He was all snarl and lacking compassion. With the teetering bridge of his nose tipped up, like he got the holes that he depended on for seeing and breathing backwards. Straight-backed, like he never knew what it meant to have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders… not that anyone ever expected him to.
My approach was slow and laborious. My walk, tired, like the amble of a sickly old woman whose feet are too swollen to make her believe that she is walking on anything else but clouds.
But he was not raised to respect his elders.
He was not raised,
but pushed into this world and silver-spoon-fed until he could walk on a leash.
—Until he became comfortable personifying bitches.
And exemplifying bitch-like tendencies.
And then he grew up and broke free.
And somehow managed admittance into Georgetown.
And now he just stood there, at this late-night/early-morning junction,
and time began to feel like it was the only thing moving.
He pursed his lips, but I already read my inconvenience on his face.
In the elevator that was one-size-fit-him alone.
The sound of the door slamming in my face, coupled my yelling, “Wait!”
He wanted to be alone, and I needed to get back home.
But he saw priority in every identity that put him first,
as white, as male, as old money, as intelligent,
as stupid as he allowed himself to be.
As he tilted his head, his body language screamed:
“You’re not welcome here!”
He said nothing, but let the doors slam shut instead.
–Claytia Gonsalves, Untamed Voices Staff
Image Source: http://eclectikrelaxation.com/blog/?p=4665