“I Am… Graffiti”

“I Am… Graffiti”

 

I write my memoirs

on the cracked

chipped

pealing walls

of your forgetfulness

your…

wish these places didn’t exist

your…

if I pretend they don’t exist

maybe they will

disappear

your…

if we only made these places

“better”

aka gentrification

aka pushing people out of the places

they call…

HOME.

I write my memoirs

on the walls and doors

you built…

to push me out…

to hold me down…

to keep me in my…

“place.”

Because you think

I belong in this

“place”

lower than you.

Because years upon years

and generations upon generations

of oppression, colonialism,

imperialism, and materialism

and a host of other “isms”

have tricked you

into believing

stereotypes and hierarchy

and…

you worked hard to get where you are…

and I

the stereotype

only want to live off welfare

and don’t want to work hard

and would be in a different place

if I truly wanted, worked hard,

and just visualized

“The Secret”

into my reality.

Because if I just visualized “The Secret” enough

then fancy cars and fancy houses

would be mine.

And it is only my laziness

and lack of positive thinking

and my “karma”

that keeps me here

writing my memoirs

on the cracked, chipped,

peeling walls

of your forgetfulness…

of your privilege…

of your inherited and internalized

racism.

Hoping against hope

that despite the odds,

despite the history that says,

”Light skin equals privilege”

that somehow

the colored paint

that spews forth from this can

into sometimes brilliant

sometimes pathetic

markings, scribbles, art, brilliant possibilities

and everything in between…

left as memoirs

on the cracked, chipped,

peeling walls

of your chosen forgetfulness…

that somehow

I will leave my mark…

refusing to be silenced

in a world that wishes to forget.

 

cjulia butterfly hill  August 2013

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Published in: on September 18, 2013 at 5:55 am  Comments (5)