It's mostly quiet on the streets now. You don't hear birds anymore, not since the windmills went in. Under al-Bidan all mechanical power is banned, so outside all we can do is walk. It's been almost a year now since our home city was forsaken. They call it New Beijing but I still remember it as New York. Either way, it's a ghost town. Nobody goes there, believe me.
I pause and look out at the skyline across what I used to call the Hudson. The old glass high rises have long since been boarded over. Windows were one of the first things to go. Then the cars, then the cows, and then it felt like almost everything was taken from us.
I get so lost in my daze I almost don't notice the coyote sauntering past. In its fangs, it gingerly carries a small immigrant child. I look on jealously and for a moment we lock eyes. A boy. He's looking at me almost mockingly. As if he knows that as soon as his gender is reassigned he'll be working a job that, in another life, would've gone to me or my family instead.
As election day drew near, all those weeks ago, the people desperately tried to prevent the takeover. But they'd only let the others in. The ones with the fabric over their facial orifices. Different from us, with our American mouths and noses.
But then it was the ballots. So many ballots. The radio said the ballots had turned us back in Scranton, and then Raleigh, and before we knew it we could see them coming over the hills at the Palisades.
Nobody knew where they were coming from but they just kept coming until eventually we were overrun. Yusuf al-Bidan was anointed by the faces in the glowing boxes. The first thing he did was declare a Fatwah against what he called "Malarqui" - anything that went against the dogma.
I'm in the ration line now, in front of where the store windows used to be. I imagine beef in a butcher shop window. Real, rare cuts of beef. Not anymore. Now we must wait and pray to Allah that the Party has mustered enough organic granola and kombucha to tide us over. Hours later, by the time I get to the front, I'm elated to learn that I'm in luck. We'll be eating this week.
On the way home I clutch the bag tightly as I approach the first checkpoint. The defunded and disarmed community liaison officers will stop you on a whim, and if you ain't black, you may never see your family again. You have to hope they're in a good mood and that you can answer their questions right. I keep a steady pace forward.
"Hold it."
I freeze. I keep my gaze on the ground. All I see is a pair of approaching Birkenstocks.
"What's this then?"
I feel a prodding at the ration bag.
"They're my rations, sir," I reply. Wrong answer. I feel a baton strike the back of my thigh. I collapse.
"I don't remember telling you my pronouns!"
"I'm sorry, officer," I say, almost in a whimper, as I gather up the bag. "I'm just trying to get back to my family. These are our rations for the week."
"Okay, well let's have you on your way then..."
I breathe a sigh of relief
"...as soon as we see your passport."
I know the Mexican passport I carry with me is good enough to get me through. It's been checked a hundred times. But it still sends a shiver through my core every time I hand it over.
"Cristiano Muhammed Lopez, eh? Can I call you Chris?"
"No officer. Cristiano."
"Why not Chris?"
"That's too close to 'cis', officer," I reply, holding back tears. The liaison officer blows air approvingly out of xis nose.
"How about Christian, then?"
"I am not permitted to say that word, officer."
"Good. Very good. And you probably don't want people thinking you're not Latino too, huh?"
"If I may, officer, humbly, it's Latinx."
The officer hands me back my passport. "Alright, I've heard enough, move along."
I hurry down the pavement and around the corner, towards our public housing block. For a moment I think I'm having a panic attack. I'm so relieved to see our apartment's front door I almost hallucinate that it's a single-family suburban home. I'm losing it, I think to myself.
I try not to appear as if I'm running, but I'm panting as I shut the door behind me. Mama comes into the entryway from the kitchen, looking on expectantly as I turn around. She sees my ration bag.
"Oh, thank the Lord!"
"Mama BE QUIET, the neighbors might hear," I say as I pull the mandatory fabric from my face. The walls are as thin as paper here.
"I can't help myself, darling. We can eat this week!"
Coming in from the bedroom, Papa looks at me. Through his hollowed-out eyes and his wiry frame I can see a look of pride that for a moment brings me back to the before, from when he would cheer me on from the stands as I played Kaepernick-ball in High School.
"Get the gas, Papa. Let's celebrate."
With a grin, Papa wordlessly heads down to the building's basement. I recount the events of my journey outdoors to Mama and before I know it Papa comes back in with a canister.
Natural gas. Fracked in secret in a tunnel Papa's dug for us out of the basement supply closet. If the community liaisons ever found out about what Papa was doing down there, we'd be reassigned to a work camp. But it's worth the risk for these little moments like this, watching Papa feed the gas into the lamp so that for once - with no windows, no electricity, no coal - we can eat in the light. Almost like old times. Like family.
I pause and look out at the skyline across what I used to call the Hudson. The old glass high rises have long since been boarded over. Windows were one of the first things to go. Then the cars, then the cows, and then it felt like almost everything was taken from us.
I get so lost in my daze I almost don't notice the coyote sauntering past. In its fangs, it gingerly carries a small immigrant child. I look on jealously and for a moment we lock eyes. A boy. He's looking at me almost mockingly. As if he knows that as soon as his gender is reassigned he'll be working a job that, in another life, would've gone to me or my family instead.
As election day drew near, all those weeks ago, the people desperately tried to prevent the takeover. But they'd only let the others in. The ones with the fabric over their facial orifices. Different from us, with our American mouths and noses.
But then it was the ballots. So many ballots. The radio said the ballots had turned us back in Scranton, and then Raleigh, and before we knew it we could see them coming over the hills at the Palisades.
Nobody knew where they were coming from but they just kept coming until eventually we were overrun. Yusuf al-Bidan was anointed by the faces in the glowing boxes. The first thing he did was declare a Fatwah against what he called "Malarqui" - anything that went against the dogma.
I'm in the ration line now, in front of where the store windows used to be. I imagine beef in a butcher shop window. Real, rare cuts of beef. Not anymore. Now we must wait and pray to Allah that the Party has mustered enough organic granola and kombucha to tide us over. Hours later, by the time I get to the front, I'm elated to learn that I'm in luck. We'll be eating this week.
On the way home I clutch the bag tightly as I approach the first checkpoint. The defunded and disarmed community liaison officers will stop you on a whim, and if you ain't black, you may never see your family again. You have to hope they're in a good mood and that you can answer their questions right. I keep a steady pace forward.
"Hold it."
I freeze. I keep my gaze on the ground. All I see is a pair of approaching Birkenstocks.
"What's this then?"
I feel a prodding at the ration bag.
"They're my rations, sir," I reply. Wrong answer. I feel a baton strike the back of my thigh. I collapse.
"I don't remember telling you my pronouns!"
"I'm sorry, officer," I say, almost in a whimper, as I gather up the bag. "I'm just trying to get back to my family. These are our rations for the week."
"Okay, well let's have you on your way then..."
I breathe a sigh of relief
"...as soon as we see your passport."
I know the Mexican passport I carry with me is good enough to get me through. It's been checked a hundred times. But it still sends a shiver through my core every time I hand it over.
"Cristiano Muhammed Lopez, eh? Can I call you Chris?"
"No officer. Cristiano."
"Why not Chris?"
"That's too close to 'cis', officer," I reply, holding back tears. The liaison officer blows air approvingly out of xis nose.
"How about Christian, then?"
"I am not permitted to say that word, officer."
"Good. Very good. And you probably don't want people thinking you're not Latino too, huh?"
"If I may, officer, humbly, it's Latinx."
The officer hands me back my passport. "Alright, I've heard enough, move along."
I hurry down the pavement and around the corner, towards our public housing block. For a moment I think I'm having a panic attack. I'm so relieved to see our apartment's front door I almost hallucinate that it's a single-family suburban home. I'm losing it, I think to myself.
I try not to appear as if I'm running, but I'm panting as I shut the door behind me. Mama comes into the entryway from the kitchen, looking on expectantly as I turn around. She sees my ration bag.
"Oh, thank the Lord!"
"Mama BE QUIET, the neighbors might hear," I say as I pull the mandatory fabric from my face. The walls are as thin as paper here.
"I can't help myself, darling. We can eat this week!"
Coming in from the bedroom, Papa looks at me. Through his hollowed-out eyes and his wiry frame I can see a look of pride that for a moment brings me back to the before, from when he would cheer me on from the stands as I played Kaepernick-ball in High School.
"Get the gas, Papa. Let's celebrate."
With a grin, Papa wordlessly heads down to the building's basement. I recount the events of my journey outdoors to Mama and before I know it Papa comes back in with a canister.
Natural gas. Fracked in secret in a tunnel Papa's dug for us out of the basement supply closet. If the community liaisons ever found out about what Papa was doing down there, we'd be reassigned to a work camp. But it's worth the risk for these little moments like this, watching Papa feed the gas into the lamp so that for once - with no windows, no electricity, no coal - we can eat in the light. Almost like old times. Like family.
