Divided

“This isn’t that Bayou bullshit again, is it?” Dad spat, his insult of her heritage triggering her wince as if
he had slapped her. “You said you gave up those backwater practices when you left Louisiana?”
The nails in my free hand dug deep into my palm as I silently encouraged, say something, Mama. For
once, tell him to fuck off.
Her jaw clenched; her words quiet. “This has nothing to do with my upbringing.”
“Are you sure, Jasmine? Because we both agreed that we wouldn’t bring our kids up believing in that
dark shit.”
What he really meant was that he commanded, and she submitted like always.
Ignoring his comment, she continued, “Regardless of those beliefs, my Mama always taught me to
follow my gut, Sam. And it’s telling me that staying here isn’t right.”
“Baby look, you’re worried, and I understand that. But--”
“But what, Samuel? Can’t you see that other neighborhoods have been burned to the ground? And now,
there will be no one to stop them.”
Dad attempted to leave her side again, but her grip tightened. Mama brought their clasped palms up
within the candlelight until the two different pigments were visible. “They don’t like people who are
different.”
Curls smacked my cheek in my hurry to meet my brother’s eyes once more, but this time, his expression
seemed pensive, almost stoic. Even if I didn’t believe that we were safe, I needed someone to tell me
that Mama and I were wrong. I needed my brother to tell me that the one thing that we couldn’t change
wouldn’t condemn us. But it was Dad’s laughter that finally freed me from my panic. Detaching himself
from Mama’s grip, her fears were dismissed as if she’d simply confessed to worrying about an unpaid bill
rather than a threat to our lives.
“This is the year 2028 Jasmine, not the 1940’s. No one in the state of Idaho, let alone this city, cares
about interracial relationships anymore. Hell, half the block is mixed with something!”
“Yeah, then half the block should fear those crazy Anarchists and Purist activist groups just as much as I
do! Hell, they decapitated President Donovan on live TV!”
“Will you keep your voice down--”
Pushing her hair out of her way, she cried, “Not until you take me seriously, Samuel. I am thinking of our
babies.”
“Oh, and I’m not?” He questioned. “It just comes down to this, Jasmine. Do you honestly think that I
can’t keep us safe?”
Was he fucking serious? This wasn’t about Mama’s faith in him. Couldn’t he see the danger of staying in
an unguarded neighborhood? Hell, what could one man do if a herd of looters trampled down our door?
Sighing deeply, Mama closed her eyes before her gaze wearily met Dad’s again. “It’s not about you
keeping us safe, Sam. It’s about that little black boy they found shot to death.”
13 | P a g e