I Am a Very Important Backpack

I am a very important backpack.

I hold lunches and papers, pencils and crayons, and of course my human’s favorite blue puppy hat with movable ears when he’s not wearing it. It is my favorite job in the world to hold so many valuable things. Oh, and not to brag, but I am a limited-edition Spider-Man backpack as well.

We are heading back from school. My human’s dad picked us up in the car line.

I am so exhausted. Allllll day I have been carrying around this very heavy rock with a fish fossil imprinted on the side of it. It is show-and-tell today, so as usual my human entrusted me with his prized possession.

Obviously, I was honored. But could you have picked a lighter rock? My straps are so tight they ache.

Oh well. We will be home soon, and my human’s mom will empty me out so I can finally relax for the evening.

In the car, the usual conversations happen—school, playdates, what mom is making for dinner. Then suddenly everything goes quiet as we pull into the driveway.

Um. Hello?

We are home.

Let’s get a move on.

I need this rock out now.

But my human and his dad sit in silence. They are staring outside. His dad gets out of the car and tells him to stay inside. So he does.

My human’s eyes look scared.

Scared of what?

He looks even more scared than the first day of kindergarten. But nothing is scarier than the first day of kindergarten.

The door opens.

A man stands there. Short and stocky, wearing green, with a vest that has something written on it. I’m not sure what the words say. We’re only learning letters right now, not words, but I try to spell it out anyway.

P. O. L. I. B?

No, that doesn’t look like a B.

Hmm. What letter is that? I know it. It’s on the tip of my tongue.

Oh!

C.

And E.

Aha! I did it.

So what word is that now?

PO-LE-CE.

Police.

Police?

Why is the police here? Is someone in trouble? Did someone get hurt? Are they here to help someone?

The police man with a stubbled black beard asks my human to step out of the car in a very matter-of-fact voice.

Wait. Did my human do something wrong?

No. Of course not.

My human is the best person on the whole planet. He did nothing wrong. Well, he didn’t share his toy one time with a classmate, but he said he was sorry! It can’t be about that. It just can’t. He said sorry!

Adults are talking. My human’s mom is here now, and she is talking too. The voices get sharper, more direct. They start to raise.

I can feel his breath getting faster. Short, shallow breaths.

The police are getting aggressive.

Soon there is yelling. Lots of yelling. I hear my human’s mom crying.

Why is she crying?

What is going on?

This is not our routine.

I am supposed to be inside, relaxing in our room, in the warmth. Not outside in the driveway. Not in the cold.

This feels strange.

Odd.

Scary.

Something doesn’t feel right.

We get into a different car and travel very far to somewhere I don’t recognize. It reminds me of the kennel where my human got his first puppy.

What is this place?

This is no place for my human.

My human cries for most of the trip. Then he stops. I think he has no tears left, only whimpers.

I feel terrible. This is very confusing.

We arrive at a room. Well, it’s not exactly a room. There are tall fences all around.

A cage?

My human takes out some paper and crayons. I am set down on a cold concrete floor inside the cage. There are so many noises. Too many. Everyone here looks scared. I can see it in their eyes.

It feels like I am one of the dogs in the kennel.

But I am not a dog.

My human is not a dog.

Why are these police treating us like dogs?

I thought police were supposed to help people. This doesn’t look like help. This looks like the opposite of help.

I am scared, and I don’t know how to help.

I guess I will rest here until I get picked up again.

A few days pass, and I am still not picked up. The apple inside me is warm and soft now, not cold and crispy like it was before. My human’s mom usually empties me by now.

Where is she?

I hear people talking in the cages next to us. Earlier there was a family of four. Two parents and two small children.

Is this their home?

This does not seem cozy.

Now that I think about it, everyone here looks similar. Mostly the same as my human. I don’t see my teacher’s race. I don’t see my neighbor’s race.

Why is it just us?

I hear people say they are sending us somewhere very far away. Even farther from our house.

Why would we go farther? We need to go closer.

This is giving me a headache. I feel so confused.

Maybe I just need to rest.

Four days.

Five days.

Eight.

Ten.

Twelve days.

On the twelfth day, I am finally on the move.

My human is quiet now. No smiles. No laughs. Just fear. Lots and lots of fear.

Oh, I hope we get to go back home...

The car pulls into the driveway. My human’s mom is there. She smiles, but tears fill her eyes. I didn’t know you could be happy and sad at the same time.

She hugs us tight, and we go inside.

The smelly contents are thrown out. I am placed back in my usual spot in the corner by the fireplace.

But my usual spot feels colder than before.

It does not feel safe anymore.

Where is safe anymore?

Not here.

Not in our driveway.

Not in the streets or the park.

Cities don’t feel safe.

States don’t feel safe.

This country does not feel safe for a five-year-old boy.

It should feel safe for a five-year-old boy