Chanise never had a white friend.

Gina never had a black friend.

Two socially constructed races kept the two women apart. One Black, African-American, shaded, as in the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, a name people of color might want to change. One Caucasian motherfucker, as some people might say. One Black nigger, as some other people might say. Two extremes in the American experience at odds with themselves and each other.

Gina never knew a black man, woman or child.

Chanise never knew a white man, woman or child.

I mean know, Chanise said, as in really knowing a person.

Other than you, I still don’t know any black people, Gina said. Should the word Black be capitalized?

Yes, Chanise said.

Then why not white?

Race is complicated, Gina.

Should I say Black lives matter?

Yeah, but it always sounds strange coming out of a white mouth. I know you mean well but increasing Black awareness feels almost false coming from white hipsters protesting in gentrified neighborhoods that kicked Black people out to build their foodie, latte bullshit domains. But, you’re right, Gina, Black lives matter.

I know the difference but what’s wrong with saying all lives matter?

Chanise refused to respond.

How about blue lives matter? You husband was a police officer. You were a police officer.

Jimmy hated white cops, Chanise said. He hated himself. Deep down he hated me. Society used Jimmy as a pawn in the white system. He wanted to be a Panther. Bobby Seale. I wanted to be Angela Davis. Ericka Huggins. We read Black History to each other some nights when we first met. We weren’t strong enough to be them.

Those names don’t ring a bell, Gina said. Who?

Never mind. Jimmy died as a black cop who put a bullet in his own head and set up the accidental death of our son who put a bullet in his own 3-year-old head with his daddy’s gun.

Too many bullets, Gina said. Too many guns.

I wanted to be militant. So did Jimmy. But we believed we could build up rather than tear down. We were wrong. White culture tears us down whether we help or nor.

I never said the N-word, Chanise.

Doesn’t matter, Gina, you thought it.

Gina’s eyes welled up.

We won’t ever be real friends, will we?

No, Chanise said. We’re too different. But we need to know who we are as individual women. Women struggling to survive a male-dominated patriarchal society designed to keep us powerless, which in some ways is as bad as chains.  

Where did you learn that?

I took some women’s studies college classes.

I’d like to go to college.

We’re better off just going home. Put our feet up. Put on Gil Scott-Heron. Listen to The Bottle. You ever hear that song?

No.

Try to heal. Have a few drinks.

Alcohol’s a problem, too.

Damn, girl, does anything exist for us in this world that won’t hurt or kill us?

Yeah, Gina said.

Love.