The Protester

A work of fiction

Source: CGTN

I'm standing at a protest in Minneapolis between my two besties from college, bundled against the cold. I flex my stiff fingers around my "No Kings" sign. I shouldn't admit it, but I'm tired of protesting.

I think of my mom marching during #MeToo, how she talked about how far women had come. In college, these same two friends and I marched for #BLM. It's exhausting that some people still believe others having rights somehow diminishes their own.

I've heard friends in serious relationships complain that their partners don't care—or worse, actively support—what's happening in this country. Some have partners who say lesbians shouldn't have the right to exist. It makes me sick. I don't understand how they stay.

I had a boyfriend in college for two years. We met on the quad when he and his friends were tossing a frisbee that landed where I was studying. I always wondered if it was on purpose, his excuse to talk to me. When we first started dating, he was so sweet. I'd stare into his eyes and imagine our future together.

Things changed during COVID. We all went home, and our relationship went long distance. We'd video chat for hours, but his conversations shifted. He started talking about government repression. About his "role as a man." He mocked me for marching for #BLM. "You're not even Black," he'd say, chuckling.

Then January 6th happened. We fought constantly. I saw it as an attempted coup; he called it a protest. The first time he wore a MAGA hat, that was my red line. I ended it.

I spent hours crying over ice cream and wine with my besties. My mom was always there for me.

I graduated with my nursing degree and threw myself into work.

It's easy to pick up extra shifts—there are never enough nurses. It is mind blowing that it is not even a professional degree anymore. I worry about the future.

I'm happy, mostly. But I can't accept a comfortable life of privilege while others suffer. So here I am, after pulling a double shift, cold but doing my part.

The ICE agents approach. I'm trembling. We're not doing anything illegal, but a wave of malice washes over us.

I'm on the sidewalk when a masked agent gets in my face, yelling: "Stupid bitch, didn't you learn from last week?"

I can't stop staring into his eyes. For a second, I see a flicker of recognition. Then a coldness harder than ice.

He pepper sprays me.

My besties pull me back, pour water into my eyes. I'm sobbing—ugly crying. We drive back to my apartment together. They pour wine while I shower.

When I emerge, they hand me a glass of Malbec. I sink onto the sofa and take a long sip.

My cat, Butterscotch jumps into my lap, and I absently stroke her soft fur.

"The ICE agent," I begin, then falter.

"That thug," one friend says.

"That goon," adds the other.

"It was John."

I start sobbing again.