Shattered Illusion
From one of the many great minds at UHS, here is a great short Fiction Story by Zaara Khayer:
I was witness to the murder of George Floyd. I am not an African American. My mother and father are both from Mexico and came to America for the notion of a better life compared to the infamous Tijuana that is a city. Even if it meant trudging through deserts as the sun beat down on our backs. We endured because our parents told us it would be worth it. They were very right and very wrong. I used to always walk home that way, round the corner of the skate park where my best friend Lola and I used to make out with our respective boyfriends. We normally found them rapping like they were gangsta boys, pants so loose you could fit a gun in there. We loved them more than anything else because in some way they reminded us of where we were from. Then a quick stop at a bodega. Normally Lola and I would spend our allocated pocket money to buy Flamin hot cheetos and Cokes. We did, for the last time.
We came out of the hole in the wall bodega, Lola’s fingers already coated with Cheeto dust and mine studded with salt. We talked about Lola’s brother for a while, Alejandro who had now served three years for a crime he didn’t commit. But the jury only saw a Hispanic criminal. Not the fact Alejandro’s fingerprints didn’t match those in the house. The sight of 17 year old Alejandro in an orange jumpsuit started to feel normal. Even though it shouldn’t.
At first it just seemed like any other arrest. Then the yells started. We stopped sipping on our Cokes and turned towards the commotion. We expected to see a lively fight between black and blue, but no. A squirming dark body was stapled to the pavement by an officer. Lola and I had unintentionally moved in closer.
“C’mon man! I ain’t doin’ nothin!” A nigga saying this meant you would find a switchblade, booze or crack hidden in their two feet deep pockets. But this specific black man had empty hands and a certain desperation in his voice. The gringo pinned his knee onto George Floyd’s neck, while handcuffing his tatted arms. The three other po-po’s stood around while the gringo restrained the squirming body, stopping any individuals from interfering with the arrest.
The gringo’s choking him. Lola clutched my arm nervously.
“Let me go man! I can’t- ugh- breathe!”
“Uh huh, sure,” the gringo grunted. The copper's gold name tag had said D. Chauvin and it started to become alarming how long he had kept his knee on George Floyd’s neck.
“Help! I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!”
He’s choking! I shouted at the copper.
“Please stay back and let the police do their jobs.” Another cop mechanically answered, hands lazily placed on their belts, guarding the choking black man. It was like a public hanging during the Holocaust, except everyone had whipped out their Iphones to record.
They’re not doing anything, I realized. The guy is actually gonna die.
“P-please, don’t kill me,” the man whimpered again, the strength in his voice disappearing. The cop stayed in his position, almost smug with himself while Lola clutched my arm in fear for this man. An ominous silence had fallen amongst the crowd as we had all soon realized that Geroge Floyd had closed his eyes and stopped moving.
“You killed him! He ain’t breathing!” Lola shrieked. D. Chauvins eyes had widened, as if he was the one now choking.
Lola had rung me up and gathered our boyfriends together. Said they were gonna protest.
For what? I asked. They went quiet.
Then Lola whispered, That black we saw getting choked.
So it’s just some BLM thing, we ain’t black, I scoffed.
What difference does it make to those coppers, or to people like Alejandro? Juan, my boyfriend told me. I stared at them, this little band of Latino’s. And so I did. I saw the fire, the hate, the tears. I saw that these things had bonded us Latino’s to the Cambodians and blacks. We were all just one day away from getting a bullet in our heads. I guess this protest was in fear of that, but in hope for change. Hope that America was not just a shattered illusion.