Blend

22:00 | blend

UNCLE STUDIES me. "You sure you wanna know?"

I nod.

My uncle returns to the couch and takes a seat. "I just got off the phone with your mother this morning. The police are monitoring her calls so we didn't talk much, but I could tell she was feelin' it, you know?"

I swallow, my eyes watering. "Does she think I did it?"

"No," he says, and I take in a gigantic breath. "She said she knows her boy and that he ain't no killer. I told her the same. But..."

"What?" My heart starts to pound again.

"Well, as more information comes out, especially from your girlfriend—"

"Ex-girlfriend," I emphasize. "Abby's friend Melanie is the reason the police questioned me in the first place. And instead of defending me, Abby called the Phoenix police to give a statement against me."

"Yeah she a real peach, nephew. What the fuck is her problem, man?"

I shake my head. "She's using my case to gain social media attention."

"Now that's some sick, psycho shit right there."

"Tell me about it. She's claiming I mentally abused her. But I hope to God my friends see through her act and call her out. Because anyone who watched our relationship would argue the opposite. It was me always bending over backwards for her. The minute I didn't, she'd dump my ass to teach me a lesson."

"Well we all about lost our minds when the evening news broadcasted clips of her TikTok. Kaycee almost broke my TV. She was raging about facts versus fiction and shit. Bethel had to give her a joint to calm the fuck down." He chuckles.

"I'm grateful Kaycee saw through it. That makes me hopeful."

"Which brings me back to your mama, though." Uncle sighs real big. "Ever since she saw those clips, she's been questioning if she ever really knew you. And Joe feels beside himself. He stopped paying for your lawyer. That's why your mama called me just now—asking if I had money to help you get a good lawyer. I told her we were already working on it with Mr. Ben Crump."

I drag my nails through my hair, thinking about what Devyn told me just yesterday about my Uncle Joe. That he's never had to experience any form of racial discrimination, so he wouldn't fully understand what I'm going through.

Then another thought paralyzes me: if I had called him for help, he would've turned me into the police hours ago.

Maybe it's because Uncle senses this news hits hard, but he says, "Hey, it's all good, nephew. You still got us."

"I can't believe Uncle Joe thinks I'm guilty. I lived with him for two fucking years, man."

He pats my back. "The news has a funny way of twisting the truth and seeming convincing. Don't trouble yourself over Joe. I never liked him. He was always judging us at family cookouts and he was the one who convinced your mom to leave your dad. You was still a toddler."

"He did?"

"Yeah, shit. Your dad and him was always arguing 'bout something. Joe wanted him out of the picture, permanently. Even paid a lawyer to help your mom get full custody. They painted your dad as this unstable druggie."

I shake my head, trying to think back. It's true that Uncle Joe never said anything good about Dad, but to go as far as to break my parents up? Mom always told me things just never worked out between them.

"I can't believe I didn't know all that. Dad never spoke a bad word about Uncle Joe. And Mom even started inviting Dad to our family things right before he passed. Uncle Joe and Dad seemed cool with each other then."

Uncle Maurio laughs. "Adaptation at its finest."

I grin, confused. "Huh?"

"Look, nephew. This world's got it in their thick heads that there's a type of standard we niggas gotta live up to. Even this many years post slavery, they got ideas about how we need to act in society. They don't want loud niggas. Loud niggas live out truth without apology and question the status quo. They don't want us protesting in the streets despite the pain we feel. I mean, fuck, they don't want to acknowledge our problems, ever. Our problems make them feel bad.

"What they want is a quiet nigga that talks like them and acts like them—one that doesn't point out social issues." He rubs his face. "They want us to blend in so much, our problems stay invisible. Sure, we can be the cool Black dude in the group, but only if we don't bring up how racism still takes shape today. Because then they'll argue that's racism too. Racism against white people. Can you believe that shit? All lives have to matter 'cause then we won't have to fix nuthin'."

I remain silent, nodding to all of his words.

Unc continues, "Your dad did that for you in his final days, nephew. He played the good nigga so he could spend more time with you before the cancer took him away."

I lose it. Tears capsize me and Uncle Maurio just scoots closer, patting my back. The grief sinks heavier and I bite down the hurting sadness in my chest.

After Uncle Maurio leaves, I change into fresh clothes, but embers of emotion still flick around in my soul.

Everything Unc said was true and I know that because I've been living it my whole life as a mixed kid without ever being fully aware of it. All this time I've had to blend in. Be this or be that, but never me.

I'd go to Dad's house and act one way there, only to come back to Mom's and have Uncle Joe get on me for behaving like a 'gangster'. Soon I figured out that when I was with Dad, I could be like him, but the moment Uncle Joe or Mom picked me up, it was back to acting like them.

By middle school, I was fuckin' over it. I was angry for being known as the white Black kid. Didn't know how to stop those taunts except by acting out. That was the root of my "violent" frustrations back then. But the news won't report that, will they?

And then Dad died.

And then I stopped visiting his family. So it got easier to act like that one version of me: white. Except I was never white enough. It was always, "Wallace, why do you wear your hair like that?" or "Don't listen to that music. It's bad."

Up until two nights ago, I thought I had to choose a side in the land of the free 'cause everyone wanted me to.

Black or white?

Hood or country?

STEM or basketball?

I thought I picked my side, blending and adapting between two different groups in order to fit in. As I got older, I started worrying that I was mixin' the lines too much.

Now I see it never mattered.

Brown people don't get to choose a side or mix lines or be whatever. White people will always decide what we are for us.