I wasn’t supposed to ever forget the day because it was my son’s ninth birthday. In the middle of a pandemic, we still thought it best to keep this tradition. On the news, anchors kept reiterating that the day’s proceedings wouldn’t normally get this much attention if not for the president’s consistent obfuscation about the proceedings. One by one, he and his cronies started speaking on a podium in DC in a small picture-in-picture set-up on the bottom right corner with no audio, but the events of the day weren’t supposed to get much coverage other than a demonstration and a confirmation.
Then, the insurrection struck. Just then, the America so many of us knew came into HD view. Rogue recusants made their way with ease up the Capitol steps. The crowd thought to have dissipated after Election Day had intended on discrediting the process by any means necessary. The idea that the United States of America had ostensibly descended into a “third-world banana republic” – whatever that means – seemed to flummox many of the anchors and correspondents witnessing the red caps slide through Capitol Rotunda. The “blue lives matter” chants were not to be found as they trampled and passed by Capitol police while flashing badges of their own. As the velvet ropes widened, it became more evident that many of the police in charge of maintaining security would watch along with us, unabated and unconcerned about drawing guns the way they had at the Black Lives Matter protestors all summer.
My son, nine years old and a hundred years wise, wasn’t surprised. While no person of color belongs to a tight-knit monolith, our CONTINUE READING: On This Insurrection, and The Next | The Jose Vilson
