The city bus smelled like urine again. Shanice moved away from the disheveled man behind her and buried her nose under the Indian-print scarf she’d purchased at a thrift store. Its bright colors helped conceal the permanent blood stains on her tattered jacket, a hand-me-down from her brother. Her mother had given her money for a new one, but wearing the old jacket made her feel closer to him, so the teen spent it on the scarf and stylish jeans instead.
When the driver announced Shady Hills, she brushed her dark, coiled curls from her face, pushed her shoulders back and stood. She liked that people might think she belonged there. “A nice neighborhood,” she’d heard it called, where trees canopied the streets and stately homes showcased long driveways and lush lawns. A place where toys and bikes were abandoned on sidewalks while families gathered for meals behind expansive windows without bars.
It wasn’t a crime just to look; she had no malice. But her dark skin didn’t fit the neighborhood profile, and when Shanice strolled the forbidden streets, the good citizens stared. More than once a patrol car had pulled up beside her, a cop asking where the fourteen-year-old was headed. “Just passing through, conducting research for my civics class,” she’d once said. He hadn’t appreciated it. Being a smartass to the cops can get you thrown in jail. Her brother had warned her about that.
Shanice recounted his experience in an essay she’d written on racial injustice, which had impressed her teacher, Ms. Mitchell. “You show great promise,” she said, and asked if Shanice planned to attend college. The teen laughed. No one in her family had ever gone to college. But her teacher insisted they meet to discuss the application process.
Her mother would not approve. She mistrusted the educational system that had excluded her as a young girl. She made sure Shanice knew her place. Find a job after high school and contribute to the household. The plan had no room for dreams.
But Ms. Mitchell was the first teacher who not only looked like Shanice but seemed to understand her, so she listened. “It’s possible to honor your roots, and still want more from life,” the teacher explained.
Yet Shanice felt conflicted. “My momma says I shouldn’t be thinking about big houses and fancy cars.” Shanice poked her finger at the teacher, rapper style. “She told me: ‘Girl, you ain’t never gonna be drivin’ no Tesla.’”
“Your mamma needs you, and I respect that,” Ms. Mitchell said. “But don’t you think you could help her more if you had a high-paying job?”
“I guess,” Shanice shrugged.
“Well, you’re not going to get one without a college degree.” The next day, Ms. Mitchell introduced the early writings of James Baldwin and played a podcast of Josie Duffy Rice to Shanice’s class. A spark of hope ignited.
At their next meeting, Ms. Mitchell handed Shanice a journal with a vibrant peacock blue cover, her favorite color. The teacher suggested she create a vision of where she wanted to be in ten years and explained the power of positive affirmations as a form of self-empowerment. “What you believe, you can achieve,” Ms. Mitchell said. “Put it in writing.”
Shanice knew this new-age thinking wouldn’t jive with her mother’s conservative beliefs. She hid the journal in the bottom of her backpack, writing in it at school or late at night when everyone was asleep. In it, she described herself in a designer suit, standing before a jury speaking on behalf of her client, someone like her older brother, whose voice had been silenced. The system had failed him, and she vowed to make it right.
Ms. Mitchell explained that Shanice’s visits to Shady Hills and imagining herself living there had been a way of manifesting her dreams. “It’s called the ‘law of attraction,’” Ms. Mitchell said. Although Shanice found it difficult to grasp exactly what that meant, she knew dreaming would be the easy part. Getting what she wanted was going to be a long, arduous journey.
So, when the patrol car approached today, she knew the drill. Smile. Be polite. “Heading to the bus stop” would be the best response.
For now.
Jennifer J. Meyer is an award-winning journalist with a career spanning three decades at The Orange County Register. She is currently a contributing columnist for the Southern California News Group. Jennifer’s flash fiction has appeared in 101words. Her nonfiction stories have appeared in the Rotarian, Parenting and other popular magazines. Jennifer is a self-proclaimed true-crime junkie and is currently writing a mystery novel. She earned a Bachelor of Science from Elmhurst College in Elmhurst Illinois and a Master of Science from Loyola University of Chicago.