Burning tears trail down my cheeks, escaping the hatred engulfing my insides. The air is a mix of black smoke from buildings turning into ash and leftover tear gas that was thrown into our protest, unprompted.
I round the corner into the alleyway to ensure I avoid the curfew patrol. Their shouts drift over from just a couple of streets away.
I chew the dead skin from my lip as I continue walking in the dark. There had been no violence on our end. Even with the continual provocation and chants from the other side, we stayed calm and determined to keep it civil.
My phone buzzes several times in my pocket. I ignore the vibration. “Are you okay? Where are you?” My mother had typed into the group chat at the start of the chaos.
“This is why we didn’t want you to go out today. People take it too far. These protests are always so uncivilized,” My father added. “No one has any good morals these days.”
I come up against the back of our property where the white picket fence stands in all its glory. It glows against the dark sea of perfectly cut grass. A purity that comes from a consistent power wash, fresh paint, and a blessing from Jesus himself.
It was behind this fence that I witnessed my first act of violence. I was in the yard picking dandelions when I heard screams come out of our neighbor, Mrs. Hadley’s, house. Looking up, I saw Mr. Peters, the HOA president, come out of her house. His greasy blonde hair ruffled, and his usually cracked knuckles were covered in something red. His eyes darted around searching for witnesses. They spotted only me as he descended the steps.
My father came out as Mr. Peters approached the fence. “Can I help you, Mr. Peters?”
Mr. Peters looked between my father and me before sneering and turning towards his car. “Tell your daughter to focus on her flowers and mind her own business.” I didn’t know what he had meant then, and my father offered no explanation. Even when I saw Mrs. Hadley later that week with her arm in a sling and a purple flower blooming over her swollen eye, I was too young to put the two incidents together. All I knew was that I didn’t like Mr. Peters, and I screamed every time I saw his car in the neighbor’s driveway. My voice often brought so much attention to his arrival and gathered so many people outside that many times, he would turn from Mrs. Hadley’s door and grumble about the “damn kids these days,” before leaving.
It was the first time I felt power. I became aware of the change I could possess if I hit the right note, exposed the hidden insecurity, or stood up for someone who could not.
Now I stand here, feeling weak. Hundreds of us screamed today. Hundreds of us used our voices and cried for injustice to be corrected, and nothing happened. But we were the ones with no morals.
I kick at the corner of the fence. I grip it between my hands, shaking it loose. The wood splits, and a small stake comes off in my hand.
It had been this very spot that I had been standing and happily accepting cookies from Mrs. Cruz. She didn’t speak a lick of English, but her baking transcended any language barrier. Her daughter, Flora, often translated for her and her father, Mr. Cruz. I had just accepted the cookies and was in the middle of saying “Gracias,” when two vans pulled up to their house.
Masked men started screaming orders. They grabbed Flora when she came out to check the commotion. Mrs. Cruz ran for her daughter, screaming Spanish pleas. They blocked her, ushering her and her husband into the other van. Flora called my name, begging for help. My mother came out just as I began shouting for the men to stop or for someone else to help.
“We mustn’t interfere. We don’t want their rage turned onto us,” my mother told me and pulled me away from the fence, away from the scene where Flora was being put into a separate van from her parents, away from the echoing cries of Mrs. Cruz, and away from the smell of fresh backed cookies still lingering in the air.
I look away from the fence over to where the Cruzes used to live. They never came back. They never got to come home. Instead, a new white family lives there, happily going about their day, unaware of anyone before them.
A tightness spreads in my chest. No, using our voices isn’t good enough. It doesn’t stop the current powers. They have tuned us out. Our screams are no longer enough to get attention or embarrass the predators. Not when so many people turn their backs because it is the more “moral” thing to do.
I feel the sharp crescents begin to form in my palm as my fists tighten. I need a place for this hatred and anger to release. I feel my nerves harden as adrenaline courses through my veins. I look at the fence. I reach into my pocket and flick my lighter.
The flame dances seductively in my hand. I hadn’t been one to join in the mayhem that followed after the police had decided to declare war. I had been peaceful. But I needed to regain the power they took. I needed to make them understand.
The flame hits the brush below the picket fence, casting orange flowers that dance across its white exterior. A threat from below before it engulfs the once pristine symbol. The flames creep slowly around the small yard, resulting in a square of ash. With each splinter of the wood, the fire within my chest becomes all the more consuming.
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