“What do you think? They didn’t report when the cops rolled up on the community garden project and called everyone an unlawful assembly. Or when they shut down Mr. James’s barbershop for three days over some bullshit code violation that magically disappeared after he complained to the city council.” Talia scoffed.
“I bet they cover Chief Banks reading to the kids at the library,” I muttered.
Talia rolled her eyes. “Devon always said you had words he didn’t and could translate what was happening in a way that made people listen. Your brother would be proud of you coming back to document this.”
Her comment sent a sharp pain through my chest. I looked down at my hands as my vision blurred slightly. His absence shadowed every achievement in my life—my PhD, my book. My brother should be here. He would be thirty-five now, maybe with a family of his own. The what-ifs were still razor-sharp seven years later.
“I hope so,” was all I could manage.
It wasn’t long before the server arrived with our food, saving me from my emotions. She set down a heaping plate of collard greens, mac ‘n’ cheese, and perfectly fried chicken, the steam carrying the scent of home-cooked comfort.
“Y’all need anything else?” the server asked, smiling warmly.
“We’re good, thank you,” Talia answered.
The first bite of mac ‘n’ cheese made me close my eyes in appreciation. “Damn, I forgot how good Magnolias was; nothing in Atlanta comes close,” I replied, already grabbing another forkful.
“That’s seasoned with love and generations of Black woman magic. Now tell me about this lecture series; you gonna make some noise?” Talia asked, tearing into her chicken.
I filled her in on my plans, the research I’d gathered, and the narrative I wanted to challenge about the progress in southern cities. As we ate, our conversation inevitably circled back to Chief Banks.
“Girl, the women in Birmingham slide into his DMs like his looks are going to protect them when those officers roll up.” Talia shook her head in disgust.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a flyer, sliding it across the table. “Speaking of which, tomorrow evening, there’sa peaceful protest for Jaylen Harris, a seventeen-year-old killed during a traffic stop last month. No body cam footage released, big surprise.”
I picked up the flyer and read the details. It was going to be at six p.m. at Linn Park.
“Come see what’s happening when the cameras aren’t rolling. Might be good research for your fancy lecture,” Talia said, watching my face carefully.
I hesitated, but the academic in me recognized the perfect opportunity to gather primary research and to witness firsthand what I’d studied from a distance. Still, the sister in me and the woman who woke up some nights, hearing my mother screaming when they told us about Devon, that part of me was afraid, not of the protest, but of what it might unlock.
“I don’t know, Talia . . .” I stated.
“No pressure, but it would mean a lot to have you there, Dr. Nia Price, with her credentials, someone they can’t dismiss,” she said, her eyes softened.
I tucked the flyer into my bag, neither commenting nor refusing. “I’ll think about it.”
We both knew I’d be there. My academic curiosity and my personal mission had always been two sides of the same coin: a scholar seeking truth and the sister seeking justice, and somewhere in the middle was the real story.
We finished our plates and paid. We stepped out in the humid Alabama afternoon. Talia hugged me tight. “Are you staying at the Monarch Hotel?”
“Yeah, you know how Mama is. She wants the entire household to be in bed by seven p.m.”
Talia smiled and hugged me tight. “I remember. Call me if you need anything. Day or night.”
“I will.”
The Monarch Bar wasn’t exactly a research hotspot, but after a day of traveling and wrestling with lecture slides, I needed somewhere with good whiskey and zero academics. I settled at the far end of the bar with my notebook open, watching the after-work crowd filter in through the reflection in the mirrored backsplash.
“Another Bulleit, Dr. Price?” The bartender, Mark, according to his nametag, nodded at my nearly empty glass.
“You read my mind.” I closed my notebook slightly as he approached. Not that I was writing state secrets.
Mark slid a fresh whiskey across the bar. “You working on a book or something? You look serious over here.”
I took a sip, appreciating the slow burn. “Lecture series at Birmingham State. Just trying to make sure I don’t make a fool of myself in front of a bunch of nineteen-year-olds who’d rather be anywhere else.”
“I doubt that’s possible. My sister took your African American Studies course at Spelman two years ago. Said it changed her life.”
