REMEMBERING THE DIVISION STREET RIOTS 1966
Yolanda Nieves
“Police Superintendent O.W. Wilson says he’s just discovered that his men and the Puerto Ricans don’t getalong too well. I don’t know why the police don’t like Puerto Ricans. With all of the shooting they are supposedto have been doing during the rioting, they managed to avoid hitting any policemen while suffering numerous wounds themselves.”—Mike Royko, July 1, 1966, Chicago Daily News

I.
My mother hums by the sinkshe tends dishes and cupsit will be my birthday soonnear her feet I dress a paper dollthe world stops silenta moment suspendedsqueezed in a fist until—screams fill our kitchenbreaking glass shattersoutsidenearbymy father’s footstepsdrum the stairshe slaps the door openswings me onto one armclutches my mother in the otherout third floor rear.

II.
Down then across we stumblefeet crunching broken glasstraffic frozenneighbors trapped in frontof police carswhile bloody handshold open woundsI look at guns without knowingwhat they are foreveryone scatters in fearwhere did our happiness go?

III.
Two blocks northon Hoynein front of mygrandmother’s apartmentmy child’s eyesbehold bluehelmetspolicein rows and columnsmarching south toDivision Streetshields, guns, clubslike one big animalspreading its clawsready to pouncelookingneitherrightnorleftmore shoutshorror stretches intothe eveningwas there no one to protect us?

IV.
Bullets hit a targetnear my feetI pick up anempty bullet shellI wonder why he fallsa blood stained youthcarried by his sistercurled into a battered carI wander to his sidehis mouth stops movingarms no longer clasphis sister’s shouldersI think in pieceswhere is my father?

V.
It will be my birthday soonmore gunshotsflesh ripsbone splitsunder a trembling glovewith a clubI sink a little deeper inside;the world rains despairtodayI forgotsomethingI want to rememberwhat had we done so wrong?

VI.
The hatred that floatsover uswants to be our keeperthis is a barbed-wire fencethat surrounds usthree days in Juneeight dead in the streettheir absence wails fromthe eyes of the peoplethere were motherswho loved them—one played baseballanother had hopedto marry my auntit will be my birthday soonno one will mention itmy memory is a soft clothrubbing the pieces togetherwe still live inside this woundon Division Street.