A Song Below Water (A Song Below Water, #1)

by Bethany C. Morrow

My problem is that for a long time sirens have been Black women. Not just mostly. Exclusively. Now that it’s just us, the romance is dead. Instead of inspiring songs and stories, now our calls inspire defensive anger. Our power’s not enchanting or endearing anymore; it offends.

Now the consensus is clear: the world is better off when we’re silent, and if the system skews toward making that happen— if Rhoda Taylor’s just another in a long list of victims whose pain or death seem justified by her identity … Well. Everybody’s safer for it.

there’s no such thing as cross-cultural empathy without cultural competency.

But individual kindness or hate isn’t what makes the world go round. When it matters, when a larger population or institution could make the difference, it seems they don’t.

“It’s about not letting being Black in America be an executionable offense,” he says. Like he’s had this type of conversation before. Like having a maybe crush on a Black girl isn’t the first time he’s watched the news and seen the problem. “Black Lives Matter. Everybody knows that.”

“Nah, they know.” He nods and does a kind of shrug. “They just pretend they don’t get it or they’d have to admit that they disagree.”

I can’t decide whether I’m glad they’re listening or whether I’m annoyed that the conversation’s gone unheard for so many years. I think I’m both.

I don’t just feel like I belong here, I feel like I belong here.

people who convinced me it’s better to make peace than to keep it.