They Brought Water Cannons to a Freedom Fight

The organizers told us to sing louder than our fear.

It’s the first thing my sister whispers to me as we sneak through the back gate of Carver High, shirts untucked and fists already sweaty. Ruby’s fourteen and built of stubborn and fire. I’m twelve and scared out of my shoes.

The sun isn’t even high yet, but the heat is already coiled in the air like a warning. My collar sticks to the back of my neck. There’s a chalky dryness in my throat I can’t swallow down. We cut across a yard full of crushed soda bottles and cracked toys, past a sleeping hound curled up beside a rusted trike, until we reach the sidewalk where other kids are gathering.

Ruby tightens her ponytail with one hand and grabs mine with the other.

“We don’t run today,” she says. “We march.” I don’t know exactly what we’re marching for entirely, but I know I like the idea of freedom and equal rights. And I trust my sister. Sure, she’s annoying sometimes, but she takes care of me—and I take care of her.

She tugs my hand and pulls me into the tide of kids moving down 16th Street. There must be two hundred of us, maybe more. Shoes scuff concrete, boys whisper jokes and get elbowed by girls trying to sing. Someone hums “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me ’Round.” The melody trembles in the air like it’s trying to believe itself.

The morning sun splits through the oaks that hang like old spirits over Kelly Ingram Park. Dust floats in golden beams above the grass, where dewdrops cling to flattened clover like tiny promises. Our Sunday shoes slap the sidewalk. My stomach growls from skipping breakfast. Someone passes me a sign—I Am a Man—and I hold it like it weighs a hundred pounds.