The World Against Me

I wonder how many feel the way I do. Unsafe in this world. It's a subtle paranoia that creeps on me every so often. When I go outside and see that patio chair has been broken, or my children's flower pots have been stolen (what's up with that) while my neighbors' things have been left undisturbed. When a neighbor moves in and parks on the street where we've been parking. Not because it's closer to their residence, but because they just want to take something from us. Their assigned parking is closer to them than the street parking.

Phone conversations with haughty, apathetic customer service representatives. The inability to get a check cashed in a bank that I have an account with. Businesses not returning messages. My son's doctor that refuses to answer the phone (or as I suspect, deliberately sends everything to voicemail when they don't feel like doing their jobs) so that I have to wait a week to get the same prescription refilled every month. My daughter's teacher who carelessly misinforms her and leaves her anxious because she trusts the teacher as an authority figure.

All these things make me feel insecure in this world. I'm surrounded by people whom I think would walk past my daughter if she were hurt on her way to and from school. My son's school has already proven that they don't care if they endanger his health because they don't want to administer the medication that he has in the nurse's office. My husband has been in a bind more than once where no one would help him when he's been stranded on the side of the road.

Me, I'm just thankful that no one has decided to shoot me dead. Would there even be an investigation? I think even my so-called friends would merely say, "Oh, that's tragic and move on pretty quickly."

I live in this world, but I'm not apart of this world. Every day that I step out in it is a reminder of that.

My Heaven, Your Hell.

After the bright lights subside
there you stand, in the midst
of tall grasses and sweet air.

Humming reaches your ears
and you turn your head
in anticipation and eagerness.

Up there! What do you see?
Choirs of angels swaying in song...
But you frown at the noise.

They swing their shoulders
as they utter their praises
scats and beatboxing and rapping.

You cringe and pull your head
back in confusion and contempt.
Surely angels would sing hymns?

This isn't the reverent spirituals
befitting a great King. Would a Holy
God accept music such as this?

Before you can question further--
Over a hill women and men spill
to greet you with joyful smiles.

Your blood runs cold and your
own smile falls. Not very many
of them look very much like you.

Some have turbans. Others robes.
A few wear colored braids and
wild hairstyles you have never seen before.

Where are the familiar faces that you
expected? Surely this place would be
filled with the people you held dear.

In a sudden flash, you contemplate
the possibility that you have gotten
it all wrong; that this beautiful place

that you thought was full of angels
and saints was ridden with demons and
lost souls. Not Heaven, but Hell.

Forgiving without Forgetting

I'm called to not only forgive, but to intercede for those who have wronged me. They are people, worthy of eternity. This is so easy to forget.

However, their past deeds do not fade from my mind. These things leave scars that never heal. I'm left with the seams that I trail my thoughts over, hating the feel but unable to help the obsession. How do I get past it? I'm stuck here in this circular pattern. I want out of this trap.

I am a network of ridges, dimples, and scabs. Infections lay underneath, waiting to boil up and fester. Is this the result of forgiveness or un-forgiveness? I think I'm asking the wrong questions. It's the outcome of unmended relationships that have trickled down to every arena of my life. I absolved my betrayers' responsibilities, while believing that I must take them over. No.

I must let them go. I cannot carry them for they are too heavy and too painful to hold. The scars are unsurprising.

Yet even as I move on from the hurts, the memory of them follows. Can I outrun them? No, that would be an unnecessary effort. I am to use them, empower myself. They are evidence of bestowed strength, and I would be foolish to escape that.

I must never forget that, although at times my focus skews inward and I wallow in my pain because I am thinking small. The meanness of my perceptions pushes out everyone who stands beside me until I convince myself that I am alone. My vision then grows smaller and smaller until I can no longer see. I've blinded myself.

Now when I try to open my eyes, I am still in the dark. Even if light comes near, I turn away. It hurts my eyes. But the deepness of my void scares me, and I begin searching for that light. It's a futile exercise with sightless eyes.

I want out so I finally decide to find help. By this point I'm broken and ashamed--all because someone wronged me. I'm led back into the world and startled to find people waiting for me. But I forget that I'm not helped yet. I'm still holding onto something, my hands spasming.

Somewhere down the road I get used to keeping my hands closed. But I slam against a wall and to protect myself I open my hands. I drop those debts that don't belong to me, still unpaid. Then, I ask for them to be taken away. The burden that lifts amazes me.

What do I do know? I move on and use those ghosts that don't quite recede to build myself up and to keep my eyes open for those who are in the same position I once was. But what about the betrayer in my life. I forgave, but do I have a right to demand change?

That I don't know.

Chicken & Watermelon

My husband told me something extraordinarily funny: he won't eat watermelon in public. He thinks that  doing so would perpetuate a stereotype. He likes watermelon as well as any other fruit, but that particular one has too much negative meaning.

"Yeah, and then I'll bury my face in a wedge and spit out the seeds like a machine gun." He'd then demonstrate the seed spitting--side to side in an ignorant way. It was a messy eating of a person who doesn't know much. What would always make me laugh was how vehement he would look while doing it. "I's sho duz like me some waddermelons!" he'd say, pumping a fist to the side. Sometimes he'd add an irrelevant "Massah!" for effect.

There's sadness mixed in his portrayal. He can't be who he really is. If he reaches for watermelon, there's all of this judgment and contempt attached to it. It becomes a spectacle. Even if no one else around him would think that and he knew that, he'd know that image was in the collective mind. He wouldn't even eat any at a church friend's home because he said he can't in front of white people. His main problem was that it was still on the rind. It being cubed and in a bowl would have let him keep some dignity, I guess.

The simple act of showing like for a certain piece of food becomes a dilemma. I remember from my high school days an incident that occurred during our lunch. They had cooked too much fried chicken (they usually ran out of food) and since they didn't want to throw it out, they offered more portions to the students. Well, the principal came to the "black tables" first. I don't remember any of us accepting the offer, although some white kids did. We never mentioned what had happened among ourselves either. Why talk about the mundane?

Racism isn't the problem here. It helped to cement those stereotypes we can't quite run from, but that's not what I'm feeling now. It doesn't seem as if we can ever escape the past; we wear it on our backs like dowager humps.

There's all kinds of things that I don't dare do or say around those who aren't my closest friends (some of my closest friends are different ethnicities) because I don't want to be laughed at. I don't want to put an image in someone's head who doesn't know better that they will carry around with them and spread. It's beyond making a fool of me; I'm worried about making a fool of us. I think that's a little of what my husband faces when someone sets a plate of watermelon or fried chicken in front of him.

The Problem with Rap

"As long as it's not rap."

Then there's the awkwardness of people trying to look at me or my husband from the sides of their eyes. Trying to gauge our reactions without us noticing. But of course we notice. We see the false preoccupation with lint on shirts or pants or hair. We feel every scrape and creak of the chairs we sit in. All around us bodies make to go places, but are confined, going nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

We are black and so we must like rap. Are we offended? Not in the way one would assume. Rap is not my favorite genre of music, for one. Yet when people sneer at the thought of it, I become a target of that disdain, whether or not that was the intention (and sometimes that is the intention). At that point, I wonder what else this person is intolerant of. What else is presumed of me that they'd rather not exist?