I drove through a riot – I had no choice. There were bullets
being fired; there were stones being hurled; there were tires being burnt. I
had a silver car. My 2-year old was wearing a blue dress. Her hair was tied up
in two tiny ponytails. She was curled up in a ball on the floor of the car. My
left hand was crushing her – pushing down much harder than it should have. We
made it through without a scratch. I made a cup of tea after getting home. She
watched Dora the Explorer.
We didn’t get shot in the car.
We were coming back from a day on the beach. We were stuck
in traffic in a white car. My 3 year old was sitting on my lap. There were more
people in the car than seatbelts. We saw a frantic man with a gun robbing cars.
We waited for our turn until it came. My brother on the driving seat handed him
his wallet – it was empty. The gun seemed angrier as did the man behind it. I
took out all the money I had and threw it at the man. He left for the next car.
My brother later joked about my gesture of throwing money at
him like we throw money at singers and dancers – sometimes to express our awe
for their art, sometimes to show our lust for their acts. That day, it was to
submit to the fear of the gun.
We did not get shot in the car.
Just like I had always imagined that we would never get
shot. I always believed that we would defeat the gun at every encounter – like
in movies with a happy ending.
I never realized that everyone imagines the same outcome,
believes in the same happy ending. Until their child gets shot in the car.
