It was quarter after eight and just near the point of freezing as we turned into the parking lot.  A year prior, we’d entered in to see a small, blue pickup truck that displayed allegiance to ideologies pertaining to paler flesh. The gentleman that was driving made several aggressive moves towards pedestrians, slamming on his brakes before colliding.  We saw him – oblivious to what around him – do it one more time before our city’s finest. The officer pulled right behind him and boxed him in, and put an end to his evening’s fun. On exiting the establishment, the truck remained, but like the driver, the flag was gone.

That moment came to mind, last night, as we were greeted by another flying flag, as we made our entrance to the parking lot – night time’s blanket barely broken by the light that shone from the corner of the building. Just as we pulled into the drive, we were startled by a young man on a bike, head bedecked in a red-checked keffiyah, and secured, and flying high above the man and bike was a giant, Iraqi flag. The man rode past without looking at us looking at him, his face frozen in a state of sure defiance. He rode on, onto the shoulder of the road with traffic passing by at highway speeds. In the dark, in the cold – flag, regardless.