I awoke bruised, elated and afraid. I grab the broom, I step into the street, and I start to sweep.
An auditory mist has descended on the city. I conscientiously take stock of the sounds: sirens, stray cats, neglected babies, distraught families. All are audible but foggy. Maybe my ears are still ringing from yesterday. I focus on sweeping.
The road is hollow. I sweep dust, dirt, and soot. Occasionally I lapse from consciousness into memory. My body shook with rage. I yelled with passion. Or was my body shaken by the mob? Was I screaming in pain?; best to go with the tide. My eyes are closed and I waver, feeling as though the tide of people who had surrounded me in the streets were still there. We had been one, a crowd as one individual: a country.
I am brought to consciousness by voices. On the second floor balcony of the building beside mine Javier and Natella look out over the railing and smoke.
“It is going to rain today” says Natella.
“It is going to be hot” says Javier.
“I don’t like those clouds” says Natella.
“That’s just smog” says Javier “That’s nothing different”.
“Smog and smoke...and dust” says Natella “There’s no wind. This sky will never clear.”
It’s too soon. They don’t mention yesterday. They don’t say why there is smoke. They don’t say what stirred dust into the air. They can’t see clearly enough to assign morality to that smoke and dust so they don’t talk about it.
I pretend not to be listening. It must be obvious though. When they stop talking I start sweeping again. In this street the repeated swish of my broom on the pavement seems very loud. It sounds like waves crashing against the shore. I lose myself in memory again.
At first all I see is blackness. Then I see fire. Then I see gas masks, tall plastic shields, and night sticks. I can almost imagine being hurled out of the crowd and sailing, end over end, across the divide. I land and explode. I realize the fleeing straggler I knocked over is young and earnest. I am unable to apologize. He manages to get up and dash after his squad around the corner. I pick up a rock and throw that too. A window shatters. Lots of windows shatter. It’s not my fault. We surge on.
“What shall we have to eat?” says Javier.
“What have we to eat.” says Natella.
“I’m not hungry” says Javier. He stretches his arms back with nonchalance. He lies poorly, but I know how he feels. I have no hunger either.
In my chest, my heart still beats fast. I still feel different like yesterday. Everything still feels different. I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know what time it is. I still feel some excitement. I still have that feeling that I am a part of something bigger. I still feel powerful. I sweep gladly. I will always be happy to sweep in front of my building on days like today. National identity has inebriated me.
“When will it be over?” asks Natella.
“Let it run its course” says Javier.
“When will it stop?”
“It must be fixed”
“How will this fix it.” says Natella. She doesn’t ask this, but states it as a fact.
“What choice do we have?” says Javier. This is also a statement.
The words tumble from their mouths. It isn’t an argument, it’s a spoken exercise. Their responses are the only ones available. It is a complicit, vain effort to imagine they’re in control, whilst the undertow pulls them this way and that.
The politicians are criminals. The government is corrupt. This isn’t a debate. Of course we are justified. One must confront evil; simple as that. It was our duty. Of course we are right. It was all of our duties. We showed strength and unity. We proved them wrong. This is what our noble history has taught us to do. This what our great philosophers would have done. Wouldn’t they?
Now my memory leaves me cold and wet. I hear the ambulance. I see red and blue lights. Is that us or them? I want to throw a rock at the ambulance. I can’t, there is a crowd in the way. I get closer. They are moving a youth in a white T-shirt into the back. He is limp. His arm is bent funny over the side of the stretcher. They have come to save us. Or try. Ferry our dead if nothing else.
My eyes fall to the ground. My broom is sweeping slower. I am sweeping broken glass, used canisters, and blood crusted rocks. I feel nausea. I feel vertigo. I feel seasick.
“I’m embarrassed. Its sickening.” says Natella.
“Me too.” says Javier. “And I am proud.”
“Me too.” says Natella.
They are both bad liars.
I sweep the concrete, but no broom would clean these stains. Soap and water won’t clean these stains. It is futile. They will come and clean it I suppose. The government will. They will come and clean our mess. We will let them. What choice do we have? They came and saved our wounded. They weren’t even fighting us, just keeping us from hurting ourselves. They are us. We are them. We hurt ourselves. If they hadn’t fought back we would have burned down the government. We are the government. They were fighting against us, because they are us. We are them. I can’t make sense of things.
I lean on my broom and look up at Javier and Natella. They don’t see me. Their faces look like mine: lost, drifting, and afraid. Nothing has gotten better. And now our country bears a self-inflicted wound. I look down. At my feet I find a trampled Starbucks coffee cup. I want to cry.
“What comes next?” asks Natella.
“I don’t know.” says Javier.
“I’m afraid.” says Natella.
“Me too.” says Javier.
“Will things be different?” asks Natella.
“Yes,” says Javier “and no.”
I had been sweeping hope, dreams, and the future we used to imagine. But the present, the apparent, the foreseeable future, like the stained the earth, could not be swept by a broom. These things could not be washed with soap and water. These things couldn’t be burned in angry rage. Deep down we had know this long before we tried. Now we knew because we have tried. Maybe tomorrow we will know because today we will try again, and maybe also the day after that. If we know that fighting is futile, and we know we are only fighting ourselves, but we keep doing it, are we even worth fighting for?
I too, like Natella, feel embarrassed. I feel like a fool. I kneel down and vomit. I go back inside without cleaning. The government will clean it. I can no longer care.
