Conversations

This story is a body of fiction.  All names and places are random.  I know several men named Mike and one woman named Shelly.  I do not, unfortunately, know anyone with the name Shayne.  This dialect does not represent any one person that I do physically know.*

Conversations

I show up to Shelly and Mike’s house, pizza in hand and Cards Against Humanity in the bookbag strapped on my shoulders.  I stand at the doorway and take a deep breath.  Exhaling with deliberate slowness, I knock on the large red door.  I want to turn around and leave the moment I hear shoes on hardwood, shuffling towards the door to let me in.  I should not have come.  Mike is not one of my favorite people on an uneventful day.  Let alone, with all the chaos and pain in the world right now.  I fear, no, I know he’ll run his mouth more than normal.  I always try to be agreeable and quiet but there are certain things I simply cannot ignore when ignorance is abundantly prominent.  Shelly opens the door, a huge smile on her face, and takes the pizza from my hands.

“Mike’s in the shower,” she says, “he’ll be out in a few minutes.”

I hate that I’m instantly calmer knowing my enemy of opinions is not currently around and I can pretend, even if only for a limited time, that tonight will be a fun night shared with Shelly.  Shelly is a sweet girl.  She sees the good in everyone (which bodes well for me since I’m a sarcastic cynic who is hard to get close to.) She sees the supposed good in Mike as well.  And I guess he’s not all bad.  He adores Shelly so he’s got that going for him.  He’s a decent cook and he is a good handyman.  They want kids, and I think he’ll be a devoted dad, but I know he’ll instill his one-sided opinions to his kids and I hate that.

Shelly brings me out of my dreary thoughts as she comes to sit with me and hands me a glass of Malvasia wine.  I thank her and take a sip.  Light and sweet with a touch of bubbles.  Ahh…  I sigh in content.

“So, what’s been new with you, Shayne?” Shelly asks as she drops down on the couch beside me staring intently.  She’s so kind.  Always willing to give you one hundred percent of her attention.  I hear the bathroom door click, down the hallway, as Mike retreats into their bedroom.  I begin to feel a cloud of gloom come over me but internally shake it off.  I fill Shelly in on my day.

Quarantine hasn’t really changed my routine too much.  Other than the occasional unplanned shopping trip, I haven’t been too affected by the lockdown.  Being a couch potato with no social life makes that pretty easy.

We continue to chit-chat for the next ten minutes until Mike comes out to join us.  Shelly’s face lights up when he walks into the room and internally I gag a little bit.  I know…  I know it’s childish of me.  He’s a nice enough guy on the surface.  He treats my friend well and he moved her right into his house without a second thought after her last relationship blew up.  They started out as roommates and then it just turned into something more.  I’m happy for Shelly because she seems the most content she’s been since I’ve known her.  But the more I get to know him the harder it is for me to see his redeeming qualities.  With all the protesting, rioting and political uproar that’s been going on since the death of George Floyd I know Mike will bring up the topic.  He likes to pick at me just to see how upset he can make me then tell me I’m overreacting.  Shelly tries, half-heartedly, to get him to stop but he knows she thinks his jabs are harmless.  She won’t tell me, because she’s trying to show support, but she thinks I overreact to his words.

“What up, Shay?” (I HATE when he calls me that.  He’s not my friend.  He shouldn’t be using my nickname.)

“Hey, Mike.” I say it with a fake smile plastered on my face.

We take a seat at the dining room table, start digging into pizza and Mike deals our cards.  For the first half hour we’re sucked into food and inappropriate laughs.  We take a break so Shelly can grab us some chocolate to munch on as we continue our game.  I pick up my phone and check Twitter as I wait for her return.

“So, what do you think about the fucking idiots rioting and looting to show support for a drug addict thief?  Even you can’t put a positive spin on that dumb shit.” Mike says as he gulps down his Mountain Dew straight from the can.  So, we’re doing this, I think to myself.  I sigh and place my phone down and look across the table at him. 

“I can’t say I condone looting and rioting but it got our attention, right?  It got people talking.”  I say back and stare him in the eyes as I wait for him to tear me down.

“Yeah, I’m paying attention.  Paying attention to my tax dollars as they pay for overtime of all the cops that would rather be at home with their families than patrolling the streets for thugs.” He smirks at me, waiting to see if I’ll take the bait.  He intentionally used the term “thugs” to see if I’ll bring up a tweet Trump made regarding African Americans as such.  I don’t.

“Look, people are outraged.  People are hurt.  People are scared.  People just want justice.  People just want their freedom day-to-day.  African Americans can’t seem to find a way to get the attention that’s needed to stop the abuse of power.” I say, frustrated.

“Abuse of power?  What abuse?  At the end of the day that man was a criminal.”  He says, looking away - disgust on his face.

“Yes,” I say, “he was a criminal.  No one says he wasn’t.  But he wasn’t attacking anyone or running down innocent kids or something.  Jesus!  He wrote a bad check!  I’m not saying he shouldn’t have been reprimanded in some way, but –“ Mike cuts me off.

“Reprimanded?  What, like a fine?  What about the business he was stealing from?  You think they didn’t deserve justice because they’re big business?  They’re “The Man?” Just because they might not be a black owned business, he can steal from them?  That sounds like racism to me!  And don’t give me that bullshit about how black people can’t be racist!”  Mike spews, red-faced and angry waiting for a fight.

“Ok, first off.  I have no idea who owns the business he was writing the check to.  That’s not the point.  The point is –“ Mike cuts me off again.

“I’m sure the owners would disagree… Not the point…  Not the point???  Who the fuck are you, or any of these other people, to take justice into their own hands?  Where do you get off?”  Mike takes a breath and I use the opportunity to cut him off the same way he did to me.

“Look!  This is bigger than George Floyd!  What about Breonna Taylor?”  Mike shoves himself back from the table and begins to mutter angrily under his breath.  “Wait.  Let me finish, please.  You started this conversation.  The least you could do is hear what I have to say.”  Mike crosses his arms and then gives me a petulant raise of the eyebrows as if saying, ‘well go ahead then.’  I do my best to ignore his childishness and continue with a calmer tone.

“Breonna Taylor was gunned down by police who had an incorrect search warrant.  She was sleeping in her fucking bed.  Even if they had the correct address did that give them the right to kill her?”  Mike is giving me the silent treatment at this point so I continue.  “Ahmaud Aubrey was jogging down a neighborhood and an ex-policeman took it upon himself to bring his son and another man to track Ahmaud and hunt him out in the open.  They decided to kill him because they thought he’d robbed a store.  Even if he did rob a store, people rob stores every day, they don’t usually die from doing so.”

Mike turns to finally look my way, arms still crossed, he says, “It’s called a citizen’s arrest.  They were trying to detain him, and he became violent.”

“Mike!  You can’t possibly back that -” I make sarcastic quotes with my fingers, “logic” up.  A citizen’s arrest isn’t an acceptable reason to kill another human being.  It’s also not an excuse for blatant racism.  All he was doing was jogging.”  I say, becoming visibly upset.

“It wasn’t his neighborhood.  He never should have been there in the first place.”  Mike says, raising his eyebrow again to counter my argument.

“So, what?  You’ve never driven or walked down a neighborhood that wasn’t yours?  Of course you have.  You know why you don’t even think twice about doing it?  ‘Cuz you’re white.”  I snap back.

“Oh, here we go.  Cry me a fucking river Shayne.  You’re fucking white too.  You have the same doors opened for you as I do.”  He says condescendingly.

“First off, being a woman, no I don’t.  But that’s an entirely different argument we can have later.”  I can feel my cheeks heat as Mike laughs at my statement.

“Look.  What else do they want?” This time, I cut him off. 

“They?!” I yell.

“Yes, they.  Fucking they.  They is not racist Shayne.  Stop jumping up my ass.  They is referring to people.  I don’t care what color they are.  Just people protesting.  As a matter of fact, you’re part of the they I’m speaking of.”  He says this as an insult but it’s the first time I’ve smiled since this conversation started.  He continues, exasperated at my response.  “They got our monuments and statues removed.  That shit is a part of history.  You can’t just remove it because you don’t like how history was made.  That’s so selfish.  I’m sorry it upsets you, but the Civil War wasn’t about that.  It was how our country became what it is today.  And some people may not respect that but I do!”  Mike is sweating.  I wonder, absentmindedly, if he might pass out.

“Part of the Civil War was about the right to own slaves.  Not all of it but a portion was.”  I say.  “I’m not going to argue with you over the positives and negatives of war in general but, imagine if Germany kept all the Swastikas and Nazi-fare out on the streets to remind people of their -”, I make my sarcastic air quotes again, “history.”

“I’m not talking about Germany -“  Mike begins but I cut him off.

“I know that, but the similarities are sickening!  Nazis held people captive, there was police brutality based on race and the rest of the world turned a blind eye.  People were tortured, murdered and blamed and it was all legal.”  I said.

“Yeah, and who saved them?  The good ol’ United States.  We’re not so bad in your little scenario there, now are we?”  Mike counters.  “And now your governor wants to remove history because of violence.  What kind of message is that sending about land of the free?”

“Ugh!  I’m not saying America is all bad, Mike.  Jesus!  You can’t be reasoned with!  What I’m saying is, after the war was over and the Nazis were defeated and Hitler’s piece-of-shit ass killed himself, imagine if every time the Jewish people walked down the street, or their kids or their grandkids or their friends or anyone who felt traumatized by the goings on in the concentration camps had to see the places where their ancestors were gassed alive?  Or where their best friend’s mom had her gold teeth ripped out of her mouth right before she was set on fire?  Could a person, of such ancestry feel safe simply walking down the street with the yellow star of shame always pinned to their chest?”  I stop and breath heavily waiting for Mike’s response.

“They kept Auschwitz up.  People go there and take selfies and shit right on the same walkway others walked to die.  Why is that ok?”  Mike says back.

“They kept the concentration camp as a place for people to visit.  If they put the statues and slave blocks in a museum, I think that’s just fine.  It’s ok to learn about history and see the awful acts mankind has partaken in.  No one is trying to erase history, Mike.  They just don’t need a daily reminder of it.”  I exhale, calmer now.  I think we might be getting somewhere.

Shelly, who had been waiting in the doorway watching our argument unfold comes to sit down and drops bite-sized candy bars in front of both Mike and me.  “Okay, you two.  Enough is enough.  I just wish everyone would recognize that all lives matter and be done with it.  No one race matters more than the other.”  She says.

I sigh and look down at the candy in front of me as I begin to unwrap one.

“Oh, what now?”  Mike snaps.  “Your best friend can’t express the fact that her life matters because she’s white?”

“Mike,” Shelly begins, “I’m sure Shayne doesn’t think that.” She turns to look at me hopefully.  She knows I care about her life.  She’s hoping I’ll simply agree, and Mike will calm down.

“No one is saying all lives don’t matter-“  I begin.

“Oh, yes they are,” Mike starts.

“Back with the they stuff again, huh?” I seethe.

“Okay you two.  That’s enough.  I’m sorry I even brought it up.  All lives matter.  No lives matter.  Whatever.  Let’s just play, okay?”  Shelly says trying to calm us.

“No, I think I’d like to hear what your white friend thinks about Black Lives Matter and how she can possibly relate with her white skin and her white girl hair.  Tell us how your white privilege gives you the right to be offended on behalf of the black community.” Mike is leaning towards me across the table now shaking with fury.

“Look, I can only understand racism and fear based on my own experiences.  But the fact of the matter is that I may not understand every point of view, but I can empathize and most importantly I can be part of change.  I can not be offended when someone says Black Lives Matter.  No one said only black lives matter.  Maybe if the hashtag said ‘black lives matter too’ or ‘black lives matter also’ people wouldn’t get so bent out of shape about it.  But I doubt it – judging by the look on your face I’d say I’m right…” I sigh, then continue.  “I can stop for a moment to be proactive instead of reactive.  I can listen to stories and support change.  I can be part of the positivity instead of the negativity.  I’m not over here bashing all white people or all law enforcement.  I’m not advocating for looting and tearing apart cities out of anger and grief.  All I’m saying is I’m willing to stop and listen.  And I'm willing to try to be part of the solution instead of the problem.  That is what I can offer.”  I stop and wait for Mike to speak.  He stares at the floor, still seething.  I’m at a loss of what to say to calm him at this point and, honestly, I don’t even want to.  Let him be mad. 

“So, you’re fine with them – ugh, people – you're fine with people removing history and trying to make us forget what our heritage stands for?”  Mike spits at me.

“No one is trying to forget history.  Those monuments and statues will be moved to a museum.  It’s not necessary to see them every day.  I enjoy seeing very disturbing museum artifacts but not everyone wants to see that stuff.  And honestly even I don’t want to see things like, let’s say, The Body Exhibit every single day.  I want to be in the right mindset to see and learn about such things.”  I say back.

“You shouldn’t need to be in a “certain mindset” to see America’s history.  I’m done with you.  I’m going to bed.”  Mike stands and kisses Shelly on the head, puts his plate in the sink and heads into the bedroom shutting the door firmly behind him.

I look over at Shelly to gauge her reaction.  She sighs and begins closing the pizza box and putting the cards back in their box.  “I think game night is over,” she says quietly.  She’s upset. 

“Shelly -” I say.

“Don’t start, Shayne.  I’m too tired.  My best friend and my husband can’t seem to get along for even an hour so we can all enjoy some pizza and laughs.  It’s exhausting.  Being caught between you two is exhausting for me.  I think you should just go.” She takes the pizza box to the fridge and puts both our plates into the sink.  “Our half of the money for dinner is on the coffee table.  Turn the lights out when you leave, please.”  And with that she walks out of the kitchen and into her bedroom, leaving me alone at the large dining room table.

I sit, stunned, for a moment.  She’s mad at me too.  Not just at him.  The Shelly I used to know would fight for human rights and equality across the board.  I hate how quiet she’s become since meeting Mike.  The part of her that made us so close is lost.  She’s still a sweet person and I know she would never tell me I was wrong for standing up for what I think is right, but I’m also certain she’d tell Mike the same thing.  She believes he has his convictions for a reason and she’s not in a place to change him.  How do I argue with that? 

I feel heavy as I stand and turn off the light.  I leave their money, where it sits on the coffee table, and lock the door behind me as I walk out.  Somewhere, in the back of my mind, in a deep dark place I can’t bring to the surface yet; I know this is the last time I’ll set foot in this house.

***This story is a compilation of conversations I’ve either had or witnessed with different people at different times in my life.  I know sharing this story won’t change the world.  I just felt compelled to share a tiny insight into how frustrating it to can be to want to simply conversate about issues in the world and be open to each side without being shut down by anger and intolerance.  It certainly pales in comparison to the daily fear and mistreatment so many have suffered for years.  This is simply a body of work – nothing more and nothing less.  Please be kind to one another.  Please try to listen to each other and as a very good friend of mine says, be proactive not reactive.***