January 24, 2012 - 8:48 p.m.
Obscenity: The appropriateness of guilt
Dodge Ball: A high school game
lethal with consequence.
Concussion.
Bullying.
How are they even allowed to play that?
Sanctioned personal attacks.
But we can't read this theatre smut. Can't read about sexuality. Can't read Beloved. No Colour like Purple.
Not even if Oprah likes them.
I am obscene by default. That's what they say.
I can't remember the last time I felt like this
ragged, heaving sobs
and flood-gate tears
feeling so vulnerable.
shaken at the foundation
questioning myself.
I feel like I have a target on my back
with no recourse, no shelter, no warning
blindsided
open season
how can I live this way?
Trial 1:
no trial
settled out of court
implies guilt
but saves (one would hope) more pain
but pain is inevitable.
can i do so well every day,
and work so hard
and that is still not enough?
Is it not
enough
to do my job well, to give it my all?
only to have one voice raised against me
stripped of my own voice
no chance to mitigate or defend
the only respite I saw, revoked before I could remind myself to breathe?
one voice raised against me?
where are the voices who speak for me? Who tell me every day that I am doing good? Doing well, by them, by their children, by the values I hold
when do I have the chance to submit them?
I feel let down.
What could she have been hoping for, this pious woman, when clearly blood was just the start?
What would satisfy this outcry for retribution?
when the crime was a difference of opinion
when my professional judgement is on record, in doubt
what is the point of following all the protocol I knew
if i am still liable for things I cannot possibly control?
and when my professional judgement is deemed irrelevant.
perhaps I have no judgement? '
perhaps I am in the wrong profession.
but what would i do, if not this
this job that I love,
where daily I floated in the happiness of doing something that I valued and felt meaningful
even though it is hard
hazard of the trade
i didn't see it coming.
I am not used to this
so conscientious,
conscious,
confident in my judgement
now undercut
I do not know how to hold myself here,
feeling without footing
needing to hear the answer to the question:
"do YOU think I was wrong?"
afraid of the answer.
Angry at having no opportunity to defend myself.
How can you be so righteous, when you circumvented every reasonable route to solve this
at eye level
flying instead, to heaven, off the handle,
to a place where my reactions, remedies and response were obsolete and pointless.
We are going to shoot you in the foot. Don't worry, I negotiated down. They were going to shoot you in the chest. It will hurt less. But it will still bleed.
Do I have a choice in this?
No.
Admission of guilt: you are.
How do you plead? I don't.
I am not allowed to speak.
And is there anyone here to speak for you?
I thought so.
Maybe I was wrong.
What is the point of working so hard,
if all it takes is one voice to fill a file, previously empty and pristine. A file marked with my name,
now crowded with one letter
tattooed there
on my back
where I cannot reach
to scratch it out
only close enough to make a mess and
dig nails deep
around and through it
In answer
I may stay contrite,
her smug query - 'was she...?'
sick - full of words I cannot say,
because I don't have the luxury of showing up at your job and putting your community standards up to the light
what kind of evangelical woman looks to crucify the person who has helped her daughter walk, the illusion of walking
when scraping by was a generous description
what is the world coming to?
Cliches and powerlessness.
I don't know anymore.
And I cannot remember
feeling so unsure.
All it takes is a word
to underline me
in red
and all of my reasons and concessions
and history and sweat
are mute.
Welcome to the profession. The the union, where you shut up, because no one has told you it could be like this. And no one is under contract
if the sights are on you.
The kill.
And you're the only one who sees or feels
the bullet coming.
Cause that's what it feels like
when it hits you.
