To quote Langston Hughes, “I was saved from sin when I was going on thirteen.” What happened to me wasn’t like baptism, but it was a rebirth. The story went like this.

The door burst open, rattling as it slammed against the side of the brick house. The owner of the house stood in the middle of the doorway: his sweat stains soaked through his gray wife-beater and his sunburnt shoulders. The overwhelming smell of cigarettes flooded my nose, and his thick fingers gripped his handgun. My friends and I faced the opposite end of the barrel. His phone rang, and, assuming it was the police, I looked at the rest of my friends’ jaws dangling open. We ran.

My heart was a bass drum in my chest, beating in my ears. I couldn’t hear anything over my fear until the sirens wailed through the air. My calves felt like they would catch fire racing through the tall trees and into downtown. The police stopped us, and a second, and then third police car arrived. The officers questioned us with a cold expression and tough eyes.

I squinted at them through the bright August sunlight, trembling with fear. My friends and I stood side by side, but I never felt so alone. We were too young for them to run our IDs: we didn’t have any. The officers took our names and parents’ phone numbers.

My sister drove me home, and the police called my parents to explain the situation.

When my parents asked about the gun, the officer uttered coldly, “He had a right to defend his property. He didn’t know if those people were criminals or not.”

“They’re kids,” my mother retorted. The officer sighed, but no words left his mouth. I can imagine my father hearing this, his flat nose struggling to keep his glasses from sliding down his face, his face dropping into the stoic look that he’s mastered.

By keeping his composure, he played the role of the strongest man I knew. I stood in the center spotlight in a play I hadn’t auditioned for. My dark skin was weaponized to justify someone’s weapon. The officers echoed the man’s fears but were silent for me. I was afraid for my life. Fog clouded my brain, snatching away my ability to think.

That moment, tattooed on my mind, created the lens through which I see life. This lens is the pair of glasses that sit on my father’s nose. This lens is how he knew exactly what the officer meant, especially what went unsaid. This lens is why I take my hood down in public. This lens is why I always reach for a grocery cart in stores. It’s why my heart constricts in my chest when I see blue and red lights. This lens suffocates me, making me hyper-aware of my existence in this world.

To be Black is to be distinctly conscious of your place– how your hair lays and your voice rings in the air. I was ripped from my ignorance and thrown into a world not meant for my success. That gun took my security away from me. That violence corrupted my mind. In return, my reflection in the mirror changed, and my innocence vanished. I wasn’t welcome here. My hometown had collapsed in on itself in this battle. My hometown wasn’t mine anymore.

“You have to try and start over. It’s impossible to heal in the same place that made you sick,” my sister reminded me.

I laid in bed that night, curled up like a baby. I buried my face into the sheets, gasping for air as I muffled my sobs, aching to be somewhere else. I think my mother heard me through the walls: because then, she built a new life for me with her own hands. She rebuilt me, brick by brick.

“I’ll never live anywhere where my children aren’t safe,” my mother said. We packed up the house and moved into the city.

Looking to arm myself with confidence, I joined the marching band at my new school. My section was the color guard. People always fed me the idea that Black people had to be surrounded by white people to know they were excellent. For the first time, I was on a team with girls who all looked just like me. Those girls pushed me to be excellent every time we were together. They gave me endless support, standing poised and rigid like a brick wall for me to lean on. In the band room, I stood in a sea of faces, rippling with different colors and backgrounds.

My glasses shattered. I was visible, not alone. I rewrote my own narrative, building on my accomplishments and determination– not the color of my skin.

Now thirteen, I was saved from sin.