Understanding without Judgement//Analysis without Exhaustion

I was dozing off on the 4 train, one stop from my destination, when a fist pounded three times on my right knee. I looked up and the man sitting next ot me was chuckling, and he repeated the motion, first on my knee, then on his.

My face musta looked hella mad, 'cause he hastily said sorry. It took me a minute to process what had just happened. I could tell he had no ill intent, wasn't all there, but still; my personal bubble had just been penetrated, my space violated.

"That's okay," I mumbled sleepily.  Because it is.

Keep laughing, though you probably should stop touching strangers. But right now, it's okay. I believe you meant to keep me alert and awake. I believe you meant me no harm. You did me no harm.  I could waste the little energy I have left in me right now being mad at you, but I'm not. We're just 2 people on the train who had a socially inappropriate interaction. Why?  Because being radicalized and liberated should inform my outrage at being an open subject that a man feels entitled to touch?  I understand that, and less than a year ago I might've been outraged. But there's some inner peace totem in me that has solidified.

Maybe I should tell you about yourself to help you understand that the next person might not be so complacent. But it is my choice to direct the energy of this encounter. I can make this about sexism, about patriarchy, about injustice and oppression and microaggressions, all of which it is most certainly implicated in.  Or I can give you my "the FUCK?!" look and then breathe and let you know that actually, sir, it is okay.  Because in the scheme of the world, of people being hurt and systems destroying both oppressors and oppressed, you and I are okay.  Rather than feeling dehumanized by your touch, I feel awakened. Had I continued sleeping on the train, I would never have noticed any of the beautiful spirits we were sharing the space with.  Like it or not, we inhabit this world together, and you helped me be present in this moment.

And a part of me is furious with myself for not being more mad, but I just can't be. It's exhausting to be offended all the time, you see. And with you, sir, I have found my truth and my peace in understanding without judgement. You and I, we are okay.

One of Those Days

Today is one of those days 

I feel sad deep in my bones

in my intestines, my pupils

in my smile, my teeth

I begin to tell you I'm not 

sure precisely why

but I pause

because that is a lie

I am heartbroken by the day

forced to watch beautiful brown

and black boys as they are 

broken by a booklet and a 

scantron

the results of which will determine

their fates and declare their worth.

The gap between my two front 

teeth aches with the desire

to affirm these bright but beaten 

spirits

"I BELIEVE IN YOU!" I scream

silently

inhibited by the regulations of

proctoring and discouraged by 

the protective walls and vaults

they wear around their emotions.

"I yell because I love you,"

I whisper with my stare.

I buckle inwardly as one student 

curses out the room, tells me he's

happy to part ways with me, shoves

his classmate and throws a chair

I shed invisible tears

not because of his angry words or

aggressive actions

but because of the sorrow and pain

that lie beneath them

the subtext that tells me he's not

ready to say goodbye.

Today is one of those days 

I feel sad deep in my bones

in my intestines, my pupils

in my smile, my teeth

I begin to tell you I'm not 

sure precisely why

but I pause

because that is a lie

I am heartbroken by the day

forced to watch beautiful brown

and black boys as they are 

broken by a booklet and a 

scantron.

Lost One

I heard a boy riding a motorbike around the block today.  I heard him before I saw him. My heart stopped. The angry purring of the motor sounded just like the motor scooter you used to ride around the 'hood.

Inevitably the sound of your motion around the block was followed by the ringing of my doorbell.  You'd be greeted by my smile, my mom's lecture on why you should wear a helmet, and dad's homecooking.  

Years later when we were older and out of touch, you'd always stop abruptly in the middle of the street to honk and wave me down, flash your big, bashful smile and then continue on your way.  Drop in on holidays to check in on the fam.  My best friend knew you as "scraper boy" because as we grew up, you grew into the obsessions and fancies of the hood.

I miss you.  The sound of youthful joy on a motorized vehicle, tooling around the block like it's a job, will always squeeze at my heart.  To me that sound means you, our adolescence, your premature departure from this physical world.  The future you never had and the past we always will.

I remember the motor. The smiles. The young loves we processed together, walking my dogs and wishing to be growner.

The Bourgie Train-riding hood girl's dilemma

I want a code-switcher

a brunch-going hood-dweller.

I want it all.

I want a wide wrap-around porch, 

built-in bookshelves and community

love in the midst of the grimy and gully.

I want someone who will kayak and 

camp with me

work a room like nobody's business

and stroll the streets with the smarts

that only come from living, learning,

knowing out of necessity.

I want the one who loves tats and 

pits

who would look just as at home in

a scraper as a BMW.

I want the one who knows the 

ice cream truck sells other things

and knows how to open the hydrant

for the kids (and the free carwash).

I want the one who loves museums 

and reads ravenously.

I want the one who flosses teeth

meticulously and loves Cheese Doodles.

Who drinks mint tea and meditates

and knows that Duct tape and

WD-40 can fix it all.

The one who can dance merengue,

shake it like no one's watching

and identify the subtle undertones in

a glass of rich red wine.

Because I know a few of us, I tend to think we're more common than we are.  There's no escaping the fact that I'm on the bourgie train. Or that I come from where I come from. So many things.