In my fishbowl town, there wasn’t much to do but play in the woods. As usual, my friends and I walked along the creek until it led into town. We saw a swing on our way back, and excitedly, we rang the doorbell.
The door burst open, rattling as it slammed against the side of the brick house. The overwhelming smell of cigarettes flooded my nose as the homeowner stepped into the doorway. The man wore a wife-beater soaked with sweat stains. My eyes followed from sunburnt shoulders to his thick fingers gripping his handgun. My friends and I stared down the barrel. His phone rang, and I looked at the rest of my friends’ jaws dangling open. We ran.
My calves felt like they would catch fire as I raced from his yard. We stumbled over leaves and tripped over branches as we bolted through the woods and back into town. My heart was a bass drum, thumping in my chest and through my ears. I couldn’t hear anything over my fear until the sirens sliced through the rhythm of my footsteps on the pavement and wailed through the air.
The police stopped us outside the grocery store, and soon, three more police cars arrived. The officers towered over us, questioning us with cold expressions and tough eyes. I squinted up at them through the bright August sunlight, trembling with fear. Though my friends and I stood shoulder to shoulder, I’d never felt so alone. We were too young for them to run our IDs: we didn’t have any. The officers took our names and parents’ phone numbers, —then left, leaving us on the curb. I called for a ride.
My sister drove me home, stoic and gripping the steering wheel like she unlocked my jail cell. She glanced at me at the stoplights, her eyes filled with worry and unspoken questions. Before she went to her room, she hugged me.
The police called my parents to explain the situation. When my parents asked about the gun, the officer uttered coldly, “He had a right to defend his property. He didn’t know if those people were criminals or not.”
“Those people? They’re kids,” my mother retorted.
“Ma’am–” the officer sighed, but no words left his mouth.
He echoed the man’s fears but sat silent for me. Fog clouded my brain, snatching away my ability to think.
My mother hung up the phone with the officer, stood up from the couch, and walked into the kitchen. As she wrapped her arms around me, she whispered, “Girl, you’re beautiful. Your skin, your hair, your nose, and your lips are perfect. Don’t ever forget it.”
But at twelve years old, my hair, nose, and lips all spelled danger. My skin was weaponized to justify someone’s brutality. Since that day, my reflection in the mirror changed, and my innocence vanished. I learned that being Black meant being hyper-aware of my existence. I stood in the center spotlight in a play I hadn’t auditioned for, and that truth suffocated me. The smell of violence was tattooed on my mind.
I laid in bed that night, curled up like a baby. I buried my face into the sheets, as I muffled my sobs, aching to be anywhere else. This town wasn’t safe. My mother told my father I cried because the police scared me. But I really cried because I didn’t understand how the police couldn’t protect me, how my skin was a threat, or how anyone could survive in a world this cruel. I had never felt so visible.
Rainey Reese is a high school student from Chicago, Illinois, whose writing reflects the intricate experiences of Black youth in America. Drawing from personal encounters and the collective history of her community, Rainey captures the raw emotions and complex realities in “On Innocence and Black Youth” as an exploration of the loss of innocence. Her work has been previously published in Teen Ink Magazine, Write the World Review, and Blue Marble Review.