"I tried to establish a comfortable routine, but I soon learned that the West is rife with hidden danger. I witnessed random acts of violence, mass incarcerations of people of color, homicides documented almost every day on the 5 o’clock news, trickling into the hashtags on social media platforms. In the States, statistics maintain that every 28 hours, a black person is killed by the police. In a country that seems yet to be convinced that #BlackLivesMatter, I wondered what the police would do to a skinny bantu girl with kinky hair that refused to bow at gravity’s request. This question was answered. Public places were heavily policed, giving me a more fear than it did comfort.
Relieved to shake the image of National Guard Soldiers patrolling the subway stations, which is triggering, to say the least, I slip into a train. Mashed between sweaty bodies, I cling on to a pole on the train for support and avoid thinking about the last time it was sanitized, as I had never seen any janitorial services performed. I have, however, seen human defecation on floors and seats and rats scurrying through the train cars on multiple occasions. One study showed that over 600 microbes were found in these subways, so I could very well be going home every day with my hand caked in fecal matter. Vacuuming in the smell of urine through my nostrils, I channel my inner Lint and remind myself how I’d come to be a central character in this horror story.
How I had done nothing to stop the country’s heroin epidemic, which “has hit every white socioeconomic class.” The place was rife with crises — water with lead infested pipes will affect children’s brain development, an AIDS epidemics, and millions living in poverty, to name a few. Fear and anger for the children consumed my thoughts."
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