Sometimes...Pastimes

My privileged trait is the wounded child in me, embarrassed, feeling unworthy, finally succeeding, hands raised in celebration, but not taking the time to acknowledge the helping hands, the cushioned walls, padded floors, wind at my back, first aid tents, the stepped on, the ripped up, the chipped away, or left behind that contributed to getting me here.  That child in me is consumed by the trophy, the purse, the recognition, the celebrity, and the reward.  That child in me forgets the preciousness in the journey, the lessons shared, the gratitude returned, the credit due, and the responsibility to look back and give back.

I am guilty of feeling privileged especially to pity.  I have appropriately and with enough practicality exhausted my victimization.  I have engraved deep enough my sad stories.  I have held enough shared sadness to believe in my degradation.  I have felt the sting of my disadvantage and inconvenience.  I have grieved my perceptions of unfairness.  It led me to become a contradiction.  It caused me to bite the hand that feeds me.  Most of those hands were melanin deficient, blessed, and equally struggling to be loved.



Rich folks saved my life.  The taste of class motivated me.  The feel of quality inspired me.  The innovation that comes from technology taught me.  The institutions accommodated me.  I have for the past 4 years bitten the hands that fed me.  I am embarrassed.  Most of the hands had light skin, white skin.  Where I came from would have kept me tied up had it not been for those who untied me out there.  Out there is complex, rarely absolute, and a playground for cognitive dissonance.