Battles Which are More Than Black or White
by Juliet Benson
It was late at night. Boots hurried down the street, the only light a single, fuzzy street lamp. The wind whistled by him, forcing him to pull his coat tighter around himself. Teeth chattering, he clutched his days wages in his hand. It felt too light.
"Hey, lookie what we got here," a voice cut through the silence. Boots faltered, looking behind him. A group of teenage boys stood there, all white. There were three of them. Two were very clean-cut; one blond and the other with thick brown hair. The other had greasy strings hanging in his eyes. The blond one was the one who had spoke.
"Where ya going, nigger?" the blonde said, hands in his pockets, sauntering forward. The other two followed. Boots swallowed hard, eyes darting to each of the boys.
"This gentleman asked you a question. Answer him." This time it was the brown-haired one who talked. They were standing underneath the ring of light now, with Boots just on the outer edges of it.
"I’m going back to the Newsboys lodging house," Boots replied, keeping his voice strong. The blond scowled at him.
"Show some respect, nigger," he snarled, spitting on Boots’ feet. Boots kept his shoulders straight.
"Is there anything else you need gentlemen? Because I have to be on my way." Boot replied with all the dignity he had. All the boys’ faces grew dark.
"Is that sarcasm, boy?" growled the stringy-haired one.
"Do you think you’re better than us? Eh, black boy?" the blond one, the aggressive one, stepped up so he was towering over Boots and glared down at him. His breath smelled like tobacco and smoke. He shoved Boots, causing him to stumble back into Stringy. Stringy’s hands dug into Boots’ shoulders and he was spun around. He was pushed again, this time to the ground.
"Get away from me, nigger! Don’t get any of your filth on me!" One of them kicked him hard in the stomach, and he gasped for air. Another kick caught him hard in the head. He wasn’t lucky enough to pass out. Several more blows saw his arm broken and his ribs bruised and soon cracked. One broken ribbed pierced his lung. He made some sort of noise in pain, but it went unheeded by the boys.
The next day the headlines proclaimed the opening of a new shop. Somewhere, buried on the fifth page, a blurb mentioned the death of a black boy.
The End
STOP RACISM