Yesterday was another day in a Home Depot parking lot. Ironically, immigration enforcement, responsible for my work schedule for the last month, was outside of my jurisdiction on the 4th of July - but there would be no long weekend for me. I was getting ready to go to the museum with my partner when the text came in and off I went.
My partner was mad and frustrated - of course he was. I and therefore we, haven’t had a proper weekend since the federal government decided to pile federal agents into unmarked soccer mom SUVs and release military grade horror daily into parking lots, street corners and car washes across Los Angeles.
Part of the post-raid ritual, part of holding onto and uplifting the dignity of the disappeared is the looking for and caring of what was left behind. This means gathering the names and nicknames that people proudly used. Backpacks, papers including a high school diploma, a baseball cap, tools, a car that was also someone’s home become sacred objects and altar pieces to save and pray over until their owner can claim them. Until we can find the owner or a family member and ask what they want us to do with a piece of life, we carefully guard the objects, the documents, the vehicles for safekeeping - such a poor replacement for the safekeeping we couldn’t do for Sonrisa, el Piñata, el Bicho and all the others.