Eight white kids in a classroom. Two Latino kids.

It’s Black History month, our teacher says. We’re going to watch a documentary about Black history.

Okay. That’s fine.

The documentary begins, and it’s interesting. It teaches me about Greenwood and other towns in the 1920s that were all-Black. Because of segregation, Black people couldn’t shop or live in white communities, so they created their own. That’s supposed to be empowering, right?

May 31, 1921. The city burned to the ground.

Too much detail.

Don’t spell it out for me, the order of events, the causes. The Black men going out to defend themselves, being sent home.

White men take up arms.

Too much detail.

I wrap myself into a ball, pull my feet up onto the chair, hug my knees.

Don’t cry. This is a classroom, people are going to notice if you cry.

I want to scream.

“Alleged bombs were dropped...”

A Black man on screen remembers how his mother told him to get under the bed, how he watched a white man come in with a torch and set fire to the curtains.

Five years old.

Across from me a boy yawns.

A clip plays. White men in white sheets, white hats. Fire. American flags, American blood. “Blood flowed in the streets...”

It’s those American flags that stick in my mind.

Those American flags, held high and proud, marched down the street by the KKK.

Am I shaking?

Deep breaths.

It’s all in the past...

Except that it’s not.

American flags, American blood.

Armed white people told to go home, armed white people who don’t listen.

The other people in the class don’t seem to notice.

Three minutes to the bell. The other kids stretch, put away their pencils and worksheets, talk in low voices about other things.

I sit in my seat, still curled in a ball. Still trying not to scream, or cry, or jump up and run out of the room.

The teacher turns off the documentary. We all stand, collect our bags.

“Are you okay?” a boy asks me.

“I’m fine.”

“You look really tired.”

Oh yeah. Tired, sure.

“I’m fine.” I force a laugh.

The bell rings.

I hurry to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall. Lean against the wall, shivering, and let the tears come.

American flags, American blood.

Red, red, red.

When I looked at the image that God as made.

I looked at the mirror and

saw your face.

My heart

withered,

unable to grasp your fiery flame.

When I searched for beauty beyond the surface.

I searched the ocean floor and

found your paste.

My soul

asphyxiated,

unable to expunge your gifted embrace.

When I thought that love was a lie we create.

I thought about the cost and

said your name.

My will

dissolved,

unable to avoid your caustic bait.

Irrespective of the lines I paint,

using colorful consonants

and abstract vowels.

My aim is to construct a dot

that will serve as a brigde,

to take you away from the centre

of negative vibes,

and place you in the circumfrence

of where my heart chimes...

My love for you is hemispherical and complete

I await your hemisphere to make us a sphere.

I need you in my life.

Do you need me in my life?

In a minute I’ll be all on my own

Nobody to tell me “It’s a cold world so go on grab your coat.”

I’ve got a fear of growing old

because sure this life ain’t much but it’s all I own

and I know what your thinking “but C you’re only 15 years old”

but time goes by fast don’t you know

in 5 years time, I’ll be all grown

I’ll be calling up the bank asking for a loan

wait wait wait slow down you say. “you will be fine, you’ll do great”

but somehow the hate always finds a way to cut me up and murder my faith