Curfew hasn’t started yet, and I’m allowed outside right now, but it’s already dark. If I rush from shadow to shadow, I will attract attention, especially from the new motion-sensitive security cameras mounted to the streetlamps. Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong, not yet, but if the police stop me-well, let’s just say they have an uncanny ability to make technicalities disappear. I force myself to walk calmly, head forward, like I have nothing to hide, even though every muscle in my body shrieks at me to run, to turn back. My parents will absolutely freak out if they find that I’m not in my room reading. The Resistance is alive, some say, but not in my town, and not on the nightly news.Ĭurfew starts in thirty minutes, and this is a stupid risk.
They’re still happening, the protests-turned-riots, even though the mainstream media won’t cover them. But you’d be surprised how quickly armed military personnel and pepper spray shut down the well-meaning protests of liberals in small, leafy towns. I thought our little liberal college town would fight it longer, hold out. One month since the president of the United States gave a televised speech to Congress declaring that “Muslims are a threat to America.” Two months since a virulent Islamophobe was sworn in as secretary of war-a cabinet position that hasn’t existed since World War II. Three months since they started firing Muslims from public-sector jobs. United States established precedent for relocation of citizens during times of war. Six months since the Exclusion Laws were enacted.įive months since the attorney general argued that Korematsu v. Nine months since the first book burning. One year since our answers on the census landed us on the registry. There is only what we once were and what we have become. I don’t measure time by the old calendar anymore I don’t look at the date. Most of the town is at the book burning, so I should be safe.
In the distance, I see a funnel of smoke rising into the air. But everywhere it’s the same as it’s always been: the perfectly manicured lawn of Center Square, the gazebo’s twinkling fairy lights, the yellow beams from the porch lamps at every door. Only the familiar chirp of the crickets, and the occasional fading rumble of a car in the distance, and a rustle so faint I can’t tell if it’s the wind or the anxious huff of my breath. I strain to listen for boots on the pavement.
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