By Chantal Kapani
There was a smoldering silence before an ear-splitting scream erupted from the crowd.
“They shot her in cold blood!”
Her footsteps came to a stop as she was helplessly rooted to her spot. Her body jerked back; crimson fluids erupted from the wound, staining the front of her white blouse, drenching it, and splattering everywhere uncontrollably. She desperately held the wound; her body was punctured by one who swore an oath to protect the people. Blood sprayed between her fingers and flowed across the distance between her and her murderer. She gurgled her last words as blood gushed from her mouth, and dribbled down her chin. Her breath weighed heavy in her chest, as she gasped for air. Her eyes bulged from their sockets as another bullet hit her stomach. She flinched backward. She gasped again. Her eyes rolled back into her skull as her legs gave way. The sound of her bones crumbling echoed as her knees hit the ground. The crowd roared as her head smashed itself against the cold, hard concrete. Her lifeless body laid on the pavement. A pool of blood leaked from the two shotgun wounds in her stomach. Her mouth jarred open as blood continued to dribble and flow into the pool of blood that surrounded her body. The crimson pool stretched itself across the concrete. It reached the crowd and slivered between the stomping feet until it found the only pair that were still.
The blood arrived at its destination in the front of his trainers; the fabric welcomed her in. The soles absorbed the last of her until she was gone. The wetness of her blood sat under his toes; the coldness of her blood made him scrunch them. He wished to scurry away from her blood filling his shoes. He choked as the stench of blood and gunpowder hung itself in the dead air. It made his stomach churn. His eyes fixated on the stillness of her body.
Get up! Get up! Get up! Get up! He wanted to scream at her.
The words never made it past his lips; they strained in his throat. He swallowed his cry in a gulp. He wanted to push past the erupting crowd, to run to her, to shake her body. He wanted her to move again. He wanted her to roll over, get up, and feel her humming smile as she laughed at him. It felt as if all of this was some sort of sick joke, but it was reality. She was dead. All he could do was stand there amongst the vexed crowd as they marched with their fists in the air. Enraged strangers threw and rammed their bodies against the plastic shields that protected the man in a uniform who had promised to look after the people. His—-, their—- ,promise was only for the white and privileged. The boyfriend reminisced back to her attempt to make him try and understand his privilege.
“It’s the 21st century.” He looked at her baffled.
“That does not mean racism still isn’t present. I feel them glaring at me when I am with you, as though interracial couples are still illegal. As if, I am not good enough for you. They look at me as though I am an alien because I don’t share the same skin as you. I want them to see me as a normal person. Do you even see me? Or do you see my 'exotic' skin?” He was taken back by her question.
“Of course, I see you,” He said calmly, his eyes fixed on her. His heart ached and grew with regret as he watched her eyes grow cold.
She stayed fixed in her spot.
Her eyes shifted across his face, examining the blank expression he wore in an attempt to conceal his true emotions. Anger slowly brewed as it was not the first time they had a disagreement on the topic of race and ‘privilege’. He did not understand why she considered him ‘privileged’ because of the difference in their skin. He did not understand why she felt racism was still present. ‘It is the 21st century’, he would think to himself but not dare say it aloud. After watching the news to see another protest, he would say “It was just an arrest that went wrong” while she would say “A murder and it is police brutality.” They could never see eye to eye.
“Bullshit." Her face was paler than he had never seen before; it was as if her blood was slipping away from his presence. As guilt crept into him, he broke his gaze with hers. He buried his head into his hands as she continued under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear.
“You are privileged. If a police officer pulled you over, they would calmly ask you to step out of the car-”
“They would for anyone- “
“Not for us.”
“Not for me. I don’t have the same privilege as you do” Her eyes were stern; she wore no expression on her face.
At the time, he did not understand what she meant. They did not see her; they saw the brown skin she was given. To the people in the uniform, her skin was a weapon that was more threatening than the loaded guns in their holsters. He understood. He understood that since he was one of the white protesters in the crowd, he had not been beaten, sprayed, or verbally abused by the police. The white protesters were simply shoved aside to watch their fellow allies face the wrath of police brutality. All because they did not share the same skin. He had to witness the murder of his girlfriend to begin to understand what she had meant to finally understand.
He was beginning to understand his white privilege.
Comments