Who’s Calling?
Will Hudson, Year 12
There are three dead bodies in my house, their blood draining out on my carpet. My family – my wife and two sons – are upstairs cowering in a cupboard. They would have heard three gunshots – loud, piercing, in their home. And they probably thought it was me being shot – three times. They would think it was me because I have never killed anyone before. I have never hit someone before. I have never smacked my children. I have never kicked a dog. I don’t swear and I hate the sight of blood. But not this blood, draining into my carpet.
I yell to my family, “It’s okay, I am okay. Don’t come down.” I don’t want them to see the blood. And I don’t want them to see me. It would frighten them because right now, I am not Miguel. I am Diego and they wouldn’t recognise me.
As a Mexican growing up in Houston, Texas, my late mother always used to say to me, “Vuela Bajo el radar y no te metas en problemas.” Which translates to, “Fly under the radar and stay out of the trouble.” My mother was a single mother, who raised me by herself after my father, Miguel, died in the crossfire of gang warfare. For me, my name is something that defines who I am, Miguel, and it reminds me every day to make my father proud. I wish he could see me now. Beautiful wife, innocent children, and a warm roof over our heads.
Racial profiling is nothing new to any Mexican who has ever lived in the USA. Wherever I go, I’m stared at and treated differently for the brownness of my skin and the foreignness of my accent. They stereotype me into the thugs from Mexico City. The brute bullies that prioritise the organisation of their drug cartels over kissing their children goodnight – trust me, I am not like them.
They kept calling me by a different name. They said, “We know it is you. You are Diego. You are the Snake Oil Salesman.”
And I kept saying, “No, I am Miguel, the computer salesman.”
“Where are our drugs?” they would say.
And I would respond, “What drugs? I sell computers.”
They laughed and said, “We understand, there could be bugs in your home. Someone listening in, eh? You know how to get hold of us. We will give you until Friday.”
‘But I am not Diego.’
‘But you are.’
I hopped in my 1994 grey Ford Contour and began driving for the nearest supermarket. Driving past the iconic white picket fences separated by beige driveways, they looked at me. Spying. As the traffic light turned red, they walked towards my car. “Where are your drugs!?” they yelled. But I have no drugs. “Oi, Diego! I heard you killed both Beroni brothers with your bare hands,” bellowed one of the blokes, with biceps making his shirt seem three sizes too small. But I don’t know who the Beroni brothers are. The light turns green.
It’s a Friday night, which means I need to buy ingredients to make my family’s favourite ‘Chiles en Nogada’. It’s a traditional Mexican dish, but with my own family’s twist – the walnuts in aisle 4. About five steps into the aisle, I notice three big men, all dressed in black, walk towards me. Staying true to my mother’s mantra, I turn around. I’ll get my walnuts somewhere else I thought. “Oi, Diego. Get ya brown skin back here!” Not this again. My walk towards the exit turns into a brisk walk, which transitions into a light jog and before I know it, I’m sprinting for my car. Keys in the ignition, foot on the clutch and I’m about to drive away.
“No exit.”
Although I’m in possible danger, I didn’t see the need to break the road rules. So I turn around and drive calmly to the other end of the car park to exit. The three men, all seated in the front row of their 2004 Hummer HV, stare at me through their tinted windows as they block the exit. The biggest of the three men rolled down the driver’s window and thundered, “We know you have the drugs, Diego. Pickup at ya house tonight or we’ll rat ya to the pigs.”
“I’m Miguel. I’m a computer salesman,” but before I had finished talking, they had already driven off.
Do I tell my wife? No, she’s too white to understand.
Should I tell the police? No, I’m too brown for them to listen.
For the first time in my life, I felt like I had no options. Through no fault of my own I had been placed in this violently dangerous predicament. “Maybe I should be who they say I am”, I thought. The Diego alter–ego had been pushed on me, and I felt like I had no other option.
That night, after my family had gone to sleep, I went through my father’s old clothes and belongings, and found his old handgun. My dirty hands wrapped around the trigger felt so unnatural to me – but I had no choice.
10:37. The 2004 Hummer pulls up at my door, lights on, and the men still all in black. They storm towards my door, and I begin to panic. I’m flustered. I’m Miguel.
One of the guys opens the door, “Diego, where’s ya misses?”
“I’m not Diego.”
“Diego, brother, we were hoping we could force some happiness on your wife in return of your lovely exchange tonight.”
I’m Miguel – a family man, first and foremost. Diego is left with no choice. I reached into my pocket. Bang. One dead. ‘WHAT? DIEG-’ Bang. Two dead. The third guy begins his bolt out of the front door. Bang. Back of the head. Three dead. Lying at my feet – Diego’s feet.
What have I done? Does this mean they win? Does this mean I am like everyone else? Does this mean I am Diego? No, I’m Miguel; right?
My hands are shaking, and I call the police and tell them three people have died in my house.
They ask, “Sir, who’s calling?”