By Cayleigh Baillargeon
Last time I was in Vegas was a month after the route 91 shooting. There were more cops than people more crosses than tourists more guns than buffets. Meandering past the Mandalay, I caught glimpses of the Statue of Liberty. I happened to be in New York the day Jam Master Jay died, grown folk with ghetto blasters gathering in groups crying along to classic cuts, wondering “who the fuck?” another personal stab to a state still in shock. Back on the strip, All the pigs with extra pistols were supposed to make me feel safe, but I decided to go back to my room to where the parking lot pot dealer will whistle if there’s danger. I was grateful Vegas was more tasteful than Boston right after that Marathon Monday, AK-47s hung around every badge’s neck like participation medals. I always stay at a motel Where Tropicana and Koval meet where Tupac got shot. He died six days later. It’s just coincidence I stay there His murder coverage is one of my clearest childhood memories. On stolen land There isn’t a single spot to stand where someone hasn’t been slaughtered.