“What has become very clear to me is that Black lives do not matter. Not in 1719, not in 1819, not in 1919, and not right now in the year of our Lord 2019 either. Black lives do not matter when a little boy is lying there bleeding out on the street for doing nothing more than walking home from school. What do we do? What can we do? What is the purpose of this church, this congregation, our community, in the face of this slaughter?” He lets the word sink in; the congregation responds with urgent murmurs: “Tell us what to do. What do we do? What does the Lord want us to do?”
He answers his own question. “We can’t be silent. We will speak. We will not stop speaking. We will march. We will not stop marching. We will no longer let our babies be cut down in the streets. We will demand justice. For each and every boy and girl unfairly and unjustly slain. Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray…” He counts each name with a knobby finger, a roster that’s too long and hauntingly familiar. At least to some people. I wonder who holds these names in their memories, a reminder and a warning. Does Jen? Does she know all these names? Does she carry them with her as I do?
“We will make our voices heard. We demand to be treated with dignity. I hope you all will join us and our brothers and sisters all over town for a March for Justice in Justin’s honor. Next Saturday, right down Broad Street. And in the meantime, we’re going to pray for that boy, aren’t we? We’re going to pray with our hearts that he pulls through. Now we need some inspiration today, don’t we, church? We need a reminder that God calls us to turn our faith into action, for He surely does. Please turn to James two verse fourteen and let us read.”
I grab the Bible in front of me, its burgundy leather cover worn soft as cloth with age, and turn dutifully to the appropriate verse, but my mind isn’t there. I’m already thinking about how I’ll cover the march Pastor mentioned and how to reach Tamara Dwyer. Scotty made his orders clear: “Get the mother, Riley. We need Mrs. Dwyer.”
So far, Tamara has given only one comment, in front of the hospital Friday morning: “That’s my baby in there. Please pray for him.”
When Pastor calls for us to bow our heads in a closing prayer, I do so reflexively, respectfully going through the motions. I rarely pray anymore—it feels selfish and disingenuous given my shaky relationship with God, the fact that I’ve been to church only a handful of times in the last ten years. The last time I prayed, I did so without even meaning to—when I was crying my eyes out, pathetic and hopeless, on my bathroom floor last fall in Birmingham. I didn’t have the right to ask God for much then, but in my desperation, I did it anyway. I’m surprised when I find myself doing it again now, offering up sincere, fervent pleas, for Gigi and then for Justin. Please don’t let him die. Not another one.
The choir starts a rousing rendition of Kirk Franklin’s “My World Needs You,” signaling the end of the service.
“Well, that was a blessed sermon,” Momma says as we file out and join the long receiving line.
Here we go. I plaster a smile across my face, knowing that despite the tragedy hanging in the air, Momma wants to show me off on my rare church appearance, perfect Riley, with the perfect grades and the perfect manners and the perfect education and career. The thought of it is exhausting, but I ready myself for showtime, standing a little straighter, remembering never to say “yeah,” always “yes,” and to make sure I look everyone in the eye and ask after their family. In other words, I’ll do Momma proud like I always do. I’ll uphold Momma’s carefully maintained image that we are a model family, basically the Huxtables, only with a lot less money. Though the irony of the Huxtables as the epitome of Black success is not lost on me. I look behind me and see that Shaun, too, has transformed his scowl into a polite smile as we follow Momma down the aisle.
Momma doesn’t walk, she glides, her hat angled just so over her fresh roller set, her backbone so straight she appears at least three inches taller than her true five feet, a strutting peacock mindful of a roomful of onlookers. For sure, she already has a list of accomplishments and updates running through her mind like ticker tape. Normally, she’d be arm in arm with Daddy, whispering gossip under her breath. But he was called in this morning for a plumbing emergency on Penn’s campus, where he’s worked for twenty years as a janitor—or “Ivy League custodial engineer,” as Momma calls it—so she forgoes the gossip in favor of pointing at me and loudly exclaiming, “Look at my baby girl here today,” to anyone whose eyes she catches. “You know she’s on TV, right? Channel Five News. Every night.”
I’m not on every night, but I don’t bother correcting her. My role here is to follow obediently and smile manically. I reach up to smooth my hair, which I flat-ironed to within an inch of its life this morning in preparation for church and to pass muster with Momma. I have a flash of getting ready for church as a little girl and Momma pressing my hair with an ancient metal comb she heated on the fiery red stovetop burner and inevitably gave me singed ears no matter how still I sat.
When we reach the vestibule, Pastor Price’s voice parts the crowd around us. “Well, well, well, I’d like to say a mighty prayer for the prodigal daughter returned! If it isn’t Leroya Wilson right here in my church. Now there’s a miracle!”
This time, I’m not surprised to hear “Leroya,” and I glance over at my mom guiltily, reminded of how upset my parents were when I announced—emphatically—that I was changing my name, the wounded looks on their faces. But Momma is all smiles now, beaming up at Pastor like she’s presenting a prize.
Stepping into Pastor’s embrace, I feel like a little girl, like Leroya again. I’m happy that he’s teasing me as he always did back then—like when I would press him with questions about why Jesus looked so white in the storybooks.
“People need to see themselves in Jesus, Leroya,” he’d said. “When you see him, maybe you should see a whip-smart little Black girl.”
He stands back, placing both his hands gently on my arms, holding my body away, appraising me. “You’re all grown up, ain’t you, and as beautiful as ever. Just like your mother here.” This is another thing about Pastor Price: he was always a flirt.
“You’re doing good work, God’s work, on the news. I watch you all the time. Don’t I, Sandra?”
“You do, you do.” Momma grins so hard her face might crack. Shaun looks bored and small. Gone are the days when our parents stood right here in this vestibule gushing about his soccer talent, his game-winning goals, his scholarship to Temple, his big future. My little brother used to cast a large shadow. That was before. Now he hardly takes up any space at all.
Pastor Price leans in and lowers his voice. “So this is some mess with Jenny.” Growing up, Jenny used to come to church with us. I always had a strange sense of pride that Jenny could hang, that she could be one of us, so comfortable being the only white person in the crowd. It was ironic given I was the one who had plenty of practice being the “only one” in countless places and situations, including ending up at one of the whitest high schools in Philly, but it had never come quite as easily for me—in fact, some nights I fell into bed depleted from the effort of it all.