Privilege

Sun, 04/03/2016 - 21:19 -- kak23

I watched his black blistered fingers stretch to conceal handfuls of broken plastic forks. When our eyes shot down and our pockets couldn’t contribute he asked:

“If you eat a clown does it taste funny?”.

On the walk home my thoughts tasted funny thinking about the change in my jeans-pocket.

I saw my privilege of being a middle-class white girl who can buy as many forks as she pleases because of her middle-class parents with jobs and college degrees. From some people’s perspectives our money grows on trees. But they work hard, so I guess we can chalk it all up to the american dream. A façade, a mirage built on the backs of Bangladesh's 13 year olds, as they add another seam into the newest american jeans. When I was thirteen, I was walking home oblivious to my privilege searing through my brand new jeans.

Blind to the fact that no matter how hard americans work they cannot stop her head pounding against the linoleum. Her hair, splayed like Basquiat amid red solo cups. Her memory escaping out the door hastily dropping his heavy words. To some she is just a number “One in five or four or maybe three” but I see a victim of assault and inequality.

I watch as privilege picks its prey leaving scraps for poverty, hunger, prejudice and dismay. Meanwhile, the weight of the world's oppression and ignorance is splayed in a torrid disarray. I would change the world for just one day when we could all break our privilege to recognize humanity in all of its ways.

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Our world

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