(A paragraph of one syllable words.)
One Hour Out of My Day
On this day I met with a grown girl who had lost her trust. This girl, a mom of five girls, had lost too much of her self. Rape. Theft. Beat up. Shot at and spat out by her man, by the law, by the girls and boys she knew and those she did not know. My heart broke for her. But all I could do was try to hear her. Words came forth from her mouth in a flood. Words did not stop. Tears coursed down her cheeks to her chin and then drop by drop to her lap. “It is my race, my dark skin that made this be,” she spat out much as her man had spat her out, “and what it is to live poor. The law will not help the likes of me or my girls.” I did not know if she spat at me as she spoke, or was it at all the boys and girls she knew and did not know who glared at her, who said she made it be. Rape. Theft. Beat up. Shot at and spat out is no place one wants to be. But what could she do? Who would hear her cry and shout and rage and beg for a life that meant more than what she got. So I heard her, or tried to. But what do I know of these things? What do I know of race when I am white? What is it to be poor when I have food? What do I know of girls and boys who blame the one who was beat down and say she, or he, got what they sought when I have not been beat down but got the good that I sought? The ones who raped or beat or shot the gun walk away and leave the grown girls–the grown girl I met on this day–to trust no more.