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Funny how it works with white kids though. It’s dope to be black until it’s hard to be black.
Instead, my big brother’s all-caps texts appear on the screen. I don’t know why he does that. He probably thinks it intimidates me. Really, it annoys the hell out of me.
I’ve seen it happen over and over again: a black person gets killed just for being black, and all hell breaks loose. I’ve tweeted RIP hashtags, reblogged pictures on Tumblr, and signed every petition out there. I always said that if I saw it happen to somebody, I would have the loudest voice, making sure the world knew what went down. Now I am that person, and I’m too afraid to speak.
“You wanna talk ’bout last night some more?” he asks. “Nah.” “A’ight. Whenever you wanna.” Another love letter in the simplest form.
thump-thump. Thump . . . thump . . . thump. The truth casts a shadow over the kitchen—people like us in situations like this become hashtags, but they rarely get justice. I think we all wait for that one time though, that one time when it ends right. Maybe this can be it.
Starr at normal Williamson and have a normal day. That means flipping the switch in my brain so I’m Williamson Starr. Williamson Starr doesn’t use slang—if a rapper would say it, she doesn’t say it, even if her white friends do. Slang
Basically, Williamson Starr doesn’t give anyone a reason to call her ghetto. I can’t stand myself for doing it, but I do it anyway.
“Did you consume any alcohol at the party?” she asks. I know that move from Law & Order. She’s trying to discredit me. “No. I don’t drink.” “Did Khalil?” “Whoa, wait one second,” Momma says. “Are y’all putting Khalil and Starr on trial or the cop who killed him?”
“You haven’t asked my child about that cop yet,” Momma says. “You keep asking her about Khalil, like he’s the reason he’s dead. Like she said, he didn’t pull the trigger on himself.”
Fifteen minutes later, I leave the police station with my mom. Both of us know the same thing: This is gonna be some bullshit.
On the Monday night news, they finally gave Khalil’s name in the story about the shooting, but with a title added to it—Khalil Harris, a Suspected Drug Dealer.
The gun stuff can’t be true. When I asked Khalil if he had anything in the car, he said no. He also wouldn’t say if he was a drug dealer or not. And he didn’t even mention the gangbanging stuff. Does it matter though? He didn’t deserve to die.
I’ve looked at them too long. He licks them and smiles. “I had to make sure you and li’l momma were okay.” And that ruins it. Don’t call me by a nickname if you don’t know me. “Yeah, we’re fine,” I say.
knew I did something wrong. But one of the nurses took my hand”—Momma grabs my hand again—“looked me in the eye, and said, ‘Sometimes you can do everything right and things will still go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right.’” She holds my hand the rest of the drive.
We finally drive off. “See, baby,” she says. “Everything’s fine.” Her words used to have power. If she said it was fine, it was fine. But after you’ve held two people as they took their last breaths, words like that don’t mean shit anymore.
“The Panthers educated and empowered the people. That tactic of empowering the oppressed goes even further back than the Panthers though. Name one.” Is he serious? He always makes me think. This one takes me a second. “The slave rebellion of 1831,” I say. “Nat Turner empowered and educated other slaves, and it led to one of the biggest slave revolts in history.” “A’ight, a’ight. You on it.” He
“Right. Lack of opportunities,” Daddy says. “Corporate America don’t bring jobs to our communities, and they damn sure ain’t quick to hire us.
Our schools don’t get the resources to equip you like Williamson does. It’s easier to find some crack than it is to find a good school around here.
The Brendas can’t get jobs unless they’re clean, and they can’t pay for rehab unless they got jobs. When the Khalils get arrested for selling drugs, they either spend most of their life in prison, another billion-dollar industry, or they have a hard time getting a real job and probably start selling drugs again. That’s the hate they’re giving us, baby, a system designed against us. That’s Thug Life.”
“True, but unless you’re in his shoes, don’t judge him. It’s easier to fall into that life than it is to stay outta it, especially in a situation like his.
how does Thug Life apply to the protests and the riots?” I have to think about that one for a minute. “Everybody’s pissed ’cause One-Fifteen hasn’t been charged,” I say, “but also because he’s not the first one to do something like this and get away with it. It’s been happening, and people will keep rioting until it changes. So I guess the system’s still giving hate, and everybody’s still getting fucked?”
I see the fight in his eyes. I matter more to him than a movement. I’m his baby, and I’ll always be his baby, and if being silent means I’m safe, he’s all for it. This is bigger than me and Khalil though.
Papers are scattered all on the office floor. Daddy’s hunched over his desk, his back moving up and down with each heavy breath. He pounds the desk. “Fuck!” Daddy once told me there’s a rage passed down to every black man from his ancestors, born the moment they couldn’t stop the slave masters from hurting their families. Daddy also said there’s nothing more dangerous than when that rage is activated.
The cuteness is too much. Yeah, they’re my parents, but they’re my OTP. Seriously.
Nana was the first to find out about Chris, thanks to her master snooping skills. She told me, “Go ’head, get your swirl on, baby,” then proceeded to tell me about all of her swirling adventures, which I didn’t need to know. “The hell, Starr?” Daddy says.
“Okay, babe, real talk? If you were somebody else I’d side-eye the shit out of you for calling it that.” “Calling it what? A black thing?” “Yeah.” “But isn’t that what it is?” “Not really,” I say. “It’s not like this kinda stuff is exclusive to black people, you know? The reasoning may be different, but that’s about it. Your parents don’t have a problem with us dating?” “I wouldn’t call it a problem,” Chris says, “but we did talk about it.” “So it’s not just a black thing then, huh?” “Point made.”
Daddy comes in and slams the door behind him. He zeroes straight in on our joined hands. Chris doesn’t let go. Point for my boyfriend.
y’all sold drugs together?” “Yeah. For King.” “Oh.” “He didn’t wanna sell drugs, Starr,” DeVante says. “Nobody really wanna do that shit. Khalil ain’t have much of a choice though.” “Yeah, he did,” I say thickly. “No, he didn’t. Look, his momma stole some shit from King. King wanted her dead.
“My son loved working in the neighborhood,” One-Fifteen’s father claims. “He always wanted to make a difference in the lives there.” Funny. Slave masters thought they were making a difference in black people’s lives too. Saving them from their “wild African ways.” Same shit, different century. I wish people like them would stop thinking that people like me need saving.
feel like shit right now. I can’t believe I let Hailey say that. Or has she always joked like that? Did I always laugh because I thought I had to? That’s the problem. We let people say stuff, and they say it so much that it becomes okay to them and normal for us. What’s the point of having a voice if you’re gonna be silent in those moments you shouldn’t be?
“Even if he was, I knew that boy. Watched him grow up with you. He was more than any bad decision he made,”
And at the end of the day, you don’t kill someone for opening a car door. If you do, you shouldn’t be a cop.”
Baby, I love you, but you have a history of putting your wants aside and doing whatever that li’l girl wants. Excuse me if I don’t like her.” With all my receipts put out there like that, I say, “I can see why.” “Good. Realizing is the first step. So what she do now?”
Another thing puking and crying gets you—people talk about you like you’re not there and make plans for you. Poor Thing apparently can’t hear. “You sure?”
Hailey’s been on some silent treatment shit since the incident at Maya’s house. I mean damn, I call you out on something, so I’m wrong and deserve the cold shoulder? Nah, she’s not guilt-tripping me like that.
God. Being two different people is so exhausting. I’ve taught myself to speak with two different voices and only say certain things around certain people. I’ve mastered it. As much as I say I don’t have to choose which Starr I am with Chris, maybe without realizing it, I have to an extent. Part of me feels like I can’t exist around people like him.
“I’m proud of you, baby. You are so brave.” That word. I hate it. “No, I’m not.” “Yeah, you are.” She pulls back and pushes a strand of hair away from my face. I can’t explain the look in her eyes, but it knows me better than I know myself. It wraps me up and warms me from the inside out. “Brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared, Starr,” she says. “It means you go on even though you’re scared. And you’re doing that.”
I stare at the two Khalils. The pictures only show so much. For some people, the thugshot makes him look just like that—a thug. But I see somebody who was happy to finally have some money in his hand, damn where it came from. And the birthday picture? I remember how Khalil ate so much cake and pizza he got sick. His grandma hadn’t gotten paid yet, and food was limited in their house.
WebMD calls it a stage of grief—anger. But I doubt I’ll ever get to the other stages. This one slices me into millions of pieces. Every time I’m whole and back to normal, something happens to tear me apart, and I’m forced to start all over again.
I told the truth. I did everything I was supposed to do, and it wasn’t fucking good enough. Khalil’s death wasn’t horrible enough to be considered a crime. But damn, what about his life? He was once a walking, talking human being. He had family. He had friends. He had dreams. None of it fucking mattered. He was just a thug who deserved to die.
A couple of folks glance at Chris with that “what the hell is this white boy doing out here” look. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Guess I’m noticeable, huh?” he says. “You’re sure you wanna be out here?” I ask. “This is kinda how it is for you and Seven at Williamson, right?” “A lot like that,” Seven says. “Then I can deal.”
People say misery loves company, but I think it’s like that with anger too. I’m not the only one pissed—everyone around me is.
“What? Surprised a white boy knows NWA?” Chris teases. “Man, you ain’t white. You light-skinned.” “Agreed!” I say.
It’s even about that little boy in 1955 who nobody recognized at first—Emmett. The messed-up part? There are so many more. Yet I think it’ll change one day. How? I don’t know. When? I definitely don’t know. Why? Because there will always be someone ready to fight. Maybe it’s my turn.
You have shown the publishing industry that books about black girls can indeed find wide audiences. More than that, your support and love have shown me that there is truly light in the midst of the darkness.
Seven Maverick Carter Although it’s not revealed in the book, Seven’s middle name is his dad’s first name. Seven is considered the number of perfection, and instead of making him a “Junior” who might repeat his mistakes, Maverick wanted his son to be a better version of himself. Hence, Seven (the perfect) Maverick.
By using his badge number, it’s her way of refusing to humanize him—because in her mind, what he did to her and Khalil in that moment was anything but humane.
