I can only begin to bridge the differences and find some peace after I can explore and know enough of myself that true self love is possible
To not know, ask, struggle stops dead any of growth.
I cannot look to you with anything in this world of divides…like broken bookshelves if I never can appreciate my story then I bring such emptiness on my climb.
I describe my cage to understand it’s construction and work my way to liberation. Does it involve driving the bars apart and tearing my way through?
Do I rework the wood of my box into a home on soil shared not stolen? Or do I use it for kindling as I cook my captors?
Where does my hatred for captivity and my thirst for freedom come into a peace that doesn’t require me to relax into my shackles?
These thoughts rush by with the scenarie on the train. I notice all this as an older white woman grapples with a seating mistake. Red faced and full of all the same entitlement but in the practiced cold politeness of Canadian wasp whiteness. She raises her voice to explain to the African woman that it is indeed her seat. Of course she must be correct. This not being the case, confuses and brings a rush of red to her plump wrinkled face. Inconvenience and inefficiency drives so much white fuckery in this country.
All the while the white girl with curls next to me brushed lint onto me and a Jamaican family waits to walk by.
Why must we always wait or be shut down like we are unreasonable children?