Somewhere between looking at the activation of the rule of law in the one-world superpower, reading the list of sexual abuse allegations making the social media circuit, the Police Commissioner’s comments, the lack of online footprint of the just-this-year launched TT National Sexual Offenders Registry, remembering that we supposed to “choose our men better/wisely” and remembering the failure of the local medical establishment twenty-six years after my mother’s death…
Somewhere between the black Instagram squares
And the clumsy ignorance on display from bodies adjacent to ones more likely to be immune to brutality of every sort and more valued than those being teargassed into breathlessness even as they march for the right to breathe.
Somewhere in the stupidity and reactivity of cursory ignorance and shouting down of earth-coloured women, (why is it that we the coloured of the earth are the ones weeping tears full salt, day on day) of teammates showing the side they’re actually playing for, playing their whole selves.
We knew, didn’t we?
We didn’t want to believe again that betrayal had come to visit. One more time and one more time to add to the thousands. If now, today, this very instant, the line between every raised fist, every rubber bullet there and the disdain, the victorian public systems, the reification of us and them in healthcare and schools and transport and every other damned weighted system here, isn’t glaringly, screamingly clear, then, well chalk it up to system success, lock yourself into your gilded cage and carry on, smartly.
None have crossed till all have crossed and some will try to drown us.
When we sat outside the Prime Minister's office, forty days and nights, walked across to the president’s house talked and talked and fasted and talked, we knew that there were enough of us who knew othering well enough to know many of the hateful spiels by heart, from a liminal space couched in not-being and privilege, perched on a ledge -
Neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring.
Not-belonging forces you to find home within. Spend enough time in the in-between spaces and the hard fixed parts will never fit, not that they did, but you stop trying to put your square self into the pre-drilled pigeon holes. We crush ideas and people with them into dust with inexorable cruelty made worse by the occasional apparent small win…
When I looked around, under the Project 40 tent, (where I was only because I knew I was leaving and uncertain about any return, ever)…I couldn’t see any place I could possibly fit…again, not that I ever expect to fit anywhere save my own skin, salt or no…What could I possibly do that would make any difference?
Somewhere in the midst of all the shaking off of whatever-will-not-hold that this clear vision turn around the sun is showing, there’s an answer. Perhaps.