thelure:D’Angelo (Angel) Lee Jordan / 29 / Author + Self Published Journalist[ APP EXCERPT&nbs
D’Angelo (Angel) Lee Jordan / 29 / Author + Self Published Journalist
[ APP EXCERPT (tw// mentions of police and allusions to racism). ]
The rift between worlds is palpable.
He was late again. And when he was late it made D’angelo nervous. Standing there, he shifted uneasy wanting to put his hands in his pockets. To slouch against his primary school fence. There was a flat oval rock, medium in size, that was sitting within kicking distance of his foot tempting him to kick it, or worse, throw it.
Just as he makes his decision a flash of red, white, and blue catch at the corner of his eye and instinctually he stands up straighter, the grip of his back pack encloses tighter.
He tries his best to appear unassuming. There is a small beat up watch on his left wrist that he checks (though it has long since worked) in attempt to appear innocent as possible. Looking up and down the street for his father’s car which he prays will show itself. Where is he. The white police vehicle slows to a crawling speed. A threatening ‘whoop’ of a sound bouncing from it to let the young boy know that he is seen. That he’s being watched.
D’angelo holds his breath and looks down at the street. Desperate not to make eye contact. To show that he is submissive, the of his father echoing in his ears, “you mind your own business and never give them a reason to suspect you. To stop and talk to you. Even if that means your tie is straighter and tighter than anyone else,” which is hard to do when you’re so young and already know the effort is feeble at best.
They come to a complete stop and it nearly sends his heart through his chest but still, D’angelo keeps his eyes down on the pavement in front of him. His grip on his backpack growing ever tighter still. The police officers only pause for a second to peer at him before the wheels start rolling again but their intimidation works and the mere seconds felt like an eternity of excruciating torture. He hated them.
And for a moment he almost hates himself for being black as he is.
“Pigs,” he whispers underneath his breath, vehemently, like it’s a dirty swear word he’s saying behind his parents back. The force of emotion he suddenly feels is so strong and uncontrollable that before he can take a deep calming breath, the rock at his feet is sent flying to the back windshield of the police car, leaving a big crack as it bounces off with a bang.
From then on every day after school, he waits by the fence with his teacher but his father is never late again.
