Injustice makes me cry. I see it everywhere. The same person that steps on his fellow man, is the one who pushes to the front of the line to claim victimhood.
Injustice doesn’t make me cry – it makes me boilingly angry. I feel my heart dent like a metal drum and the blood race through the avenues of my mind, droning, stretching the limits to the point of bursting.
They only see themselves. Every sentiment starts with “I” – yet they are blind. Perhaps we must put these “eyes” out; make them blind to themselves. Perhaps then they’ll see that other they want to distance themselves from.
But who am I to say this? The hypocrite. The bigot. I started this tiny rant with an “I”. I see a big problem and I make it about me – the white modus operandi. I am othering the memebers of my kind that I don’t agree with.
Is this I just as bad?
My own hand-prints on this wall of injustice is what makes me cry. It is easy to give in, to join the intolerant herd, but that thought makes me want to tear off my skin and go about as a creature of muscle and fat.
No, the heard is not for me.
What do I do? Silence is compliance in violence. Let me not be quiet. But let me not stand in the way – let my hands not bar the way and leave dirty marks of privilege on all that pass by.
Let my hands lift others. Lift them above the other “eyes”.