We are the house that’s close to invisible. The family that doesn’t make noise. All four corners of the small space that we occupy are drenched in shades of laughter, love and truth. Our truth is that we’ve never belonged here. Each of us strives for a better, stronger sense of self while others are content with life without living.
I am not a fighter, in which the cop responds, “you’re a lover.”
A conversation that made its way towards the reality of us and them. “Look at them and look at us. They’re ghetto.” I meant what I said. The level of disrespect and inability to speak without blatant insults told me that they were also incapable of listening. This meant trouble. Trouble came and made its mark on our family and to the whispering neighbors. Fortunately, the scars forced upon us will soon turn to scabs, and the scabs will fall into a forethought of memories. My thoughts the morning after the charade, though, were split in to two:
• what good are my words if no one can hear them ?
• am I able to feel feelings of pity for a group of people who weren’t fortunate to be raised with manners nor a cognitive way of thought ?
•Colima, Mexico
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