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

by Bethany C. Morrow

Sirens, they say, and anyone listening knows it’s a dirty word. Danger, they report, and they’re talking about the danger she posed, never the danger we face.

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.

longing after since she first heard of the Hidden Scales?

“There was a group of people who were very hurt by the actions of a few well-meaning sirens. We’ve talked about the damage they did during the Civil Rights movement in the ’60s and how it almost derailed progress meant for the entire nation.” What. “Imagine what would have happened if not for the whistle-blower who turned them in? One or two sirens could’ve given the entire movement a bad name.” “That makes sense,” someone said. “I guess people were dedicating their lives to a cause that might not have been their own to choose.” This is why I hate school.

just because someone’s a siren doesn’t mean they’re manipulating people all the time. I could have said something about how this really biased conversation was erasing Black people from a movement they started, or how when sirens happened in other communities too no one seemed to think they were dangerous. I could even talk about Rhoda Taylor and how no one even knew or really cared whether she was actually a siren or not. They just went along with her post-mortem character assassination because she was already the worst thing she could be: a Black woman.

What about the fact that to this day sirens have a shorter life expectancy once revealed? They’re disproportionately represented in arrests, traffic stops—and they make up a tiny percent of the population. It doesn’t make sense.”

We should all speak like sirens. Use our voices to make a difference, because all of them matter.”

Portland loved that picture. Because that’s what’s gonna heal the world. If we’re the only ones crying, offering unlimited love no matter what’s done to us. No matter how obvious our distress and discomfort.

First that picture made me feel sick, and then it pissed me off. Not the boy. Not even the cop in the picture who wasn’t crying. But that Portland claimed it. Would not shut up about it. Plastered it all over social media so I couldn’t go anywhere without seeing it. Like that’s the world we all live in up here, separate and different and artisanal. Self-congratulatory, like I’m not terrified right now because I’ve been pulled over and my ex-boyfriend’s dad doesn’t seem to recognize me and no one’s asked for my license or the car’s registration and there’s hot flint where my voice box used to be and Effie isn’t here to sign for me. Because if I refuse to speak or if I say even a single word whatever happens to me next is my own fault. It’s always our fault.

But it feels so good, like I’ve been in a vise until now, like I’ve been walking on eggshells for the world and now I’m standing flat on my feet.

Not when every Black person knows, cops face no consequences when they decide to pull the trigger. Why should we be the only ones charged with taking care?