Disclaimer:I own what isn't recognized

If you notice changes in the characters, its human, not ooc

{Julia, 1965}

Protesting

His dark hand is wrapped around my light one as we run through the quiet, vacant streets of Bixby, Oklahoma. My knee is hurting something awful but I try not to think about it too much. I can feel my long hair flying around my shoulders and my thin black cardigan trying to slide down my arms. His Converses and my bare feet pound on the road and the hollering of people in the next street is getting louder. It's cold outside and it aint helping that I'm wearing a tank top and that loose cardigan, but it's my own fault and I'm not about to start complaining. I feel bad for Troi too since he's wearing his white undershirt and one of those flannels he likes.

We keep running until we reach a big group of protesters. Most of them are colored like Troi, and hold up signs about how they want integration. I don't blame them. It's just fine to fight for your rights. Most of the white people that are there wear navy blue uniforms and matching hats with bats in their hands and whistles in between their lips. I bet they never got kissed before unless their girls are communists too and dig having whistles between them and their guys while exchanging saliva.

Troi's hand is tighter around mine now, I guess it's because he wants to make sure the cops know that not everyone has to have the same colored skin in order to be best friends. I see a bunch of the cops with different colored hair and that aint bad to them. What's so damn bad about different colored skin? Inside our bodies, we're all the same.

"Garner!" one of the communists shouts my name. I don't bother to wonder why he drove his way to another town. "You betta get back home now!"

His name is Raymond Patterson but everyone calls him Bay. I don't know why. He's the top cat at the Tulsa Police Station down on Pines St. across from The Pines restaurant and we pass it every time we go to the Nightly Double Drive-In. If that guy isn't the stupidest hick I ever met I'll be struck dumb right now.

He spits on the pavement and smiles at me and Troi like he just told some joke he's mighty proud of. "Aren't y'all a little too young to be out here with them?" he nods back to the protesters. "They're bad examples on you kids. What're all your friends gonna say, kid?" he looks at me. "All them hoods your daddy lets you sleep around with."

I step forward and my intentions are to kill him but Troi keeps me back. Patterson chuckles and spits again before turning back to the protesters. One man in front of him turns around and calls out Troi's name. He's got crooked teeth and ashy brown skin and his grey hair sticks out all over the place.

"Your momma done gone home, boy. If she finds out you gone, you gonna be in a mess of trouble!"

Troi's nodding and is calm like always because he aint scared of his momma even though she's scary when she gets mad, "How come you're here, Mr. George?"

"'Cause I git to say what's right or not just like everybody else do!"

I'm standing here thinking that old man's going to fall over any time now after yelling like that but he doesn't.

"Well," I say, "What're we gonna do?"

Troi shrugs and he turns to face me. "It'll be a waste of time to drive here and back home for nothin'."

"So…"

Troi doesn't say much; he never has to. He just turns to face the crowd again and puts his hand between my shoulder blades in order to guide me towards the center of the crowd.

"What's your mama gonna say?"

He shrugs. He just doesn't ever get bothered about anything. That's one of the reasons why he's my best friend; opposites attract.

Some of the older women sing songs that Troi says they sometimes sing in church. There are around thirty people here and more are coming. Trucks are filled up with people holding up signs and chanting and laughing, and the young men and women pile on out of them to come and join the group. The cops are getting edgy; I can tell because they whisper to each other and glance at everyone with restlessness in their eyes.

And finally, we start to walk. We start the march. More black folks look on from the windows of their apartments as we walk through the streets. More and more people, even white people, start to become a part of this movement. The music these people are producing from their talented lungs sends chills throughout my body. God, I love this feeling. I am somebody with an opinion. I am somebody with a belief. Well, I've always had beliefs, and all, but those beliefs seem so petty compared to the ones I have now. Two years ago, the war I knew was over local territories; socials versus greasers. Now, its whites versus blacks on a whole new level, and somewhere in another land far, far from here, there's a war on communism that we have to fight.

I can somewhat relate to what the people here are saying. Back when the North side of Tulsa was fighting the South side, I always knew the guys I hang out with were trying to make a point about how they were just as good as the Socs; had the same rights as them and everything. Well, the black folks are trying to prove the same point. I can relate. I can try to help them.

The Tulsa police are following behind us. When we get to the main street, we are forced to a stop by the Bixby police. They stand in a group, just like we do, and they look like a platoon of soldiers in their uniforms with bats as weapons. The Tulsa pigs go to stand next to them and they all smirk and hold their chins up, bats hit their palms in a threatening gesture.

One of the Bixby officers steps forward and says, "Game's over. I suggest y'all go back the way you came, 'cause you aint passing us without consequences."

Murmurs come from around me and Troi. I look up at my buddy but he's not looking back at me; he stares straight ahead at the officers. I want to leave before I see the bats be put into use. But I don't want to leave and feel defeated.

You see, I'm the kind of girl who always has to get the last word in, but I haven't ever dealt with anything so widely serious before. Not like this. This is something bigger than what goes on in Tulsa. Tulsa is a tiny part of this country, and it takes a while for it to catch up with the rest of the world.

"What you gonna do with the bats, officers?" A young lady says. "You know that's police brutality!"

"Welp," the man says, "then I suggest you leave for the sake of yourselves and your authority figures. All we're tryin' to do is help you out, now. I wouldn't want to use force in an unnecessary situation."

I see Patterson spit again.

The crowd gets loud now and people start to bump me around. Troi takes my wrist and leads me to the back of the crowd as everyone else moves forward.

"Let's go home," he says. "Things'll get too crazy from here on."

"Sounds good," I say.

We walk through the back streets, just the way we came before. "Were you nervous?" I ask.

As we get into the car and I turn on the engine, I feel the adrenaline from before ease out of my system.

"No," he says. "I am now though. I hope things don't get too outta control. Man, I can't believe Patterson and them were there. They musta known about this for a long time." He chuckles a little and rolls down the window.

The truck doesn't move but five feet before we hear a thumping noise behind us. I slam my foot on the breaks and gasp. When we turn in our seats to take a look at what exactly it was that made that noise, we see an older black man holding onto the back of the truck's bed. He starts to tap his hands against it.

"Hey, man," Troi yells out the window. "What do you want?"

"I need a ride, son," the man says. "Say, why don't you let me ride in the back here? I live on Johnson Road; only a few miles from here. You know?"

"No. We live in Tulsa." Troi says. "But come sit up here with us and you can tell us the way."

"You're a real saint, you know that?" I mutter sarcastically.

"Thank you," the man says upon climbing into the car. Troi squeezes next to me and I think he means to squeeze more than necessary. "My name's Jonsey."

"I'm Troi," Troi says and shakes the man's hand, "and this is Julie."

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." Jonsey says. "I very much appreciate this."

We drive in silence; the only noise is Mr. Jonsey telling me which way to go. Eventually, he says, "So, y'all tryin' to be a big part of this revolution goin' on around here?"

"Revolution?" I say. "It's a disagreement between races. This kind of thing's been going on forever. Lincoln freed slaves from the South, now someone's gotta free blacks from the Jim Crow Laws. Mankind's got a way of being real prejudice. And the bad thing about that is mankind also's got a way of making themselves real innocent about it."

"You're very smart, young lady," Jonsey says. "It's gettin' better though. In fact, a year ago I wouldn't 'a gotten into a car with a white person drivin', 'less it was a bus. I believe y'all are helping move a revolution by being here today."

"There are hippies," Troi says. "That's what you're tryin' to say. They're mostly protesting the war though."

"What do you consider yourselves?" Jonsey asks.

"I don't know," says Troi. "People."

"Mhmm," Jonsey says. "There aint room for just people though. You aren't just people showing up at a black protest. Well, I understand in your case, young man, because you are black. We are all doing these protests for a reason. But we're something bigger, I think."

"What are we?"

"People who will help change America."