Free The Beat of My Own Drum by Sheila E. Page B

faster and farther than they could, I could escape.
    This served me well in my neighborhood, too, where the threat of violence was also lurking around every corner. I was especially afraid of the East Twenty-first Street Gang, who hung around looking for victims. Moms often sent me to get bread or milk at the corner store, so I had to plan my trips carefully. I’d take the money she gave me, then peek out the front door to check that the coast was clear before running to and from the store as fast as I could, on a self-preservation kick she had no idea about.
    Sometimes the gang would catch me and pull my hair until I cried or hurt me so I bruised, and I’d have no choice but to tell Moms and Pops. Whenever I did, they’d confront the bullies and their parents, though both would deny any wrongdoing.
    And while the adults talked, one of the bullies would punch a fist into his palm to show me that I’d pay for being a tattletale.
    Yet again, I was on my own.
    I wasn’t the only target; my brothers and other kids weregrabbed and beaten or tied to telephone poles to be slapped or punched. My friend Connie was among them, and we’d often share our miserable stories in the sanctuary of her room. The corner store and my house were the only safe zones; everywhere else, we were fair game.
    As I grew into my teens, I began to wear my growing anger and frustration like a suit of armor. I was hormonal and frustrated. I felt victimized, stigmatized, and ignored. Mostly I’d argue with friends, my family, or my teachers just for the sake of it. If they told me the sky was blue, I’d tell them it was red. I’d argue the time of day just to push up against anyone in authority.
    Increasingly, I began to direct my anger toward sociocultural issues. We may have lived in the liberal Bay Area, where the law had banned segregation, but society still allowed it.
    Our community especially was becoming more and more violent, or perhaps it was my awareness of violence that was growing. We heard frequent reports of fights, stabbings, and race riots. Once in a bleak while there’d be a shooting in our neighborhood, and sirens became a familiar background noise again. Squad cars constantly drove by, and it always seemed like someone was getting arrested on every other street corner.
    Despite the police presence, our community felt unsafe, and it was the question of race that seemed to be at the epicenter. The Black Panther Party, founded in Oakland in 1966 when I was a child, was extremely active, and its influence was growing. I became fascinated by it, along with the wider civil rights movement. I longed to stand up in public and raise my fist in the Black Power salute.
    Hungry for more information, I read everything I could about Rosa Parks and Harriet Tubman—two women who inspired me with their courage and conviction. I saw them as models for my own emerging aspirations.
    Secretly, I reveled in the idea of creating revolution. It made me feel stronger as a young girl on the brink of womanhood.
    I was fighting for my right to be heard.
    I longed to make some noise.
    I wanted a voice.
    My biggest problem was that I had a hard time knowing exactly where I was placed within the community. People couldn’t easily tell what race I was by looking at me, so I didn’t “belong” to anyone.
    I knew Pops was born to Mexican parents and Moms was Creole, but in school and on the streets, I was pressed to come up with an answer to the question “Are you black or are you white?” There was no gray. No in-between. “Mixed” wasn’t an option—another reason for my persistent discomfort.
    I was just me.
    I knew I wasn’t white, but I wasn’t brown, either. I considered myself black, even though many of my relatives looked white or brown.
    Faced with such a stark choice, I picked black, because that’s where I felt most comfortable. I not only grew up in a largely black community, but my family spoke the slang of the “hood.”
    I wasn’t the