Begin Again

chapter six

please read the author's note at the end

WALKING INTO MY Black Cultural Studies class, the entire room is in an uproar, all of the other students practically talking over one another. I didn't think I'd ever seen this class as fired up as they are today. Usually, since the course is at the early hour of 9 a.m., everyone is struggling to keep their eyes open, but this morning is different.

"What's going on?" I ask Shelley, a girl who would sometimes send me notes if I couldn't make it to class. She's also the one person to who I consistently sit next. She's my only friend in the class.

Her eyes are glassy as if she's holding back tears. "A Black man was shot by the police in Queens this morning." My jaw goes slack in horror. Police brutality against Black people isn't uncommon, especially in New York, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't sting to hear about another killing.

"What happened?" I ask softly, noticing the professor has walked in from the corner of my eye, and by the way he keeps flexing his knuckles, I know he's heard about it too.

She wipes at her eyes, a single tear rolling down her face. "He was in his parked car when the police came and tapped on his window. They asked him to get out, and when he did, they shot him twice in the chest."

My body tightens as more tears come down Shelley's face. Before I can say anything else, Professor Clarke clears his throat, and the class immediately silences. I enrolled in the course because I needed one more elective credit and also because I'd heard Clarke is a fantastic teacher. He's patient and likes to listen to everyone's opinion. We're supposed to be dedicating today's class to reviewing the rubric for our midterm papers but judging by the fury in his eyes; I know we'll be talking about something entirely different today.

"Morning, everyone," he says stiffly. "I know I usually say good morning, but there isn't a damn thing good about today." The class murmurs in agreement, my eyes bouncing between the different expressions worn in the class. Some people are crying, while others' eyes are blazing with fury.

"His name was Jermaine Bowers," a boy in the front of the class says. "He was thirty-five with a wife and two children." Professor Clarke closes his eyes as if the fact physically pains him.

"He was just waiting in the car for a friend," the boy continues with disgust. "A fucking friend, and he was shot."

"Anyone wanna tell me what the police have said about it?" A few hands shoot up, including Shelley's, and Professor Clarke points to her.

"The NYPD issued a statement saying the two white officers that shot him had said they thought he had been reaching into his pocket for a weapon." A few scoffs were heard around the room. "But when they searched his body, all he had on him was his wallet and a phone."

"It's because he's Black," a girl cries out. "He was a Black man in a predominantly white neighborhood. He was sought out to be a threat."

My hand immediately shoots up, and Professor Clarke nods at me. "This isn't anything new. The oppression of Black people by the police. They view us as disposable; they always have."

The boy sitting in front of me turns around, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion as he regards me. "What do you mean 'us?' You aren't even Black." The class erupts into chatter while my face burns in embarrassment.

"My mom is Black."

"And your dad?" the boy prods.

"Shut the fuck up, Quintin," Shelley sneers quietly, shooting him a harsh glare, but he doesn't even spare her a glance, his eyes examining my features with a pinched look.