My Silent Protest

November 5, 2004.1

It was an overcast and blistery cold sort of day, not unlike any other that time of year in the Midwest. Strangers huddled together under the bus stops, the most active spot on each block. The small glass cages looked deceivingly attractive as the inhabitants tried to grasp warmth from any source possible. The exhaust of their breathing could be seen as their bodies violently shook under the big black coats that matched their quivering faces. On the exterior, from the car where we sat, it seemed like a typical day in Chicago. I couldn’t see the beautiful skyline and towering buildings of downtown, but their presence could still be felt as they cast an ominous disapproving gloom on the surrounding urban remains, or ghettos, as they are more commonly referred.2

The environment seemed incredibly silent and for once, not in the least bit menacing. The drug dealers were pacing their corners like they had done yesterday and the day previous, but no one uttered a word; it was like their mouths were frozen shut. We traveled in silence as well, taking the local roads to avoid tolls and traffic. My usually critical mind seemed muted that day as if enjoying the fair weather before a bad storm. An increasingly eerie feeling came over me. I wondered why we had altogether forgotten the radio’s existence that morning and had a bad feeling in my stomach as I turned it on. 3

“…… and another win yesterday for George W. Bush as he will enter into his second term……...” the radio blared.4

Oh, my god. Oh, my god………Oh, my god! No wonder I had completely tuned out the media. I forgot temporarily how much the coverage of the election was becoming hazardous to my health.5

“What!?! I can’t believe it.” my husband said, although I wasn’t immediately sure if he was disappointed, pleased, or just surprised. His objection surely didn’t sound as staunch as mine would be when I finally overcame my shock and was able to find the right curse words.6

I stared out the window. Everything became a blur. Englewood…….. Garfield Park…….. Uptown. I couldn’t tell which community or on which side of the city I was traveling through at the moment. All the black neighborhoods looked the same anyway, abandoned storefronts albeit the omni-present rundown liquor store. The surroundings were bleak enough even on the most delightful of days, but today an aura of sadness and disbelief bore down on any living thing.7

Had they heard, I thought. Why aren’t they protesting? Running in the street… even killing white people like me… anything would be better than deafening silence!8

“Four more years of this.” I muttered under my breath, at my natural volume, far too quiet for anyone to interpret.9

I lay my head back on the rest.10

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“Look at these people.” my husband said, contemptfully. We were sitting at a traffic stop. A homeless man weaved in between cars begging for spare change. His clothes were tattered, but his teeth were all gold and the cell phone hanging from his hip was hard to deny. It wouldn’t have surprised me if his ’76 Cadillac was parked around the corner, or he was thinking about his last retreat to Vegas at this very moment.12

He stopped at our window somehow sensing our sideways glance. Johan lowered the window and thanked him while giving away a scrumpled up dollar bill. “Disgusting,” he continued after continuing forward.13

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Later that day, I sat with Anabelle awaiting food stamps. I never felt bad about needing social services, at least not as much as society seemed to tell me I should. The room was filled with a perfect plethora of people from every nation, color, and creed on the planet. Although I was the only one who was white and spoke English fluently, I didn’t feel so out of place. Everyone’s kids mingled more intimately than at any shopping mall or community center I’ve ever visited. Sadly, poverty is often the most powerful binding source, it seems. My mind wandered as I rocked Anabelle on my lap.15

It was taking a long time today though, even for social service standards. I calculated at least four hours. I’d seen several sets of families come and go with ease, none of them having even the least bit of trouble. Just me. 16

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve been waiting an awful long time.” I finally said when I caught a worker off guard.17

“Your name?” the short Hispanic women said.18

“Malik.” I said.19

She disappeared for several minutes.20

“Hmmm, I don’t think you submitted your papers, or they are lost. Either way, you will have to redo them.” she said after finally emerging.21

“You’re kidding me. I’ve been waiting here with my eight month old for nearly the whole day!” The last people were trickling out the door and Ana was starting to get antsy again. Probably she needed a change, or it was time for feeding………. again.22

The lady gave a tight smile indicating that that would be as close as I would come to an apology. She seemed nice, but was not empathetic.23

I’m not partial to crying in public. It’s not something I like to do, especially with a child in my hands. I couldn’t help it though. Suddenly, all of the events of the last few weeks started to build on me and made my head waver. I tried to fight back the tears as best I could, but I just turned away and tried not to make too dramatic of a sob. I wasn’t exactly afraid of them seeing me cry, but was apprehensive for them to continue ignoring me in that state. 24

I had nothing to lose, so I called my husband.25

“You don’t have to stay there. We will manage, sweetheart.” He prodded me, calmly.26

It made me feel better for the moment although I knew we needed to scrounge together every resource we had or we would never make the rent again.27

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May 1, 200629

HONK! HONK!……….HONK!30

“Just lay off the horn would you! I doubt it’s going to get us there any faster.” I yelled to my husband as politely as possible as he tried to dip in and out of traffic.31

We were downtown, and so it seemed was every person of Hispanic origin in the whole tri-state area. The streets were full of people holding pickets signs and shouting “SI, SE PUEDE!” We came to an abrupt halt as at least four of them ran right in front of us. It sure did look like they were having a lot of fun on their day off.32

“Well, what are these damn Mexicans protesting anyway! I mean they’re not citizens. They have no rights.” my husband screamed.33

“Ay,” I let out before stopping myself. Spanish words were buzzing inside and outside my head and I resisted the urge to tell him off in either of the languages I spoke. It wasn’t the fact that he didn’t like Mexicans acting out of line that bothered me, it was that my husband was himself a foreign immigrant. He didn’t criticize his own people this harshly even though they faked their resumes, didn’t pay taxes, and start to act like white Republicans the moment they get a valid paycheck.34

I let a long silence elapse before cautiously starting, “Ummm, you know what’s interesting?”35

“What’s that?” he responded, not so interested.36

“When I was chatting with your family in Pakistan today, they told me it was a national holiday there, May Day. Heard of it?”37

He clicked his tongue harshly, meaning to say, ‘no, don’t care’.38

“Well, it’s kinda funny actually. The celebration is actually the result of an event that happened right here in Chicago…..in 1886, I think. Well, that would have been 120 years ago today!” I said, just realizing it.39

“So.”40

“A bunch of people died. They were all fruit sellers and lumberjacks, I think.” I said, trying to downplay it in case he wanted to debate me ferociously again. “Anyway, isn’t it funny that they recognize it around the world, but not in Chicago?”41

“I guess.” he muttered. 42

He slammed on the brakes again, just avoiding the car in front of him. “I haaaate this!” he screamed. 43

“Well, you should be enjoying this.” he retorted, rudely. “These are your favorite people.”44

I debated whether or not to respond, but was getting increasingly frustrated, as well. “I wouldn’t say that.” I said.45

“But you don’t exactly hate them.” he said, matter-of-factly.46

“Well, I don’t really hate anyone.” Oops, wrong choice of words.47

“And, that’s your problem.” He said, using his tongue as a blade, cutting through me.48

It’s just about every day that I feel trapped and suffocated, but only on the most joyous of days do I get to feel so small and useless. I sat, motionless. If I wasn’t careful, he would continue and maybe even tears would flow as he would bring the flaws of the world closer and closer to my own.49

Then again, he was right. Through him I had come to the realization that humans were always bound to hate other humans in some form and to deny it is suicide. If you don’t hate someone else, than you probably really hate yourself, I thought. 50

I hate you, Johan, I permitted myself to think. A small grin surfaced on the left side of my mouth.51

The thought immediately freed me and I reached over and grabbed his hand. The traffic was speeding up now and we were about to get on the expressway towards home.52

“I love you.” I said.53

He looked over, sighed, and caressed my hair lightly.54