James comes home tired from his long shift at work. He takes off his shoes, not bothering with shoelaces, and puts them on the shelf next to small bright red ones and slightly bigger coral ones. Then James readjusts a backpack on his shoulder, filled with some change clothes and something tasty for his girls. They both have sweet tooth.
Someone might have heard that he has come even though TV in the living room is bustling with cartoon voices, because soon after some shuffling and stumbling James sees his daughter coming to him. She is five and he adores her with his whole heart. This feeling seems to be mutual for the daughter laughs and launches herself into his arms. She pecks him on his pale cheek and exclaims that mommy has cooked the most delicious lasagna ever, so they should go and wash their hands faster.
James sees that his wife indeed comes out of the kitchen, glasses tucking her long bangs up from her forehead. She smiles at him and comes closer to give him her own peck. She has been really interested in cooking these past weeks, and results of her rendezvous with all kitchen stuff are pretty impressive. James must admit, that her pasta is way tastier than his, taking into account that he has been cooking for almost all his life and is pretty skilled, too!
The three of them all come into the kitchen, the daughter venting her discontent with how some cartoon character has acted and her parents listening to her carefully. James leaves them for a moment to wash his hands and his face, fatigue visible under his eyes. Still, he puts on a smile entering the kitchen again and takes out a bag of sweet puffs from the backpack that he has brought earlier.
Happy hollering fills the room, and James can’t help but laugh. His two most precious people jump around that small bag as if it is worth a fortune, hug him and thank him for such a surprise in unison. His daughter says the she has been dreaming about these puffs for a whole day and that her father is a magician who can read her mind and that it’s really really cool.
The dinner goes by and James stays behind to do the dishes. His wife joins him after giving their daughter a bath and setting a couple of cartoons for her before bed. She hugs James from behind, a tip of her head barely reaching his nape, and rests her arms on his chest, an endearing sight. Her embrace is firm, but gentle, protecting, but not restricting. She says she has missed him. After almost eight years of marriage she doesn’t get tired repeating this phrase every day after James comes home, pouring her love, trust and admiration into every word. Not even this dreadful quarantine seems to affect their relationships, because their quarreling doesn’t exceed its normal rate of “seldom” and they still want to see each other faces very much. James feels with every inch of his flesh and soul that he is wanted and loved in this house. And he is thankful for his family beyond words.
James is a bit disoriented. His head is heavy and arms are tired after all these hours of standing, walking, pushing, beating. James knows what he is doing, it is written in his contract, it is written in the laws of his country, it is in his blood and in his parents nurturing flowing in his veins that what he is doing is right and should be done.
They chant from all directions: “Say his name! Say his name!” They ask and they get the answer. They ask again and they get the answer. They ask again and the name rings in his ears, echoes in his empty stomach, pierces through the helmet and the bulletproof vest. It suffocates his mind, he thinks it is the plague that has infected not just “that” people, but normal people too, for he sees. He sees all these people in front of him, standing on one knee, holding signs and chanting.
James thinks, that “that” people are in the wrong, their actions are a threat that must be neutralized, their lives no more valuable that of a murderer or a thief.
James doesn’t know that his commander has received a message from “above” to bring everyone to their police department, no matter which colour their skin is.
James doesn’t know that he himself is a murderer, because the body of that teenager in a mask that launched at him with a banner this night is still not recognised.
James can’t cover neither his ears nor eyes, his hands holding that plastic shield, now gripping not a gun but a baton. He can’t fall back because he has the order, he is a part of his department, a part of a violent machine, its wheels and gears and pistons.
James sees a “that” man coming in front of the crowd, standing on one knee again and starting to speak. The man’s voice is rusted from tears and screams, passionate and heartbreaking. He is speaking the truth about four hundred years of oppression, not manslaughter, but straightforward homicide, of exploitation and segregation, filling the air with a cry for understanding and help. James thinks these are lies and exaggerations, pieces of twisted history and someone’s wicked beliefs. Tears flow down the man’s checks unstoppably and hands and hands of people near him come supporting his back, holding his shoulders.
James receives an order to apprehend the man. The crown seems to understand something and more voices erupt, echoing through the crowd, ringing with encouragement. “We are with you!”, “We are here!”.
Then James does his work.
No comments:
Post a Comment