' I Have the Right' by Allen McGill

I had just gotten out of the shower that morning, when a crash sounded from my bedroom. I rushed through the door to see glass still falling from the window frame. The second window was shattered just seconds later as I watched, great shards of
glass bursting inward, tearing the curtains from their rods, shredding them.

Blasts of cold winter wind blew snow through the jagged opening, disturbing the order of everything in the room.

To avoid being hit by flying glass, I backed into the bathroom and pulled the door closed.

After a few minutes of silence, I eased the door open again and stepped into the bedroom, having already slipped into my robe and slippers. The room was a shambles, slivers and chunks of glass on every surface.

I just stood and looked. This wasn't the first time I'd experienced such an attack. This hatred, this display of "righteous" bigotry, of moral determinism had been dumped on me by ignorant trash before.

"I can't stand it, anymore," my wife, Sharon, had said the last time it happened. She was nearly hysterical after they'd almost burned down our home. "They won't stop until they kill us."

She left me, taking the baby with her. That was weeks ago, and I didn't know where to find them. I'd left a forwarding address at my parents, but didn't think she'd ever try to get in touch with me. Not this time.

I'd been in this house less than a week before the trouble started, the taunts in the street, the phone calls, the painting of DEVIL on the side of the house. Actually, the calls stopped quickly. Someone had cut the phone line, making it impossible for me to call the police or someone to repair the window.

As I made my way through the rubble, I began to dress, tears of fury burning my eyes as I heard the crunch of glass with each step.

Goddamned bigots! How do they dare such an outrage in a country like the U.S., a country in which it's illegal to discriminate? In the twenty-first century, when prejudice can't be shown against race, religion, sex, ethnic background, political affiliation, and even sexual preference, for Christ's sake. Obviously, in some cases, the law-keepers look the other way, bigots themselves.

I had thought things would be easier in a city, people more of the mind-your-own-business sort, at least. But, no. They were just as small-minded as the yokels in all those small towns, maybe more vicious.

The brick that had been thrown through the first window was lying on my bed. Wrapped around it, as I expected, was a note. It read: GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM--WE DON'T WANT YOUR KIND HERE! How original.

The second brick was across the room on the floor. It's note read: ROT IN HELL--YOU DON'T BELONG WITH HUMAN BEINGS! A smile came to my lips and I shook my head. Human beings, bull. They're nothing but garbage.

I hadn't even talked with anyone here, not that they'd have talked back, so they knew nothing about me, except for what they could see. And I guess they didn't like what they saw. Well, that's too bad! I'd be damned if I'd try to pass as one of them just to please them. This is a free country and I was born here. I have rights, too!

A few people were standing on the sidewalk across the street from my new quarters, pointing toward the windows. And reading DEVIL on the wall, no doubt. They were hunched against the cold, seemingly unable to tear themselves away, waiting to see what would happen next.

I'd have asked the neighbors if I could use their phone to call for window repairs, but they'd all let me know right away, in no uncertain terms, that they wanted nothing to do with me. I'd have to walk to the corner to call from a pay phone. I didn't even know if anyone would come--word of my arrival had spread quickly.

The snow was accumulating, so I pulled on my boots, wrapped and tied my long woolen coat around me and reached for my cap and gloves.

The crowd across the street had grown. I wondered if I'd have to kick my way through them, as I'd had to do so many times before. If so, so be it. I have rights and I'll be damned if I'll give in to these puny cowards.

Just before leaving, I thrust my sleeve through the red armband and adjusted it so that the swastika showed proudly in front. Then I left the house.

 

Allen McGill: Originally from NYC, Allen lives, writes, acts and directs theatre in Mexico. His published fiction, non-fiction, poetry, plays, photos, etc., have appeared in print as well as on line: NY Times, The Writer, Newsday, Literary Potpourri, Flashquake, Poetry Midwest, Poetic Voices, Herons Nest, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, World Haiku Review, amoung many others. He is an editor for Simply Haiku. Visit Allen McGill online at: http://tinyurl.com/m7il