New Team

My eyes translate images into a new language outside the two edges of the globe.
The striped shirt hanging loosely on a rack
In the middle of a crowded Marshall's
Has not the label of male or female.
Intersecting navy and white lines produce an extending railroad track.
The linear beams continue infinitely, save for the sections of the world dangerous for me,
Where, when they discover rarities like me,
Cast us aside,
Unto the ocean as if a worm on a hook
Set to be consumed by menacing sharks swimming the world over,
Picking us apart,
Finally digesting-or at least trying to digest-but then regurgitating us back, saying
"Put a little more salt on this one, it needs fixing."

In this human experience, the world is divided into two: pinks and blues,
Masculines and feminines, the pretties and the handsomes, the girls and the boys.
On either side the playing field
Two teams stand with different colors, different players.
Stationed in the same path decided for them at birth,
Both groups stand as distinct entities;
Tribe-like, they engage in rituals:
Hair-braiding, curling, straightening, shaving, plucking eyebrows and nose hairs, smooth pre-pubescent skin, creams, powders, pencils designed to transform entire facial structures, and tight coconut-shaped contraptions restraining gravity-defying bags, which sit under a flowing piece of silk-laced cloth.
Just across is the other tribe:
Also shaving (face hair, back hair), shorter head hair typic'lly, day- and night-jobs physically draining, or CEO, a respectable place, workout sessions that last four hours long, more than enough to sculpt a physique fetishized by the tribe.

Now some players switch sides; they do not feel part of the team to which they were drafted.
As the exchangements finish, the game begins.
But look to the sidelines, a new team approaches!
'Who knew they existed?'
'I didn't, did you?'
'They have a completely new color', they say.
With pride on our faces, we march to the center,
Forming a separate league.
An emblazoned scarlet letter 'A' sits across our chests.
Yet our garments represent
The words "Abstruse", "Atypical", "Aberration", Anomaly".
All of these words are pounded into our countlessly mislabeled fronts
By the hardened hands of
Impatient tailors too inexperienced to learn the trade;
Too incompetent to find exactly the right label that goes perfectly with
Our horizontally striped game jerseys.
The new team takes its place in the middle, gathering zero practices
From the two other, long established tribes.
The new rules are hard to understand,
And so does it stand for the new team.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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