Giant Men and Violent Women

What Do You Want?

PRESLEY ANN

It's January 8. I'm inside, rushing to get out. St. Paul's Catholic Church sits on a hill, overlooking the city of Boston, like a castle overlooks its kingdom. Mile-long steps lead up to the front doors, which are now guarded by Marines in formal uniforms, reminiscent of the Queen's guard. They don't move, and they don't blink, not even when the cameras flash around them. Not even when those for The Prison Work Program cry, wail, and mourn. Not even when those against The Prison Work Program picket and chant. Not even for the police who wear gas masks and hold dogs on chains. I attempt to yank open the grand wooden doors of St. Paul's but struggle with every pound of the oak and iron they consist of. But I do open them and find myself outside by the guards, who don't move. The camera flashing grows wild at my presence.

As befitting of the mood, the sky is a blue-gray, and the ground is wet from melted snow. The sky in the distance is red, and the moon is already out and full. As cameramen are flashing bulbs of white lights, the mourners are preparing to file out of St. Paul's Catholic Church, elegantly, somberly. I begin to hurry down the steps of the mythically built Catholic church with its grey stone and gargoyles, just as fast as Cinderella does just before she loses her slipper. Like her, I'm looking around for my carriage, though mine does not have horses that were once mice, pulling a pumpkin. It's a silky black town car harboring the hunted Date Channing. Men are looking for him.

I spot a window of a town car that rolls up and down, slightly, persistently. That's Date. I rush over toward it. Date's name has been in the headlines of most news stories as journalists in New England and afar credit his army with the assassination of a New Hampshire state Supreme Court judge. Date is in trouble. The authorities are looking for him.

The back door to Date's town car opens, and I rush toward it. Date texted me, asking me to come out to speak to him. Since I haven't spoken to him in nearly two weeks, I decided that now was as good a time as ever, considering New Hampshirites are blaming or congratulating him for murder. I rush inside the town car and slam the door behind me.

"Where have you been?" he asks, almost angry.

"Hi," I say to him, attempting to lighten the mood.

It's none of his business where I've been.

He looks at me through pissed off eyes. He appears like he usually does these days-a mess. So, I can't tell if his oversize coat, worn shirt, and crooked tie are because he's had sleepless nights or if it's an average day. I look in the front seat of the town car and notice there is no driver.

"He went for a walk," Date says to me.

"So"-I return my attention to him-"how's it going?" What else can I say?

"This is a witch hunt," he says to me. "They're trying to pin a murder on me. Presley Ann. I was nowhere near the town hall when that guy barged in and shot The Judge. I was at brunch with my parents."

"I think we both know what the news is implying when they blame you," I tell him.

The news blames Date for provoking violence by creating an army that picketed and rebelled daily. They blame him for the man who ran into the town hall meeting and shot The Judge in the chest at point-blank range. Everyone blames Date more than they blame the shooter, much like everyone blames Hitler for World War II and not the German soldiers. They were just following orders. I don't agree with that. Those who riot and those who incite one are equally guilty.

"As an American, I have a right to demonstrate," Date explains, as though I've never heard of a little something called the Bill of Rights. "It's my First Amendment right. I have that right."