i heard a child scream once,

only once,

and it was the sound of Algebra,

the Cold War,

global warming,

but also a mango seed

scraping wood to etch grammar rules.

my privilege mirrors bomb threats.

i have three dream catchers in my room,

all of which were created by foreign hands.

my hands tell a well-kept secret,

notebook paper and straight-edged rulers,

pencils with erasers attached.

the mango falls from the tree and the tree

understands its nakedness.

the student drops out of school and the school

understands its cut budget.

remember:

Malala nearly died for her right to literacy.

who am i, insignificant, ignorant,

to rebel against a system whose brokenness

is so manically coveted?