This Side of Home

by Renée Watson

They are the only couple at Richmond High who might actually know what love is. They love like spring.

I can’t remember when I started to have these feelings of pride and shame. I guess they’ve always instinctively been there. From my earliest memories I remember feeling pride when a black person succeeded at something—anything. It was like part of me had succeeded, too.

I have heard that word before. Mostly in documentaries about the civil rights movement. This is the first time I’ve heard the word in real life. The first time the er is at the end. Pronounced clearly and precise enough to cut. This is the first time it’s been said in my presence to communicate hate.

That word hangs in the hallway like black men’s bodies hung from trees. It lingers and struggles and chokes out all the air. It is a word that suffocates. It is a word that makes me see Confederate flags and a bloated Emmett Till sinking in dirty water.

But sometimes I am barely a flame. Sometimes I’m a coward.