Benjamin Myers The Angels of Juarez THE ANGELS OF JUAREZ are standing on folding chairs, their feet slippery with sweat and silver metallic paint. Behind them a cinder block wall self-eviscerates into red, yellow, and green graffiti. A dry wind chicken-picks goose down from their wire-framed wings and tugs at the cardboard signs that say ASSASIN REPENT! and CORRUPT POLICE LOOK FOR GOD. They are messengers. They are witnesses. They are evangelical kids from a little church on a dirt road. I have never been to Juarez. What I know about violence is from the school parking lot, the time Jeremy Kane ripped a guy’s ball sack with the tip of his cowboy boot, or the time another friend cut the earlobe from some punk outside the all-ages club, the way the blood fell in sheets like a woman’s hair.
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