By Kyle J. Hayes
They’re calling in the National Guard.
To Albuquerque, my city.
Not for a natural disaster, Not to deliver food or clear debris after a storm.
But to stand beside police officers—in full uniform, rifles slung, boots planted—to “assist” with crime.
I understand the impulse.
People are scared.
They want safety, order, and something that feels like control in a city that has often felt like it’s slipping through the cracks.
And yes, crime must be stopped.
Yes, the police need help.
But at what cost?
Because when I hear the words National Guard deployed, I don’t think of peace.
I don’t think of protection.
I see troops on every corner, unmoving, impersonal.
I see uniforms that don’t distinguish between law and war.
I hear the crackle of radios and the soft click of rifles being adjusted in the early morning light.
I imagine being stopped—not once, not twice, but every day—and asked to present identification to prove who I am, why I’m here, and where I’m going.
And maybe you don’t see it that way.
Maybe you see strength.
Reassurance.
But I’m a Black man in America.
And I know—in my bones—that safety is a relative thing.
What brings comfort to one community often brings fear to mine.
I’m not romanticizing crime.
I don’t dismiss what it means to be a victim, to lose your car, your wallet, your home, or worse—your life—to senseless violence.
We have a problem here.
We have judges who release the same people over and over, courts that cycle through the mentally ill like it’s just another box to check, another body to process.
People clearly incapable of caring for themselves are handed bus passes and court dates like it’s a solution.
And it’s not.
But what I wonder—what keeps me up at night—is what exactly the troops are going to do about that.
Will they post up outside the emergency room and intercept the man having a psychotic break before he steps into traffic?
Will they appear in housing court and argue for more beds, doctors, and treatment?
Will they stop a broken system from returning the same suffering people onto the same unforgiving streets?
Or will they patrol the corners?
Will they monitor “suspicious activity,” which too often means me—or someone who looks like me—walking, talking, breathing in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Will they demand proof that I belong here?
Because even if I have the right answers, even if I’ve done nothing wrong,
I know from experience that sometimes that isn’t enough.
Where does this end?
How many steps from here to a society of passes, papers, checkpoints, and curfews?
How many more emergencies before we normalize soldiers walking through our neighborhoods, not to help, but to enforce?
To watch.
To decide.
And when they leave—if they leave—what have we lost in the meantime?
Because there’s a difference between order and freedom.
There’s a difference between law and justice.
And we’ve walked this road before.
We’ve seen what happens when we blur those lines too far.
The uniforms and flags change, but the outcome stays the same.
So yes, I want safety.
But not if it means giving up the right to live without fear of my government.
Not if it means turning my city into something that looks less like a community and more like a checkpoint.
Because you can’t enforce peace at the barrel of a gun.
You can only try to build it—patiently, painfully, imperfectly—until the ground beneath your feet feels like home again.
And that’s what I want for Albuquerque.
Not a fortress.
But a home.
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