2
There was a knock on the door after a tense breakfast. Aunt Cassidy greeted a young man in a brown tweed suit as he entered our home. He held in one hand an iPad and, in the other, a thermos. Aunt Cassidy directed him in the kitchen where Momma and I sat.
"This is a reporter"
"Jonathan Grey." He interjected.
"Yes, Mr. Grey is here to hold an interview."
I shook my head.
"Well, Ms. Samuels, what was it like being captured by a gang?"
I looked to my mother and she nodded her head, gesturing for me to speak. I glared at her for a moment, in shock. I glared at him for a moment. I could not remember the circumstances of my capture, or the full extent of the hells I endured, but he wished to solicit them. I looked him in the eyes for a moment and saw puerility in them. I spit on his suit.
"I do not wish to conduct an interview, Mr. Grey." Aunt Cassidy looked at me, restraining a chuckle.
"It'd be best that you leave Mr. Grey." Aunt Cassidy shuffled him out of the door. The man did not say a word on his way out.
When Aunt Cassidy re-entered the kitchen she exploded with laughter, her head falling upon the table. Her hands slamming on the table.
"I can't believe you Lillian!" She inhaled once more as if she was going to speak, but exploded into laughter again. "Man, you're something else."
Momma looked at me sternly, as if she was going to scold me.
"You know them reporters back in Cali?"
I nodded.
"They were out there to find out about your condition. Your case got popular in a lot of internet circles real fast. They found out the gangs might have been involved and the LAPD stopped only filing leads and actually following them."
"All those online activists were concerned with you. The cops finally found you and they got you out. The press wants to know who you are and the activists want to know what side you're on." Momma stood up and pulled a bottled water from the fridge and sat back down.
I understood that despite my lapses in understanding, there was an entirely different narrative. A narrative that had already been preached in the street corners and websites. All these narratives had my name in some iteration that did not reflect my personality.
"How long had this been going on?" I inquired.
"You were gone for three weeks."
"Damn." I muttered.
"You're only a piece though." Aunt Cassidy said, finally recovered from her fit of laughter. "Niggas out here been talkin' about the kids killed by the cops. They were watching what the LAPD would do because it would reflect how they handled other cases. Some of 'em were looking for someone or some event to give the moniker of 'The epitome of black on black violence' on."
"So they expect something from me." I groaned, but the idea was empowering. I could be a voice carried by hundreds of other voices, something strong and separate. I looked out the window for a moment. There was not a single car in sight besides Aunt Cassidy's black Camry.
"Where the fuck are the cops? Why ain't they here?" I asked. I looked at Momma and Aunt Cassidy, their faces shared the same distress. "They ain't here, and we almost get robbed?" Aunt Cassidy gasped as if I had broken some sort of code.
"We aren't talking about that. That's normal, Lillian. It's handled. You should know that."
"I do. I've seen a robbery. I've seen this shit. But the cops follow us all the way here and now they leave? The gangs out here might have gotten word of me, they might know I'm here." My lungs betrayed me, and my head started to spin.
