At this intersection, where gentrification meets deprivation, daytime construction is deaf to moonlit gunshots.
Bullet holes filled a young man’s body on the corner of St Bernard and Marais.
We all heard it, ducked down, lay flat on our backs, wished they were fireworks, listened for the trumpet of Second Lines to follow that lethal snare...
but the calculated rhythm of revenge brought no such joy on the block.
The engine accelerates, flees the scene, leaving a vacuum of silence in its wake. Then sirens and paramedics and police and caution tape will take place.
Well past midnight, a familiar glow of the disco-ball blue bounces off buildings, through my window, projecting on my ceiling.
When the spectacle of death--the eager newscasters who feed off Black-on-Black violence (& the gossipers of exotic crime who live in the up-and-coming hood)--has left, in the leftovers we will hear a mother and his family mourn over their lost baby.
'How did this all start?' we will ask. Do you know the Big Bang Theory?
'How did this all start?' we will ask. Do you know the Big Bang Theory?
Those blue lights danced, ghosts of a Black-owned bar bidding adieu. Au revior.
Tomorrow, he will be buried.
Tomorrow, on the corner of St Bernard and Marais, renovators will reap profits based off displacement.
Tomorrow, newcomers will walk even more confidently passed the wake where he was shot, oblivious. All that will soon be forgotten.
Tomorrow, newcomers will walk even more confidently passed the wake where he was shot, oblivious. All that will soon be forgotten.
Forgotten that shots were fired. Peace lives in the quiet assassins.
January 19th, 2017
