Creative spoke to me

Creative spoke to me
and developed out of me
only when I was backed against the wall
only when I recognized hatred
only as I stood face to face
with the force of it
did I know to put the potency  

of my words forward.

Discrimination marked hatred's hostility.
I tried to write about this and
struggled with the language of this and

found myself rummaging through an

old attic trunk filled with alphabet letters

and words.

Dyslexia, a central character in my story

enabled me to see    inside-out    and    center-to-edge.

Librarian skill, also central, cataloged the contents of this attic trunk~

words of nonsense? to the trash~

words of daydream? fly them out the window~

cruel hateful words? erase them like grease pen on whiteboard~

words of judgment? light the match and watch them burn.

In my rummaging, I discovered words of understanding and words of love 

words of equality and words of kindness and I said

Oh, please come and sit with me 

show me what you are

teach me all of your words and 
I will write them until I can write no more.

 

I dreamt of doors last night ~slightly ajar along academic corridor~

I have never experienced discrimination before

but now

discrimination's negativity surrounds all that I do

its persistence begins to shape outcome

its piercing cruelty penetrates motivation

its flames burn out goals

nothing I do is good enough

all that I do is wrong.

Like a critical old hag, discrimination

stares me down and stands

always here telling me the ONLY way--

always harsh and always loud

always hateful of what I do.

I think discrimination is bigger

than I am.

I think it wins.

from forthcoming book