“I want to go home.” Renisha McBride was speaking and someone, maybe a woman, was there.
Renisha was talking to no one.
She wanted to go home.
Night time wobbled, dizzying. The woman’s voice came out in sharp, distant clips.
A dull ringing in the front of Renisha’s head traveled to her ears interrupting the woman’s voice.
“…You…help…calling.” What was this woman saying? Through her fingers the sparkling pavement tilted and rocked as it crunched.
The blurry, underwater figure of this woman swayed a few feet away. Her body rippled and appeared unclear as though a pebble had been dropped on Detroit to upset the darkness and the pavement.
The woman stepped toward Renisha tentatively. Crunch sounded under Renisha’s heavy feet. A memory flashed as two cars came into her vision.
The sensation of her car coming to an abrupt stop jolted through her ringing head. A memory of the seatbelt snatching her back to the seat knocked her even further off balance. The sound of metallic crunching cut sharply through the ringing to snatching her out of the fog. The side of her head was warm and her hands were damp. Her head, heavy and too light at the same time, had hit something.
The steering wheel? The window?
“I want to go home.” Renisha could take care of her head at home.
The fuzzy woman’s voice lost volume as Renisha’s feet staggered off. Her hands were wet, but she was not sweating. This was early morning, in November and it was cold.
Detroit was cold.
Unsteadily she stepped, trying to make sense of her missing phone and sticky hands. Renisha was dizzy and she could not remember why her car would not start. Her feet could get her home…
It was early this November morning, cold and quiet. The sound of shoe soles occasionally scuffing the pavement was heard only by Renisha. The buzz of streetlamps provided a bass line for the offbeat rhythm of this black girl’s feet.
Renisha hears almost nothing,
Except Detroit in the distance.
How long have her feet been shuffling,
One over the other? November is cold.
There is no answer. How far till
Her head hurts, but the blood has dried.
Strands of hair lie plastered to her temple,
Her hands feel the stickiness dried and cracking.
Drinks from earlier have begun to retreat from her.
Renisha’s mind is a little more aware.
She is not alert.
She is afraid.
This is not home.
For lost people, to
Become afraid is reasonable.
Simple and natural.
Renisha is afraid.
Help those who
By knocking on a door
She helped herself
To an assumption of
A faith in the Golden
A belief that someone
Gives a damn.
Renisha is not Golden,
Renisha is black.
Black is not the rule.
Nor the exception,
In the wrong neighborhood,
Black is the aggression.
Black is not at home.
A black girl walks onto a porch. A black hand knocks on a locked door.
The door is opened. A black girl blinks at a black hole.
This is not help.
The light of a humming street lamp glints over the side of the metal cylinder peeking out of the opened door. This gun, this weapon responds.
Silently, cold and Unblinking.
This weapon is a replacement,
For ask and ye shall receive.
A 19 year old was asking for help.
She wanted to go...
The dark hole stayed between Renisha’s face and this stranger’s home.
Renisha never went home.
Renisha McBride, a nineteen-year-old African-American woman, was involved in a car accident in a Detroit suburb at around 1 A.M. McBride, who was disoriented, knocked at the door of Theodore Wafer, a white homeowner who fired a shotgun through his screen door and killed her.
Dallas Robinson writes as a means to turn rage into love. She is a Black lesbian who loves food, her family, sports and her cats. Dallas works as a Feminist youth mentor and believes WOC are the future. Be sure to follow Dallas on twitter.