No more coffee shops

She was shot in broad daylight.

That day I had been arguing with my son about getting a haircut before his band concert. I wanted him to look sharp when he played his trombone.

“Mi amor, your hair looks like a mop. Cut it or learn to style it.”

“Ay mama, you are such a nag.”

“Yes, but I’m the nag that loves you.”

He rolled his eyes at me but still mumbled, “I love you too.”

It is strange how that was the highlight of my day until the news came. I think it is because the other thing that had been new besides nagging my son was the passport. Even before she died I had begun to carry it anytime I stepped outside the safe haven of our house in the suburbs. Because suddenly stepping out or going to a mercado felt like a dare more dangerous than the ones from high school. And driving into the beloved city that until two years ago had been our home of fifteen years became a proposition with a cost higher than I was willing to pay. The place that saw the birth of both of my children is not the one constantly in the news, it is its twin. The one more quietly under siege. Our old neighborhood, already raided, with people dealing with broken fences and the sight of armed men chasing roofers. The worst of the worst… they say.

It made me feel like the biggest coward. How dare I stay in this little niche of safety when so many others with my eyes, my skin, my hair are being pulled over, inspected and taken if their ID’s don’t hold up to whatever is the random standard that day. How can I be here when I saw the hood near my son’s old school on the news. Videos of door to door knocking and taking people at random. A Hmong elder that could have been my son’s friends’ grandparent taken half naked into the snowy streets. My eyes prickled. Rage coursing through my veins like fire without means to spread, so warm liquid flowed down my cheeks instead. That was my home. A city I love. Before the surge, I drove there every couple of weeks just because I missed it and it’s only fifteen minutes away. Now the risk is too high. I have children to raise. I can’t be taken. When this is over I’m taking my son to the Mississippi Market for his favorite snacks and maybe to the Science Museum. Yes he would love that.

I breathe… if you are a citizen you shouldn’t be scared. You are not the target. You are exaggerating. That is what they said before everything. But I knew this was coming and maybe so did they. Now, I don’t know how I could ever look at the people who said that ever again. I am glad they have not called since she died. They are quiet as a mouse. Or maybe my husband hasn’t told me if they called him. My sweetheart.

It has been a week since she was murdered in the streets that saw the birth of my husband, his scrapped knees, his graduation and his departure for college where we would meet. His high school with kids terrorized near the entrance then holding remote classes. He is proud of the resisting teens. That is his town and it is awesome.

I think about when we bought a house in its twin city and he felt all sorts of weird because the silly rivalry is kinda real. Then he learned to love the city over the bridge and our little first home. We love both cities and no matter what any outsider says, there is nowhere in the world quite like them. We are not violent or crazy people that destroy their own homes. I know first hand. I protested over five years ago, calmly and peacefully. I keep learning how we do not allow more injustice to grow. The first state to offer troops to the Union Army will not just take this. It is not who they are, it is not who we are.

We got to the night of the school concert. My son never did get a haircut.

The pieces they play are wonderful. Sometimes it is hard to pay attention because my little daughter wants to run off. Luckily she chooses to snuggle against me and listen when the best song comes up. It is a mysterious tune that was in the James Bond movies. I am so proud of him. In my country I never got a chance to learn something like this. Music and art were not really priorities because well… when you see children begging in the streets… you learn to be thankful for food, shelter and a school that did teach me math, science, coding and made me perfectly bilingual. But he has the opportunity for music, art, swimming, so much. That is why we stick it out. But I need to work on the bilingual part because he needs to have all I got and then some. Such a damn overachiever, I always want more for me, for him, for all of us.

Everything continued, slow then fast, unbearable then good. I went to remote work at a cafe because my two-year-old was having what we call ‘mamitis’. She wanted her mama and I really wanted to stay, but I had projects to finish. My laptop was ready and my passport tucked into the inner pocket of my jacket. I really should get me and my son passport cards so we could carry them in our wallets. Yes, that would be easier. I drove to my new favorite Caribou Coffee. It had big tables and large windows and it happened to be the opposite way of the cities. I wondered how the coffee place I used to always go to in the city is now. Let it go.

I was working, the keyboard clicky-clacking as I reviewed data on hospital complications, coded it for group comparisons, and drank mango flavored tea. I stayed against the window so no one could glance at my screen when they walked by, respecting data privacy. A couple of older men, probably in their late seventies, asked if it’s okay to sit at the other end of the table. I smiled, they reminded me of my abuelito.

“Sure, no problem.”

I went back to my keyboard but I heard them. It’s the age that made them talk loudly. I remember that abuela yelled for everything as she got older. I smiled and I thought about her and abuelo protecting us. My other abuela too and my tio that died from COVID. Yes, they are keeping us safe.

“Can you believe it? All the restaurants behind the Speedway are closed.”

“I know. It’s crazy but at least this was open.”

“Yeah, this place is good but I wanted tacos. What is going on?”

“I don’t know.”

I put on headphones because… had they been living under a rock? The surge had not moved here full force but there was one raid in this town so of course the taco place is closed! Then I wondered what may have happened to the people that ran a taco place behind the Speedway that I have never been to. Dammit!

I closed my laptop, put it in its case and took that and my coat with the passport into the bathroom. I left the headphones and my hat and scarf on the table because I’d force myself to get back to work soon. I just needed a minute. I splash my face with water and look at myself in the mirror.

I am fine. I am safe. I am strong. Get back to work, you are not in the thick of it and you can work from anywhere. You are privileged in so many ways.

I breathed and went back to the table and my keyboard. I smiled at the old men as I took in the scent of coffee and drank my tea.

It is not their fault and I am glad they don’t have to feel this way.

I stopped going to the cafe. By Friday I was a snarly caged creature, lashing out at the smallest things. I had a fight with my sweetheart and apologized. We ate pizza, we just needed something easy. The kids kept us going. We made up and I felt free for just enough time to take the edge off.

There was a text from my son’s school that said the kids walked out in protest. They wrote about how the staff did not organize it but their first amendment rights were respected. There was no simple ‘they did a walkout, no one came for them, they are safe’ in the message. I called the school. I called his cell phone. No answer. Again and again… the same. I texted him and told him to call me immediately. I asked if he was okay. ‘Call me please.’

My heart thumped like it might break out of my chest. Is this what a panic attack feels like?

I called Prima because I needed to talk to anyone and the school and his cell led me nowhere. No answer. I called my friend in California. I wanted her to tell me how they made it through this. No answer. Then… Thank God, he called me.

“Are you safe? What happened? Did anyone come after you?”

“I’m fine. Getting ready for ski club. Kids stood up in the middle of our last period and walked out. I didn't even know it was happening because you won’t let me have social media.”

I was a mix of fury and worry and a broken voice. “Be thankful you get YouTube. I am not letting you get any other basura for the brain until you are at least sixteen.”

“Mom, are you okay? You sound weird, more than usual.”

“I am fine.”

“Can I still go skiing?”

“Yes, baby, go have fun. Daddy will pick you up and I’ll stay with the baby.”

“She's not a baby, the mom-hogging demon child.”

I can’t help my snicker. “You were demonic at that age, too. And you know you like to play beep beep with her and go super fast.”

“Fine, she’s cute. I’m gonna go get ready.”

“Okay, have fun. Stay safe.”

Everything is fine. He is fine. I am fine. We are all fine.

I looked at the time I received the message and then the time of his phone call. It was only seven minutes in between. The longest seven minutes of my life.

Breathe. Don't be dramatic and make dinner.

My son finally agreed to get a haircut and I felt triumphant. We went to the usual place. We found it right after we moved here and half the staff speaks in Spanish and they take walk-ins. The parking lot was empty. We saw signs saying that no entry is granted without a warrant. But still, no one was inside. The business was closed and I wanted to scream.

Not another one.

But I see him and smile. “Let’s find another place.”

I Googled and then drove a couple of miles to a place that was open. They don’t take walk-ins. We made an appointment for MLK day when he doesn’t have school.

“We have some toddler free time,” I said.

He smiled big. I know he loves his little sister. When they play it is hilarious and sweet. But he was an only child for ten years so he is still a bit jealous.

I told him that I love him and we left our phones in the car, then got boba tea. We went into a second-hand store and found a pair of dress pants for him.

“They are a little big but should be good by the time of your next concert. How did you get so big?”

“The human body has growth hormones. They are in my brain.”

“You are such a nerd. Never change.”

“I won’t. I am going to be an anesthesiologist,” he stated with confidence.

“Alright, hot shot, let’s get these pants.”

He wanted to walk around more. I think he needs to feel free too. We stroll in the cold through the little strip mall talking about each shop and if we want to go in or not. Then we get to a Mexican restaurant. It’s closed.

“Let’s go home.”

When he finally gets his haircut, we send pictures to the family.

“Prima loved the cut but commented more on seeing Big Boy in the background. You know how she loves that dog. He stole your show.”

He snickers.

“Abuela says you look so handsome you could be in a movie.”

My son blushes and now my husband laughs.

“I am not an actor type. I like science. I am a geek.”

“Yes, my handsomest awesomest geeksito.”

“That's not a word.”

“It’s called Spanglish. We make our own words. You did it just the other day.”

“True. Can I go play Fallout now?”

“Fine, but call your abuela later. I might still get you into theater through community ed this summer.”

“No no no. I’ll do wrestling or swimming or a STEM thing. Put me in tennis again.”

I smile. “Go play your game.”

I am so having him try acting or dancing or both. Someday he will thank me for making him try so many things.

On Saturday I decide I need to do something. They took a five year old. So I go to a town hall for a candidate for the House of Representatives. I may only go out a very few times clutching a passport, but this is in a community center the opposite way of the cities. I can do this. When I walk-in I see security and breathe easier. They have a screen up with a press conference. What is happening now? I hear the words and… I look it up on my phone. The video makes warmth roll down my cheeks.

He was shot in broad daylight outside of a donut shop.

We don’t know his name but the room is as heated as my tears. First, Renee, now another human being… gone.

“We have rights! What will you do to have this end?” they ask him.

When it’s my turn I tell them about my fears and my passport pocket and ask, “What are you going to do about real immigration reform? We need clear rules that don’t change from president to president and judge to judge.”

People clap and he promises to work on it. The questions continue.

“Are you accepting donations from AIPAC?”

And the most common one. “What can we do to help?”

A woman stands. “We started an organization that needs donations to help people released from Whipple. They are dumping people nearby with no phones, no ID’s, and no coats.”

The room comes alive.

“What’s the organization?”

“Do they have a go-fund-me?”

Phones are out and thumbs move frantically.

A ten year old takes the mic. “Please make this stop. I want my friends back in school. I guess they are immigrants. I didn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. I just want my friends back, please.”

The heat down my cheeks returns as I watch him cry.

When I exit, I see a text with a list of things to get from the store. My son wants to try to make a recipe from a video game and my husband wants to make lasagna. I stop at the supermarket and it’s so empty it’s almost eerie.

When I get home my boys are excited to show me all the work they did while I was gone. Even with a toddler in tow, they set-up a new office for me in the basement. I don’t have to go to the coffee shop when my little girl gets ‘mamitis’. I can just hide downstairs. They put my desk by the window so I could see the trees and the animals that sometimes roam outside. The two dog beds are nearby so I can have my Big Boy and Pepperoni and even my kitty come down and be with me. It’s beautiful and perfect and I allow us to enjoy the moment and talk about all the details I want to add. A picture here, a bookshelf there, and an easel to paint again.

A bit later, I pull my husband away from the kids and tell him about the shooting. After he sees it, he steps away. He needs a minute. We find out his name was Alex.

The next week we agree at least one of us will go to the caucus.

“You do it. It runs really late and the little one might need me. Get chosen as a delegate,” I say.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

I know it could mean travel that affects his business, the house, the kids. We’ll probably lose money. But I could take vacation

time and use the credit cards. Others are doing so much more. Renee and Alex died doing more.

I sit in my new office and write. No more coffee shops for me, at least not for a while.