Two nights ago, on the 20th, I went out for a walk in my brother’s black North Face Puffer at 8 pm. I paired it with bright pink sneakers in case I ran into trouble. “Has a cop ever shot a racially ambiguous person with bright pink shoes before, late at night?” I hope not but I never look too closely. I am afraid of being afraid, so I tread carefully.

Most nights, I detour a tad north-west towards a park in the heart of a set of single-family homes and condos, attached by the hip to an elementary school en route to the gym. On weekdays you pass moms waiting in cars scrolling waiting for their kids to spill out of soccer. By the time I rolled through that night, the drills were winding down and as I arrived the moms were zipping home in their Teslas and SUVs. That’s when I decided to skip the gym and instead call friends, listen to a show from London, and stroll.

My neighbors enjoy this time at night too, gliding in podiatrist recommended shoes, quarter zips and puffers with their partners in tow. A vibrance exists at 8 pm even if the kids my age milling about and up to no good are painfully absent. I know they exist; we are all either in school, underemployed, or unemployed. I hope they join me under the lamplight soon. Regardless, I felt in good company that night.

The peace lasted for 12 minutes as I cut through and back around the park listening to jazz house, visiting the mural of kids slaying a mythical octopus, the basketball courts where I chalked on Sunday, and the bathroom for a sip of water.

As I passed the paddle ball courts in the center of the park, out of the corner of my eye, two identical Suburban SUVs roared and circled. The paint, deep brown, and the glass pitch black. The word “ICE” appeared boldly inside my head against a stream of images from Chicago, Minneapolis, Los Angeles and just south of me beyond the freeway in Pomona. The set of cars slowed, I felt a pair of eyes, and a window cracked. “What to do” I thought.

My pink shoes were rendered sterile, and my little oasis invaded. My train of thought, I believed, was logical: I live at the margins in affordable housing, but still inside, a predominately white and affluent suburban community. Directly south of me is the freeway which serves as the border between the city I live in to one much larger, browner and poorer than my own.

“Rapid response happens below the freeway, not above.”

This axiom held no water that night. I scanned the park and all I found were a pair of white guys unmoved since I arrived in the park standing at 8 o’clock 16 yards out. “Neighborhood watch?” I didn’t have a whistle and was afraid to cry wolf. “This is Claremont what do these people know!” I thought.

The Suburbans roared back and rounded the corner. I lurched towards 10 o’clock aiming for beyond the pair. The Suburbans roared, smelling flesh off towards my bait, and pulled their tires to the curb. I swept back and behind the pair of white guys, flashed my phone light, and the Suburbans turned and purred away.

Today, I shook the Consul-General of Argentina’s hand and officially became a dual citizen. “No oath of loyalty required,” he said, “I just need you to understand that the State is not granting you these rights, but rather, you are realizing what has always been yours.”

My mom cried and I thought of the blood.