Equidistant


 
 
 
 EQUIDISTANT
 
 
 EQUIDISTANT
 Tatyana N. Phelps
 
 
 
 New Degree Press
 Copyright © 2022 Tatyana N. Phelps
 All rights reserved.
 EQUIDISTANT
 ISBN 979-8-88504-424-0 Paperback
 979-8-88504-432-5 Kindle Ebook
 979-8-88504-436-3 Ebook
 
 
 
 Table of Contents
 Prologue
 Chapter: 1.
 Chapter: 2.
 Chapter: 3.
 Chapter: 4.
 Chapter: 5.
 Chapter: 6.
 Chapter: 7.
 Chapter: 8.
 Chapter: 9.
 Chapter: 10.
 Chapter: 11.
 Chapter: 12.
 Chapter: 13.
 Chapter: 14.
 Chapter: 15.
 Chapter: 16.
 Chapter: 17.
 Chapter: 18.
 Chapter: 19.
 Chapter: 20.
 Chapter: 21.
 Chapter: 22.
 Chapter: 23.
 Chapter: 24.
 Chapter: 25.
 Chapter: 26.
 Chapter: 27.
 Chapter: 28.
 Chapter: 29.
 Acknowledgments
 
 Prologue
 Fear. Fear comes in many faces. Maybe it’s a fear of snakes or a fear of heights. Maybe it’s a fear of rejection or failure. I have many fears, but one may say they’re a bit silly, such as cockroaches, pit bulls, never finding my purpose, dying alone, and embarrassing myself in front of a large audience. More than anything, though, I’m afraid of the world around me and what the people who inhabit it are capable of.
 Don’t get me wrong—the world is full of beautiful people and beautiful creatures. It’s incredible what can grow from Earth and what nature can do. But I’d be naive to turn a blind eye to the parts of the world that aren’t beautiful, like natural disasters, children starving across the world, the tents and blankets I see covering those without homes when I’m driving into the city, and, worst of all, violence.
 Despite my success and accomplishments, two factors will always, in one way or another, hold me back—I’m a woman, and I’m Black. This is not to say I feel as though I got the short end of the stick. I love my skin color, I love my culture, and I admire how far my people have come. But the disadvantages I’ll have and will always face are something I can’t help but acknowledge. Being a Black woman in America has left me and enrages me with much bigger fears—experiencing racism or injustice, being profiled by a White police officer, being violated by a man I won’t give consent to, being stereotyped before I even open my mouth to speak, and working twice as hard only to not make it even half as far as my White male counterparts. These are all fears that encourage me to carry a taser, make it home before dark, try my best not to give a police officer any reason to stop me, and shy away from groups of people sporting the rebel flag on nearly everything they own.
 Once when I was seven years old, my mom enrolled me on a local T-ball team. I spent hours dedicating myself to the team and being present during our practices. I practiced batting and catching the softball at home almost every evening. Even at a young age, I felt a strong passion for fully giving myself to anything I was involved in. After all the blood, sweat, and tears—not to mention a bruised eye—that I put into T-ball, it was finally time for our first game. Anyone who knew me back then can tell you how thrilled I was for that game. I sat, wearing my team uniform and airbrushed helmet that my mom had personalized for me, resting the tip of the bat on my foot as my right leg tapped furiously. I couldn’t wait until it was my turn to bat. I mean, this was seriously the moment I’d been practicing so much for. The innings came and went as I kept glancing at the time, wondering when it would finally be my turn. I’d even seen some of the other girls on the team get multiple turns to bat. All I wanted was at least one.
 I’d love to tell you that my turn finally came, and I blew everyone away with my unbelievable batting skills, but that isn’t how it went down. I kept noticing that my dad—whom they asked to serve as an umpire in the game since the original one hadn’t shown up—continuously flashed looks of confusion at my mom each time the coach called another girl on the team to bat. I turned to look behind me, noticing that my mom was shaking her head at him, wearing the same expression she usually made when my sister or I got into trouble. But I wasn’t the one in trouble this time. She quickly rose from the bench and grabbed my hand, taking me away from the rest of my team. She yelled out to my dad, “Tim!” He walked off the field without giving the coaches a notice or a glance.
 “Come on. We’re leaving,” I remember her saying sharply. “This doesn’t make any damned sense.”
 I don’t remember if she said anything to the coaches or not, but she’s never been afraid to speak up for herself or her children, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she did. If she had said something, I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.
 Heavy tears began to form in my eyes as I looked back, seeing the game go on without me. Why would my mom do that to me? I never even got my turn.
 It wasn’t until I was much older that I understood the reality of what happened that night. I was the only Black girl on the team—not only that but even the only person of color. I found myself in situations like that throughout elementary school, but especially in high school and now, even in the workplace. I’ve been used more than once just to meet a diversity quota. It later happened again the summer after I finished high school. A popular pizza restaurant chain—where I was, again, the only Black person there—hired me, had me go through training, and never put me on the schedule again.
 As an Army brat, I grew up around all kinds of people. I never noticed I was any