please read the author's note at the end

Black Cultural Studies class, the entire room is in an uproar, all of the other students practically talking over one another. I didn't think I'd ever seen this class as fired up as they are today. Usually, since the class is at the early hour of 9 a.m., everyone is struggling to keep their eyes open, but this morning is different.

"What's going on?" I ask Shelley, a girl who would sometimes send me the notes if I couldn't make it to class. She's also the one person to who I consistently sit next. She's my only friend in the class.

Her eyes are glassy as if she's holding back tears. "A Black man was shot by the police in Queens this morning." My jaw goes slack in horror. Police brutality against Black people isn't an uncommon thing, especially in New York, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't sting to hear about another killing.

"What happened?" I ask softly, noticing the professor has walked in from the corner of my eye, and by the way, he keeps flexing his knuckles, I know he's heard about it too.

She wipes at her eyes, a single tear rolling down her face. "He was in his parked car when the police came and tapped on his window. They asked him to get out and when he did they shot him twice in the chest."

My body tightens as more tears come down Shelley's face. Before I can say anything else Professor Clarke clears his throat and the class immediately silences. I enrolled in the class because I need one more elective credit and also because I'd heard Clarke is an amazing teacher. He's patient and likes to listen to everyone's opinion. We're supposed to be dedicating today's class to going over the rubric for our midterm papers but judging by the fury in his eyes, I know we'll be talking about something entirely different today.

"Morning, everyone," he says stiffly. "I know I usually say good morning but there isn't a damn thing good about today." The class murmurs in agreement, my eyes bouncing between all of the different expressions being worn in the class. Some people are crying, while others' eyes are blazing with fury.

"His name was Jermaine Bowers," a boy in the front of the class says. "He was thirty-five with a wife and two children." Professor Clarke closes his eyes as if the fact physically pains him.

"He was just waiting in the car for a friend," the boy continues with disgust in his voice. "A fucking friend and he was shot."

"Anyone wanna tell me what the police have said about it?" A few hands shoot up, including Shelley's, and Professor Clarke points to her.

"The NYPD issued a statement saying the two white officers that shot him had said they thought he had been reaching into his pocket for a weapon." A few scoffs were heard around the room. "But when they searched his body, all he had on him was his wallet and a phone."

"It's because he's Black," a girl cries out. "He was a Black man in a predominantly white neighborhood. He was sought out to be a threat."

My hand immediately shoots up, and Professor Clarke nods at me. "This isn't anything new. The oppression of Black people by the police. They view us as disposable, they always have."

The boy sitting in front of me turns around, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion as he regards me. "What do you mean 'us?' You aren't even Black." The class erupts into chatter while my face burns in embarrassment.

"My mom is Black."

"And your dad?" the boy prods.

"Shut the fuck up, Quintin," Shelley sneers quietly, shooting him a harsh glare but he doesn't even spare her a glance, his eyes examining my features with a pinched look.

I swallow thickly. "Just because I'm mixed doesn't make me any less of a Black woman."

Quintin chuckles, though the sound holds no humor. "You lump yourself in with all of us as if you are one of us. The police aren't targeting you because you have white in you. I bet you've never even experienced racial profiling in your life."

"That's enough, Quintin," Professor Clarke booms. My body is shaking from anger. How dare he try and justify anything I've ever experienced just because my father was a white man? As if that somehow dilutes the fact that my mother is a Black woman. "This long-standing debate on if people mixed with black and white can refer to themselves as Black is just tiring." Professor Clarke's eyes briefly glance at me before roaming over the classroom. "This is what white America wants. They want to pit you up against each other instead of allowing you all to come together and fight this oppressive system. And you," he points at Quintin who shrinks lower in his seat. "You're just the idiot who fell for it."

"Do you think those two officers will be thoroughly dealt with?" Professor Clarke continues. A round of no's and absolutely not's fills the classroom. "And what's the reason for that?"

"Because the system is going to favor the white officers and not the Black man who wasn't doing a goddamn thing," Shelley calls out pointedly. Everyone murmurs in agreement and Professor Clarke nods his head.

"All of you sitting in this room are the next generation," he sits back on his desk, folding his arms over his chest. "You will be the people who can either help solve the problem or ignore it."

The class is silent as Professor Clarke looks out at all of us, his eyes going from one student to the next before landing on me.

"So I'm asking you now. What the hell are you going to do about it?"

• • •

Professor Clarke's question rings in my mind for the rest of the day. And as I unlock the door to my apartment, I realize I don't want to ignore it or tweet out a stupid hashtag of Jermaine Bowers' name. I want to go out and make a statement. Quintin is wrong. This affects me just as much as the next Black person.

"Hey, what's wrong?" I look up, seeing Talia and Miles sitting at the kitchen island, most likely working on their interview project again. I haven't spoken to Miles since Halloween night, not since I'd texted him after coming home with my brother. We'd stayed up for half the night just texting, and even I had to admit, it was nice.

I huff, slamming my things down onto the table. "America is what's wrong."

Talia raises a brow, gesturing for me to continue. "You know another Black man was shot by the police today?"

Miles' face twists up in disgust. "Seriously?"

I nod, folding my arms over my chest. "We were talking about it in my Black Studies class. And this fucking asshole dared to say that I have no right to be angry because I'm not Black enough." My chest is rising after each word, and I can feel my blood boiling just like it had in that damn classroom.

Talia's jaw dropped and Miles looks pissed as his jaw clenched. I blink, looking up at the ceiling as I feel angry tears welling up in my eyes. "As if the white part in me somehow dilutes the fact that my mother is a Black woman, that my little brother has a fucking target on his back because he is a Black man."

"What the hell!" Talia exclaims, jumping down from the kitchen stool. "He can't just say something like that to you."

I laugh solemnly. "Tal, I've been hearing that for my entire life. I have never been able to comfortably fit in with Black people or even white people. Because they don't see me as their equal. I'm not Black enough or I'm not white enough." I sigh, feeling my anger fade away to dejection. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to explode on you guys. You're both busy."

Miles shakes his head, his green eyes swirling with irritation. "You're not bothering us." Talia nods in agreement. "I can't believe you have to go through that. It's bullshit."

I shrug, already walking towards my room. "Yeah, it is. But guess what? That's America for you."

Collapsing onto my bed, I shove the palms of my hands against my eyes, practically pushing the tears back. Being mixed hasn't always been something I could be proud of. Growing up I had always wished to just be one thing. Fully Black or fully white. Those moments had been the darkest parts of my childhood. Filled with depressive episodes and anxiety-ridden days.

I've learned to be comfortable in my skin. To find the beauty of having a strong Black mother and a resilient white father. I'm not going to let some idiot like Quintin try and break down those years of self-acceptance. I'm not going to just sit back and ignore the problem.

Opening up my laptop, I click on the saved browser for The New York Times internship. Looking over the application requirements again, I suddenly know exactly what I want to do my portfolio on.

I want to show exactly what police brutality is doing to Black communities. I want to show exactly what it means to be a Black person living in America.

Jumping up from my bed, a plethora of ideas begin to flow as I scramble around to find my notebook. Without even thinking, I burst out of my room, causing Talia and Miles to whip their heads in my direction. Even Veronica, who is standing in the kitchen now, with an apple in her hand, pauses to look at me before her brown eyes harden.

"What's that asshole's name?" she demands. "Talia and Miles just told me what happened."

I wave away her question, turning to look at them. "That doesn't matter anymore because I know what I need to do."

Talia looks confused as she stares at me. "And what do you need to do?" she inquires.

"Today, Professor Clarke asked us if we wanted to help solve the problem or just ignore it," I rush out. "I want to help solve it. There's this internship at The New York Times and for the application, I need to create a portfolio of work that shows my morals and everything I stand for." I point to the television where the nightly news is broadcasting and coincidentally talking about the Jermaine Bowers' shooting. "That is what I stand for. I want people to know you can't get away with oppression. I want to show everyone exactly what it means to be Black."

Veronica looks impressed, taking a bite of her apple. "Okay, I'm here for this. What do you have in mind?"

I smile, looking at Miles who is already watching me. "Do you mind helping me?"

"Of course," he says automatically. "What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to paint." He raises his eyebrows at me. "I'll give you all of the credit of course, and I don't have a clear idea yet for the painting, but once I do, I'll let you–"

I'm in," he states, his expression sincere. I can't help but beam.

"Thank you."

I bite down on my lip, my adrenaline disappearing just as fast as it had come. Doubt starts to seep through, and I suddenly wonder if I'm capable of doing this. "What if it's too much?"

Miles shakes his head. "It's never too much. This is something you believe in, and I know for a fact you're going to kick ass and make everyone listen to what you have to say." Veronica and Talia let out collective hell yeah's, and I can't help but smile. Miles winks at me, walking over as I clutch my notebook to my chest.

"I believe in you, Evie," he whispers in my ear. "I know you've got what it takes. Now you just need to believe in that beautiful brain of yours just as much as I do."

there's a lot that i want to say about this chapter. but from the beginning, i wanted this book and evie's character to be more than her falling in love with a cute guy after getting her heart broken. i wanted to tell a story, a real authentic story.

yes, this is a romance book with cheesy moments and cute scenes, but it's also reality. evie is a Black woman living in the biggest city in the country. her life isn't rainbows and sunshine and neither is the real world. being a Black woman in america is dangerous. being a mixed woman in america is confusing. that scene between quintin and evie is barely scratching the surface of what biracial people go through. to have to defend their Blackness because they don't "look Black enough" or "talk Black enough."

from the start of the book, i knew that i wanted evie to get involved within the Black community. there's a reason why my lead character is Black. and that reason was revealed in this chapter.

police brutality is real. racism against Black people is also real. hiding behind ignorance is not going to make it go away. i've been given a platform, and instead of writing about things that don't mean a damn thing, i am writing about things that concern me, as a Black woman. as a Black creative.

if you don't like it, that's fine. if it makes you uncomfortable, i am doing my job. Black lives matter. they will always matter.