K-town Five Years Later

 I don't like to tell people where I live. I'm not very proud of this place. Donald Trump stopped by one day, to look at the burned out buildings allegedly started by protesters after the shooting of Jacob Blake. 

 On August 23, 2020, Jacob Blake was shot in the back seven times by a Kenosha police officer after Blake refused to comply with a warrant for domestic violence. Since it was a summer evening people were outside, and as the beginning of what was to become national news unfolded, neighbors took out their cell phones and recorded Blake ignoring police officers commands to stop and show his hands. As Blake's young children sat in the car, Blake walked around to the driver's side and reached for something inside. The officer then shot Blake.

 That incident whether justified or not set off an explosion of anger and outrage. 

 Two days later two men were dead, one seriously wounded, all shot by a seventeen year old boy with an assault weapon. 

 The day after Blake was shot and before Kyle Rittenhouse became a household name, I watched as people marched down the street outside my window. They shouted, "No justice, no peace!" I didn't know about the fires until later.

 My sister became concerned for my welfare and offered to set me up at a hotel, away from the unrest. I didn't really feel threatened or afraid. I had lived in this town for years and had never felt afraid to walk down to the lake at night. Many times I would be standing at the bus stop, early in the morning when the sun was still rising and not be in fear. I would watch as transients drifted out onto the streets, holding cups of coffee after the delegated church kicked them out until nightfall.

 We have the same problems every other town and city in this country has. I sit in the library next to men who haven't bathed in days, who need a place to sleep for a few hours. I watch as large men on children's bikes peddle their drugs. I shudder with contempt knowing our police department supports Donald Trump.

 I was not in town the night Rittenhouse shot three men less than fifteen yards outside my home, but the signs of the aftermath remained for weeks, months, forever.

 I came back to see buildings blackened. The smell of burnt tires still clung in the air. I read the signs, "Please, there are children here," on boarded windows. I saw the cement blockades with the name, Huber, spray painted on it. Shards of broken glass is everywhere.

 The instigators, the national guard, the curious, the  famous nightly news reporters, had all left town. Now only the ruined residents remained.

 For anyone who has not been through a traumatic experience it is difficult to describe to someone the feeling that permeates within, a feeling of guilt, shame, hurt, and helplessness.

 Rittenhouse was not a part of this community. He didn't even live in this state. He claims he came to help secure the safety of a friend's business. I believe that's what he probably intended. I don't think he came up here with the intent to kill. He was a stupid kid with an assault weapon who never should have been here. He never should have been allowed to even own such a weapon. But, this is America, where owning deadly weapons is a right. 

 Five years later the burned out buildings and boarded up windows are gone. No one mentions Jacob Blake, who is now paralyzed, or the police officer who shot him who eventually returned to police duty after an investigation.

 Every year I see new businesses open up on Main Street. Every year I watch them close. 

 I feel the stigma of living here as if we have been marked, and as much as the officials of this town try to go back to the "before" with ice festivals, car shows and parades, the smell of burnt tires metaphorically lingers.

 Trump is again the president, and American citizens can still buy an assault weapon. 

*Kenosha storefront.