not on this street

Standing in the middle of the street,
I stand where you stood.
Where we all once stood.

I am here.

The asphalt is cracked from winter and summer,
from snow and heat and shifting temperatures.
Crunchy ice rests along its edges.
It has seen every season.
It has seen it all.

As I walk down the boulevard,
I see the line of houses —
each with its yard, its porch, its driveway, its cars.
Children in front yards.
People walking along the sidewalk.

It looks like any other neighborhood.
An ordinary walk on an ordinary street.

But as I move further,
the pleasant memories shift.
Something darker settles in.
Something imminent.
Something that makes my heart skip.

It is hard to describe at first.
The scenes unfolding in front of me do not belong here.

I see a mother in the middle of the street,
sitting in her van —
stuffed toys in the glove compartment,
a vehicle she uses every day to take her children to school.

Then I see the men approach.
I see the guns.
I see the bullets.

I see it happen in front of me.

No.
Not on this street.
Not in my neighborhood.

Further down, I see my neighbor’s door open.
The same men are there.
They question her.
They pull her from her house and shove her into the street,
then into their car.

She disappears.

People gather with their phones and whistles.
A crowd forms.

I see the men pull others from vehicles.
I see them smash windows,
pound on doors,
force people to the ground who were trying to protect others,
And then spray pepper spray into the air.

The acrid smoke burns eyes.
I see it all.

Further along, protesters fill the street.
Their voices are loud.
Their chests are raised.
Their hands are up.

“Not on my street.”
“ICE out.”
“Not here.”

They march in solidarity.
They keep going.

And I keep walking.

The houses fade.
Restaurants appear —
places of every culture, every kind of food.

But the street is empty.
The windows are shuttered.
The doors are closed.

They are afraid.
Afraid they will be taken from the place they love,
the place they work,
the place they built their lives around.

It isn’t just one restaurant.
It’s all of them.

I walk farther and approach the elementary school.
Children pour out the doors toward the parking lot.

Some move slowly.
Some look over their shoulders.
Some scan the street.

They do not look free.
They do not look like children racing toward home.

There is something in their eyes I cannot name.

Then I see them scatter —
around the building,
back inside —
as an unmarked SUV circles the lot.

They see it too.

They are afraid.

This is my street.
My community.
My neighborhood.

As I walk through all of it,
I see it from their point of view.

Because I am them.

There is no difference between us.

We are all human beings.