Separate But Not Equal

Chapter XVIII

"The protests were originally all held by the African-American parents and young adults of Birmingham. Now , however a SCLC organizer, James Bevel has decided it's a good idea for the young, black children and teenagers to march and be used as a demonstration. 'The Children's Crusade,' apparently, has officially been launched. The fact that these... individuals have to resort to using younger kids simply for their own silly riots shows how desperate and immature the African-American community is really becoming."

I turn down the volume of the biased radio reports resting my head on my hands, in utter confusion.

I feel like everyone is helping or taking part in something, except from me.

Acacia is marching.

Papa is marching

Nieve is marching.

However considering her recent behaviour towards me, I'm not completely sure whether I should care or not.

I should march.

I have to.

Is it selfish if I decide that I don't want to though?

My friends that I know, personally, from church are marching. How much would there somewhat positive opinions about me change if I don't take part as well?

I have this habit, that whenever I end up pondering on a miniscule decision for too long, I always ask myself what would the respectful, calm, kind Mama Jones would do.

The answer is obvious to anyone who ever met

So maybe I should take after my mother.

But, I just... don't want to.

Stop overthinking?

But how do I even... where do I even go? Or start?

"Ivory?"

"Papa?" I respond, bouncing back onto my bed and disarranging the already folded heap, before a large weight lands by my side, breathing heavily.

"This has been causing vast fear and disruption throughout the respectful white community of America. Therefore if the protests, for some reason,  proceed, we will be forced to use physical enforcement against everyone involved."

I slam the radio off, the minute my father uncomfortably shifts in his seat behind me, listening to the mans voice without purpose.

He sighs deeply shaking his head at me.

"You can't go march, you know that already, Ivory."

"But dad..."

"I'm being serious, Ivory. I know you. I know that you're like your mother. You will put yourself at risk simply to save someone else's life. You don't think of yourself first, and that's why you're going to get hurt if you march," He states, giving me a solemn stare.

What if I stay safe? What if I only go to one protest? my mind is racing with 'what ifs' and I'm tempted to shout at Papa for disrupting my plans.

"I could go, Dad. I'm turning 18 in a few days. I'm nearly an adult now. please let me go."

"It's not a discussion, Ivory. I'm not asking you if you want to go. You're not allowed to participate and that is final."

The door slams behind his back, slightly shaking the frail door from its hinges with the applied force.

'That's final.'

And yet it's not.

It's not final.