He woke up at sunrise every morning, which was fine during the week. On weekends, though, I liked to sleep late—or as late as Mama would let me before rousting me out of bed to help with breakfast. When the rooster crowed that morning, I remembered it was Sunday. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. It was pink and orange, the color of the horizon. In an hour or so, Mama would come in. We’d go to the kitchen and make Daddy’s favorite coffee cake. Then all of us would dress up and go to church, where Pastor Bob would pray about loving our neighbors. I loved my neighbors. I loved my town. But how far did love go? Did it stretch to Fifteenth and Pine where Jarmaine lived? Did it stretch to Birmingham or Montgomery? Maybe love wasn’t the answer. If you asked the Freedom Riders, they might say they just wanted respect. Ignore me, even hate me, but let me live. Give me a chance. Surely people could understand that. Somehow, though, my town didn’t. I had spent my life watching. When you watch, you notice.
