Black Leather Magic.

Beep, beep, beep—

Is that the alarm clock? It’s already time to get up?

Pushing my eyelids open, blinking constantly to diminish the blur of deep sleep. I look to my left as my alarm clock is doing its musical number of time to get out of bed, Kevin. Same daily routine. I make my way downstairs to the kitchen and can smell the aroma of pancakes and syrup. I bet Rosita is making an amazing breakfast. Walking into the kitchen and in an instant— I’m invisible. Mom’s telling Rosita all the things she wants her to do today. Dad’s on the phone cursing up a storm about a deadline. I feel my heart beating out of my chest with all of the commotion, I head to the garage to grab my bike. Time to get out of here and get to school.

It was bright, almost too bright. The rays of the sun hitting my eyes like daggers. I get to the end of the driveway and see women with their fake, smiling faces walking about in our neighborhood. One of them stops to survey my mother’s lawn while going on about the flowers she’s planning on gardening in her own house. Typical Beverly Hills behavior, show me what you have and I’ll top it with something even more expensive. She should probably be paying more attention to her husband’s affair. I plant my feet firmly on the pedals and ride.

Riding down the street while admiring the big houses with their perfect green gardens, something strange caught the corner of my eye. A sense of darkness illuminates my being as I go down to this corner. I’ve never seen this house before, it looks almost haunted. Busted windows, dark murky pillars, an open door with an almost frightening aura yet it's intriguing. I walk up the broken cobblestone onto the front porch and walk through the front door.

Dust everywhere, filling up my lungs. An intense coughing fit overcomes me as I make my way through the corridor and I feel something hit my foot. It’s a small black notebook. Curiosity overcomes me and persuades my fingers to open the elegant black leather bound. I opened it.

Beep, beep, beep—

Pushing my eyelids open in a state of confusion. I look to my left and I see a wall with a poster of Tupac Shakur. Where am I? Wait, this isn’t my room. How did I get to sleep? I was in that crappy house with that little book. This bed, it’s springy and lumpy and it’s on this awful shag carpet. This isn’t mine. There are bars on the window, that isn’t mine. This room isn’t mine.

I jolt up in a panic and notice a mirror hanging on the back of this door. I see the reflection of someone who isn’t me. My pale white skin is no longer while a deep chocolate overrides my freckled, translucent skin. How did I become a completely different person? I question myself as I raise my hands that are not mine on a face that is not mine. I have to get out of here.

I dangle the tricky knob and push open the door, running down the hallway, I feel eyes watching me. I'm standing in the kitchen and a woman is standing by a tiny stove, shouting “Jamal!” Who is Jamal?

I cannot move my feet. Frozen and planted onto the ground, I continue to stare. Purple bonnet, tired eyes, and beautiful cinnamon-like complexion. She goes to the toaster to get some waffles onto a plate and throws it onto the kitchen table.

“Jamal! Why are you not dressed yet? Get on in there and put on some clothes! You gonna to be late to school!” She says firmly.

“School? What school?” I reply.

She’s getting more frustrated, as she places her hand on top of her head. She angrily grinds her teeth.

“Boy, the school you been going to for two years now,” she said, glancing at my confused facial expressions. “Boy! You been living in Compton your whole life and now you wanna act funny?” she exclaims.

I catch myself. I have to start acting normal. People are going to think you’re crazy, just act normal Kevin.

“Oh yeah, sorry I think I’m just tired. I’ll go get dressed,” I reply.

I run back to that room and find some ratty old shirt and some jeans and run out the door. I head onto the street without taking a glance back. I see some kids my age walking in the same direction. Maybe that’s where I’m supposed to go.

“Jamal! Come on man!” I hear someone yell as his hands wave at me to come closer. “You slept in or somethin’? Where you been?” the kid says as he’s stuffing a breakfast burrito in his mouth.

“Yeah, my bad,” I replied.

Don’t say too much Kevin or they won’t believe you. I hear another kid call out for burrito kid, “Aye Malik!” So that must be his name, I have to remember that.

We get to this bus stop. But it’s not like a regular school bus stop, every person imaginable is there. There’s an elderly lady sitting on the bench humming a familiar tune. A homeless man a few steps away with a backpack that might have his whole life in it. A few other students join in. There's a middle aged man looking like he’s trying to sell something. A couple minutes go by as we’re waiting, I see lights flashing red and blue, what’s going on?

Officers stepped out of the car a few feet away from our bus stop and walked towards the man who’s selling something. I think it’s cigarettes? Maybe a watch? I’m not sure but he didn’t seem to be doing anything wrong. They walk up to him aggressively and ask if he has a permit to be selling CD's. Ah, it's CD's.

“I’m minding my business, Officer. Please leave me alone,” the man blurts out nervously.

One of the officers gets visibly angry and approaches the man attempting to arrest him.

“Hey! Don’t touch me please, I didn’t do nothing!” he responds as one of the officers places his arms around his neck, while the other attempts to push him to the ground. He falls to the pavement and lays on his chest as they place handcuffs on him.

“Leave me alone, please, I swear I’ll do whatever you want man,” he humbly repeats over and over again.

The officer then kneels on the man’s neck with extraneous pressure.

“Aye get off him! He can’t breathe, he’s in handcuffs man! HE CAN’T BREATHE!” Malik yells angrily at the officer.

“This is why you don’t do drugs kids!” the other officer responds callously, as if this whole encounter is humorous. Drugs? Weren’t they just questioning him about some CD's?

“Hang in there, Derrick! Man, someone call an ambulance!” Malik cried with frustration.

“Mama! I need to see my momma. Please, I can’t breathe,” Derrick said as the officers knee is pushing on his neck. He looks into the camera phones surrounding him, eyes pleading for help.

Nine minutes go by, the officer still on his neck, Derrick stopped begging. He stopped moving. There’s blood trickling out of his mouth. They killed him. They murdered him. People around me build up, screaming at them to call an ambulance.

He’s dead. A man who was standing just a few feet from me, probably just trying to make a quick buck is gone. They could’ve just put him in the car and took him to the station. He wasn’t resisting. They didn’t have to kill him.

“If he wasn’t black, this wouldn’t have happened.” Malik says, while holding back his tears. This wouldn’t have happened in Beverly Hills. This was new territory for me.

Visibly shaking, I sprint out of there. I ran back down the street and opened the door to Jamal’s house. I see his mother still standing in the kitchen with a broom cleaning the kitchen floor. My expression must’ve worried her, she looks up and I tell her what happened. Tears stream down her face as she explains he lives two houses down. Derrick had a baby on the way and was probably selling anything he could get his hands on.

There’s a pit in my stomach, a feeling I have never felt before. Emotions running through my entire body. No, that’s vomit. I run to the kitchen trash can. Jamal’s mother rubs my back and tells me everything is going to be alright. Expressing her fear of the same thing happening to me.

"Remember, you make sure they can see your hands and you do what they tell you," she says fearfully. There's something about a terrified mother's expression that made me instantly comfort her.

Knock, knock—

It’s Malik with an urgent expression— “Hey, we about to go protest, you down?”

“Yeah, I’m in” I reply, with a rush of adrenaline pumping in my veins.

Tens turn to hundreds and before you know it, the viral age of social media has turned it to thousands. As we walk down Normandie Ave in South Central, Malik points out us passing the intersection of Florence Ave explaining Rodney King and the L.A. Riots.

I didn’t realize that this happens often and for so long. What universe have I been in? That was back in the 90's. Am I that blind? I see social media posts sometimes but Dad claims that All Lives Matter, right?

“All lives can’t matter if Black lives don’t matter!” Malik shouts coincidentally as my father’s words trouble my mind. Words sharp as knives hitting my stomach, realizing that my family is part of the problem—I am part of the problem.

We continue to walk and we suddenly come to a stop and all I see are police officers geared up with helmets and shields in a straight horizontal line across from us. A picture out of a war zone. There’s us and then there’s them. I see everyone around me raising their fists in the air.

“Black Lives Matter!” shouting in complete unison. Chills go down my arm and spine, as I am experiencing this historic moment. I feel confident and proud to stand up for Derrick. And all of a sudden I see the officers coming at us and feel a baton strike my back and then my head. I hit the pavement.

Pushing my eyelids open, instantly coughing, feeling my lungs eliminating dust. Wait, where am I? Glance into the familiar corridor I once was. I thought that baton took me out. I’m back at that house. I look at my hands— my translucent white skin, freckled pale hands. I’m me again. I put both my hands on the floor to push myself off the ground and feel the small, black leather notebook again. But there’s something different. There’s a piece of paper sticking out of it, I slowly pull it out of the book and it’s a check— $20,000.

I run out of the house and onto my bike. I find the nearest bus stop. The same adrenaline rushing through my veins as before. I make it back to that same street. I walk past Jamal's house and make a right. I’m on the front steps of the man I watched die. The man I watched get murdered by an officer of the law. My hands shake as I knock on the door. A pregnant woman comes to the front door, confusion written on her face staring at my pale complexion. I hand her the check. I walk down the front steps and I look back. Tears streaming down her face in complete shock. I could feel her loss—her pain. I start tearing as well. I raise my fist high as I yell—

“Black. Lives. Matter.”