Invisible Son: Chapters 24–36

But what used to be a refuge is now a white space that will quickly oust me if they don’t think I belong.

This is what plagues Black Portland. Stories passed down from generations about what the small enclave of neighborhoods of Albina used to be like.

“I can’t wait until we can say hindsight is twenty-twenty. Nostradamus was right.”

He puts his hands out, and I mull over what he’s saying.

And his parents not filing a missing person report would be totally negligent. I don’t see them doing that. They know where he is.

I shove my hands in my pockets, kicking my foot up so they can all see the shackle that proves that I’m not brand-new to this fight.

As if someone breaking into your home, not announcing who they were, wouldn’t terrify anyone. Her death hits harder knowing we’re supposed to be sheltering in place. It’s a sober reminder we’re not all safe in our homes.

The news eats me up until I feel myself building remnants of hope, that seed growing, because the protests last longer than I expect.

Black Lives Matter.
Black Lives Matter.
Is the running mantra in my head, until I realize I’ve been saying it out loud.

Now more people are beginning to recognize saying you’re not racist isn’t enough—you need to be antiracist. I just hope it’ll catch on long enough for change to sustain.

I hope whoever called the cops on me is haunted by what they did. Because their need to feel safe could’ve brought death upon me or a permanent path to incarceration.

“We can’t afford that.” I state the obvious, waiting for agreement from my dad, who passed his frugal genes down to me.

“Got work to do. There’s a meeting today. There’s a call to establish a fund for Black relief.”
“Is this your bill?” Reparations? I shake my head, not believing this’ll pass.

“We voted. It wasn’t like I made some…arbitrary decision. It works better for everyone.”

You know in my own neighborhood the police were called on me. Someone had to speak on my behalf and vouch that I lived here.

Hell, I felt lucky to have my lawyer. Even celebrated getting community monitoring. How stupid was I? The game was already rigged.

Eric was a problem for Mr. Whitaker’s political aspirations.

I was collateral damage to them.

A glimmer of hope had wormed itself inside me that maybe Eric left a thread of trust to latch on to.

“Don’t try to play Oppression Olympics with me. You don’t know what I’ve been through. What Eric and I have been through.”

I turn my back, contemplating my next move.

“Eric was fine,” Sierra asserts.

Eric’s black backpack is nestled on the bottom of the locker. His signature blue-and-white embroidered patch with the number 42 on the side confirms it’s his.

“Tell him I know he’s hurting her, that I know about his lies, that I’ll tell unless he stops.”
Boogie shakes his head. “If you did that, it’d backfire on you anyway. Who’s gonna believe you? And trust me on this, Sierra’d hate you for it. Nah, you gotta find another way or convince her to say something.”

But I’m a kid, and even I’ve seen how Mr. Whitaker wields power.

Mom flips all the way out, a frazzled look in her eye.

My mouth drops at this revelation.

I point at a racially ambiguous guy donning the black and yellow with a big American flag.

I point at a racially ambiguous guy donning the black and yellow with a big American flag.

The still shot from the photographer captures a tear that stops midcheek. I’m mesmerized by it, even as the news goes on talking about the protest.

What I see isn’t what the news is showing, that we can heal from this massive reckoning of race in America. What I see is a deep sorrow.

“If my family can live in harmony, so can the world. We can treat each other with kindness. That’s how I want to serve in this city, by ending the criminalization of Black, Indigenous, and people of color. And that’s why I support the Oregon Black relief fund. We need to take action, no more rhetoric. I live in the Albina community and it needs revitalization, to keep us all safe.”

There are referrals for my lawyer.

All these years, I’ve only seen what Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker curated for me.

The wall I was climbing with Sierra was always there. Luis is no different—he just maneuvers it by keeping distant.

With Mr. Whitaker’s back to me, I pry the door open another inch.

And what happened after the protesters were roughed up and the Wall of Moms came to shield them, it’s just atrocious that they’ve had to go out there.

Is he seriously supporting this underground group starting a riot and blaming it on Black Lives Matter protesters or antifa? That’s what’s been pumping all over conservative news lately.

That everyone out there is a protester or an anarchist.

I want a seat on the commissioner’s board focused on criminal justice. Maybe a promotion—the director of Oregon Youth Authority is in over her head with her views on youth development. These are delinquents. Lost causes. They need someone like me who knows what works.