followed and Moss tried to ignore their presence, tried to pretend that they didn’t matter. They were like the mosquitoes that would buzz in his ears on summer nights when he left the window open. But then she darted out in front of him, her arm in a sling like Enrique’s, and he stopped. Sophia Morales had an appreciative smile on her face. Moss returned it quickly, and Tyree hovered into view off to the side.

  “Mr. Jeffries, good to see you again,” she said, and he knew she wasn’t posturing, wasn’t pretending. “I just have one question for you.”

  He nodded his consent.

  “What should the Oakland Police Department do next?”

  Next? Moss thought.

  There wasn’t a next in his head. Javier was dead. Nothing the police did would bring him back or heal him or Eugenia or Reg or Shawna. Nothing would ever make Moss trust them again.

  So the answer Moss gave was the only thing he could think of.

  “Stop killing us.”

  Then Moss walked away from it all.

  Author’s Note

  Moss’s story will never be over. Those of us who have been the victims of state-sanctioned violence know this reality on some intrinsic level. We are frequently reminded of what happened to us, and we live with the fear that in a split second, it could occur all over again. Even when I was first plotting out Moss’s journey, back in 2012—when Anger Is a Gift had a different title and also used to be the first book in a science fiction trilogy—I knew that this young man could never truly have closure, that he could never be part of a story that concluded with perfectly wrapped bows atop a pristine present. It did not seem honest.

  That is not to say that we do not—or will not—experience happiness or joy ever again, or that justice is impossible. It is, rather, an attempt to talk about the ghosts that remain, that hide in the shadows of even the brightest mornings.

  But this is not the end. For you, this might very well be the beginning.

  This reading list is not complete; it is not all-encompassing; it is not without limitations; and it is not an attempt to give you a comprehensive look at the structural issues that people face in cities like West Oakland. Ferguson. The South Side of Chicago. Watts. Compton. Boston. New York. Atlanta. Austin. Instead, it is a start: An opening of a door. A flicker of an idea. A spark of inspiration.

  Some of these books comprised my research, other pieces informed the politics of this manuscript, and all took my breath away. In some way, they all taught me that anger is indeed a gift, and that to wield that gift is an awesome experience.

  I like to imagine that in another world, very much like our own, Moss found a tree in Oakland. Maybe it’s in Splash Pad Park, or maybe it’s somewhere down near Fruitvale. He locked Javier’s chain up around it, and he visits it when he needs a reminder. On his way to his small home, painted like yellowed eggshells, he passes the mural Carlos painted. It’s never been tagged. Defaced. Stained. It stands there still, to remind the community of loss and possibility.

  It’s a gift.

  The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness, Michelle Alexander

  Critical Race Theory: The Key Writings That Formed the Movement, Kimberlé Crenshaw, editor

  Race and Police Brutality: Roots of an Urban Dilemma, Malcolm D. Holmes and Brad W. Smith

  Always Running: La Vida Loca: Gang Days in L.A., Luis J. Rodriguez

  Brotherhood of Corruption: A Cop Breaks the Silence on Police Abuse, Brutality, and Racial Profiling, Juan Antonio Juarez

  Our Enemies in Blue: Police and Power in America, Kristian Williams

  Don’t Shut Me Out!: Some Thoughts on How to Move a Group of People From One Point to Another OR Some Basic Steps Toward Becoming a Good Political Organizer!, James Forman

  “Phantom Negro Weapons,” Julian Abagond (abagond.wordpress.com/2012/12/06/phantom-negro-weapons/)

  Angels with Dirty Faces: Three Stories of Crime, Prison, and Redemption, Walidah Imarisha

  Notes of a Native Son, James Baldwin

  No Name in the Street, James Baldwin

  Time on Two Crosses: The Collected Writings of Bayard Rustin, Devon W. Carbado and Donald Weise, editors

  One of the main motivations behind Anger Is a Gift was a desire to write a book that I wish I’d had available to read as a teenager. Fiction was my way of engaging with the outside world when I was growing up, but I desired so much more than what I had. It has been an inspiring and overwhelming treat to watch YA fiction begin to reflect the greater world that we live in. I know that there are now kids in libraries and bookstores who are picking up books in which they can finally see themselves. I have The House on Mango Street to thank for this (as well as the name for a character), and so I’d like to recognize, too, the books below. These works either changed my world or gave me hope for the future, knowing that teenagers around the world will get to read them, too.

  Parable of the Sower, Octavia Butler

  Parable of the Talents, Octavia Butler

  Little Brother, Cory Doctorow

  The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros

  The Hate U Give, Angie Thomas

  Dear Martin, Nic Stone

  All American Boys, Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely

  How It Went Down, Kekla Magoon

  Shadowshaper, Daniel José Older

  They Both Die at the End, Adam Silvera

  Ash and Huntress, Malinda Lo

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost: thank you to the Mark Does Stuff community. Over eight years ago, I found an odd fame on the internet yelling about books I had never read before. I survived a bitter break-up, a relocation to Oakland, and getting laid off, and through that, I found out that I could make a living while yelling about books and television online. Without those years of support, I would not have felt confident enough to start Anger Is a Gift. I am utterly pleased that for once, all of you are not prepared. Much thanks must also be given to the incredible team of moderators and friends who help me make the Mark Does Stuff community what it is.

  Thank you to my partner and love, Baize White. I hid this manuscript from you and begged you not to read it until I’d drafted it multiple times. I was most nervous about your thoughts on it because I knew you wouldn’t pull any punches. You have helped shape this book in numerous ways, but you’ve also believed in me and this story of mine. Thank you for who you are.

  I attended my first Worldcon in 2013, and it was there I met Miriam Weinberg, who insisted that we get away from everyone and go talk about anime in an empty pool. I knew that day that we would be fast friends, but I also quietly resolved to one day work with you. After Anger Is a Gift went through a dramatic change in genre, I experienced only one regret about the process: I wouldn’t get to pitch the novel to you. I am glad that this turned out not to be true because I could not imagine an editor I’d want to work with more. You are hilarious, insightful, and incredibly fucking brilliant. What you’ve done with this book shows me that you got what I was trying to do from the very beginning, but also that you cared. There are lots of great editors in this industry, but there are very few who care about the world as fiercely as you do. Anger Is a Gift need
ed you to be complete.

  In the summer of 2016, amidst a batch of querying and rejections, DongWon was the sole agent to give me the advice I needed. His urging that I focus on Moss’s voice and story is what convinced me that I needed to pursue a book that was YA contemporary, not science fiction. While I will one day bring back the world of murder robots hiding underneath a city, I owe an immense debt to you, DongWon. Your vision and passion changed my life, and I would not be living out my dream without you. You are the best agent I could possibly have, so thank you for the gift that you’ve given to me.

  My eternal thanks go out to E. K. Johnston, who had started following my Mark Does Stuff projects years before I actually met her. At ConFusion in 2017, she was responsible for a whirlwind period in my life where a major editor became interested in this story. Because of her, I ended up reconnecting with DongWon, and just over twenty-four hours later, he asked me to be one of his clients. Then, just over three weeks later, Anger Is a Gift was sold. I would not have traveled this journey if E. K. Johnston had not knocked over that first domino, and I will forever appreciate what she did for me.

  I would be remiss if I did not also thank the large batch of beta readers/editors who read the very first draft of Anger Is a Gift, back when it was called An Insidious Thing. My eternal thanks to Jeeyon Shim, Jesi Lipp, Kelsey Polovina, Olivia Dolphin, Christopher Brathwaite, Meg Frank, Maggie Brevig, and quite a few others who gave me feedback years ago. All of you helped me write a better book, and most of you have heard me read from it a billion times. Thank you.

  I’ve been lucky enough to gain the respect and support of a number of writers, creators, editors, and publishers since I first started doing Mark Does Stuff back in 2009. These people have cheered me on; given me invaluable advice; steered me toward my agent; promoted my nonfiction work; hired me to write or edit for them; and have generally made this queer Latinx dude feel like he could succeed in a world that usually makes people like me feel hopeless.