To the gunman who opened fire on the intersection of Market and Montgomery, right outside the Ghirardelli Chocolaterie at approximately 8:30 pm PDT, 7/1/23
You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you; sitting on the stoop just right of that rich mahogany arch in a soft brown puffer, joint rolling between your thumb and forefinger. Your gaze fixed straight down the crosswalk, past the traffic lights and off towards those far-off high-rises; your head turning gently back in just as my sister and I walked past; the spiral of your sweet, warm smoke as it curled by the dancing hem of my too-thin summer dress. The brassy clang of the store bell as I pushed open its door. How we just about made eye contact.
I wonder what may have happened if I’d turned back to talk to you. Hi there, sir, I’d have said. Lovely evening, isn’t it? It’s my first night here, and I had no idea it got so chilly at night. It’s sort of beautiful how crisp the air is though. It’s never this brisk in Florida, let alone Abu Dhabi. Abu Dhabi? Yeah, it’s near Dubai, in the Middle East. No. No, there’s no fighting there; it’s super peaceful actually, and it feels like home. This fall it’ll be ten years since we moved. Have you lived here long? You know, everyone said that San Francisco was a mess, but so far it seems wonderful. And all the buildings seem to have the prettiest little fairy lights hanging from their awning —they seem to be everywhere here. Fairy lights make everything feel so magical, don’t they? You can’t help but smile when you see them. I just love summer, don’t you? I wonder how you’d have responded.
Gunshots are quieter in real life than in the movies. The first one I heard, I almost thought it was a firework, perhaps set off by a street performer, or by one of those red-white-and-blue vendors down the street, or by a dad, surprising his awed toddlers as the holiday weekend began. I was so sure it was a firework—so I don’t know why I was so quick to edge closer to the nearby counter as the second went off, or how, by the time the security lady was yelling to get down, I was already curled into a ball; the stool my ankle had caught on lying next to me.
I’m not sure how long the next part lasted—that popping, driving metronome; my mother’s heaving breaths as she covered my body with her own; the sheer terror in the previously unflappable security lady’s eyes as she inched slowly away from the reverberating glass panes. I remember trying to breathe and not hearing my breath. My left foot going numb. Thinking that I should probably pray. Wondering why my life wasn’t flashing before me in the highlight reel too many reruns of dramatic Bollywood movies had led me to expect. I remembered an argument I’d had with my ninth grade English teacher about nature and nurture and evil. I remembered Mayella Ewell and her jar of scarlet geraniums.
And then the fireworks stopped, and it was over, and we were scurrying, huddled, through the side door into a hotel lobby. And then we were in the elevator, and then our room, and I realized my sister was crying, and I realized my parents were talking to me, and I realized I was shaking.
I’m okay now, not that it would matter to you. Not that it should. I mean, you had a gun in your hand and reasons to pull a trigger and I’m just a sheltered expat brat who escaped untouched to the safety of starched white sheets in a brass-detailed, crown-molded hotel room existence. You did what you had to do, and I’m okay now. So I don’t know why I’m even writing to you—like this is some pathetic exercise in radical forgiveness or some simperingly charitable gesture to stick on my resume for college. But I don’t know who else to write to.
Lately, it seems like everything’s falling apart. Ukraine. Palestine and Israel. My cousin was in a car accident last week. My friend’s brother just died, and he was only twenty. My choir director’s wife—one of the most kind, graceful, vivid people I know—has advanced breast cancer.
And on top of all of that, I have to watch my sister flinch every time a balloon pops, every time an engine starts, every time a door bangs? Of the two of us, she’s always been the brave one. The one that forces me to get on roller coasters and wear the crop top I’m self concious in and audition for the role I don’t think I can get and stand up for myself. Now she glances nervously around whenever she’s in a crowd, scans for exits in every new room, worries whenever my parents are home just a few minutes later.
And I know, things could be worse. And I know, this is life. But I’m scared. And of all of the things I’m scared of—war, cancer, accidents, you—you—might be the least impactful but I can’t stop thinking of that first shot. I can’t stop wondering what would have happened if I’d talked to you.
If Mayella could endure years of her father’s depravity, years of bruises and hunger and terror; and still, somehow, coax buds to effervescence in the middle of a scrapyard, then, despite it all, I can’t bring myself to hate her. I can’t believe that anyone can be purely evil. So maybe this is some pathetic exercise in radical forgiveness.
But really, it’s an I’m-tired-of-everyone-pretending-the-world-is-normal-because- people-dying-for-no-reason-isn’t-normal-at-all and it’s a there’s-so-much-going-on-and-none-of- it’s-good-and-I-don’t-know-how-to-process-any-of-it-let-alone-all-of-it-all-at-once and it’s an I’m-scared-of-the-world-and-everything-that-seems-to-be-going-wrong and really, it’s an of-all-of-it-you-scare-me-the-most-because-you-were-the-most-human-and-I-saw-you-there-and-I-saw-you-there-and-we-just-about-made-eye-contact-and-we-may-have-spoken-and-we-could- have-been-friends.
Because we didn’t. And we’re not. And I’m still scared.
I’m still scared.
Ananya Venkateswaran is a high school junior from Tampa, Florida, currently living in Abu Dhabi, UAE. She was a finalist in the Pulitzer Center’s 2022 Fighting Words Poetry Contest, and a winner of the 2023 Harvard Write the World Poetry Competition. In her free time, she enjoys all things reading, writing, music, travel and nature.