Day 12 - The Invisible Knapsack

I can, if I wish, arrange

to be in the company of people

of my race most of the time.

You may not.

I can, if I wish, avoid

spending time with people

whom I was trained to mistrust

and who have learned

to mistrust my kind or me.

You may not.

I can, if I should need to move,

be pretty sure of renting

or purchasing housing in

an area which I can afford

and in which I would want to live.

You may not.

I can be reasonably sure

that my neighbors in such a location

will be neutral or pleasant to me.

You may not.

I can, if I need, go shopping

alone most of the time,

fairly well assured

that I will not be followed

or harassed by store detectives.

You may not.

I can turn on the television

or open to the front page of the paper

and see people of my race

widely and positively represented.

You may not.

I can be sure that my children

will be given curricular materials

that testify to the existence

and the glory of their race.

You may not.

I can, if I want to, be pretty sure

of finding a publisher

for this piece

on white privilege.

You may not.

I can be fairly sure

of having my voice heard

in a group in which

I am the only member

of my race.

You may not.

I can be casual about, whether or not

to listen to another woman's voice

in a group in which she is

the only member of her race.

You may not.

I could arrange

to protect our young children

most of the time, from people

who might not like them.

You may not.

I did not have to educate

our children to be aware

of systemic racism

for their own daily

physical protection.

You do.

I can talk with my mouth full

and not have people

put this down to my color.

You may not.

I can, if I choose, swear,

or dress in secondhand clothes,

or not answer letters,

without having people

attribute these choices

to the bad morals, the poverty,

or the illiteracy of my race.

You may not.

I am never asked

to speak for all the people

of my racial group.

You are.

I can remain oblivious

to the language and customs

of persons of color

who constitute the world's majority

without feeling in my culture

any penalty for such oblivion.

You may not.

If a traffic cop pulls me over

or if the IRS audits my tax return,

I can be sure I haven't been singled out

because of my race.

You may not.

I can be pretty sure

that an argument

with a colleague of another race

is more likely to jeopardize

her chances for advancement

than to jeopardize mine.

You may not.

I can, if I choose, worry

And talk about racism

without being seen

as self-interested

or selfseeking.

You may not.

I can choose public accommodation

without fearing that people of my race

cannot get in or will be mistreated

in the places I have chosen.

You may not.

I can choose blemish cover

or bandages in "flesh" color

and have them more or

less match my skin.

You may not.

I am the white.

Let’s rotate and move

the wheel of oppression,

and I could be a male.

Or a heterosexual.

Or an able bodied.

A cisgender. Or a Brahmin.

And this story will still be true.

The knapsack is carried on. 

Invisible, and thankfully so.

So do you – oh, you! the lesser you!

Do you see how I am now? 

- Based on Peggy McIntosh' paper, WHITE PRIVILEGE AND MALE PRIVILEGE: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences Through Work in Women's Studies (1988)


#Day12 #The100DayProject #100DaysOfProseToPoetry #WhitePrivilege Peggy McIntosh #InvisibleKnapsack #SEED

Day 11 - My Son, Matthew

My son, Matthew,
did not look like a winner. 

He was rather 
uncoordinated, 
and wore braces 
from the age of thirteen 
until the day he died. 

However, in his all too brief life 
he proved that he was a winner. 

On October 6, 1998 
my son tried to show the world 
that he could win again. 

On October 12, 1998 
my first born son 
and my hero, 
lost. 

On October 12, 1998 
my first born son 
and my hero, 
died, 
fifty days before 
his twenty-second birthday.

I keep wondering 
the same thing that I did 
when I first saw him in the hospital. 
What would he have become? 
How could he have changed 
his piece of the world 
to make it better?

Matt officially died 
in a hospital 
in Fort Collins, Colorado. 

He actually died 
on the outskirts of Laramie, 
tied to a fence. 

I miss my son, 
but I am proud 
to be able to say 
that he is my son.

I would like nothing 
better than to see you 
die Mr. McKinney. 

However, 
this is the time 
to begin the process 
of healing,
to show mercy 
to someone 
who refused 
to show any mercy.

Mr. McKinney, 
I am going to grant you life, 
as hard as it is for me to do so, 
because of Matthew. 
Every time 
you celebrate 
Christmas, 
a birthday, 
or the Fourth of July 
remember, Matt isn't.

Every time 
you wake up 
in your prison cell 
remember, you 
had the opportunity 
and the ability 
to stop your actions 
that night. 

You robbed me 
of something 
very precious,
Mr. McKinney, 
and I will never 
forgive you for that.

However,
I give you life 
in the memory of one 
who no longer lives. 

May you have a long life 
and may you thank him 
every day for having lived it.

- Based on Dennis Shepard's statement to the court after his son, Matthew, died in hate crime against gay men in Laramie. The audio of this can be heard here.

#Day11 #The100DayProject #100DaysOfProseToPoetry The Laramie ProjectLaramie, Wyoming Matthew Shepard #TheLaramieProject #HateCrime#LGBT #Gay
Image Source: http://nypost.com/2013/09/21/new-book-questions-matthew-shepard-killing/

Day 10 - To Hell with Good Intentions

Next to money 
and guns, 
the third largest 
North American export 
to the world 
is you, the U.S. idealist.
You turns up 
in every theater of the world:
as missionaries, 
as teachers and volunteers,
the community organizer, 
the economic developer, 
and the vacationing do-gooders. 

You define your role as service. 
Actually, you frequently wind up 
alleviating the damage 
done by money and weapons, 
or "seducing" the "underdeveloped" 
to the benefits of the world 
of affluence and achievement. 

Perhaps 
this is the moment 
to instead bring home 
to the people of the U.S. 
the knowledge 
that the way of life 
they have chosen 
simply is not 
alive enough 
to be shared.

Good intentions
have not much
to do with what 
we are discussing here

To hell with good intentions!
No, you don't help nobody
with your good intentions.
the road to hell
is paved with good intentions,
as goes the Irish saying. 

If you still want to go ahead,
close your eyes, otherwise 
the facts will make it hard 
for you to move.

Oh! you enlightened white american,
your sentimental concern
for the newly-discovered poverty
south of the border
combined with total blindness
to much worse poverty
at home justified
such benevolent excursions.

While Peace Corps spends
around $10,000 on you
to help you adopt 
to your new environment
and to guard you 
against culture shock,
how odd that nobody 
ever thought
about spending money
to educate poor Mexicans
in order to prevent them
from the culture shock
of meeting you?

If you have 
any sense of responsibility at all,
stay with your riots here at home.
Work for the coming elections:

you will know 

what you are doing,

why you are doing it,

and how to communicate 

with those to whom you speak.

And you will know when you fail.

If you insist on working with poor,

if this is your vocation,

then at least work

among the poor 

who can tell you to go to hell.

it is incredibly unfair for you 

to impose yourselves

on a village

where you are

so linguistically deaf and dumb

that you don't even understand 

what you are doing,

or what people think of you.

And it is, profoundly 

damaging to yourselves

when you define 

something 

that you want to do

as "good",

a "sacrifice",

or  "help".

damages you do willy-nilly,

through your vacation-mission,

or two year exotic fellowships,

is too high a price

for the belated insight

that you shouldn't have been

there in the first place. 

So, I am here

to entreat you

to use your money,

your status and your education

to travel in Latin America.

Come to look, 

to climb our mountains,

to enjoy our flowers.

Come to study.

But do not come to help!

- Based on Ivan Illich's address, To Hell With Good Intention, 1968.

#Day10 #The100DayProject #100DaysOfProseToPoetry Ivan Illich #Volunteering #Charity

Day 9 - Verbatim

Let’s exchange,

Our stories, our words,

Our lives, our worlds

For next ten minutes

You be me, and I be you

Let’s share our deep, dark secret

And some lighter notes

Some laughter, casual banter,

Some history and some jokes

Let’s share,

Those stories in my words

Through your voice in this world

Word by word, world by world

Verbatim, in the way it was said

in Laramie when they killed Mathew

Or ten years later

and still today

Do you hear my story, my friend?

What do you hear? And what do I?

Can you say it as you hear it?

Can I say it as I hear yours?

Let’s rise.

One by one.

And share out our stories.

You say mine. I say yours.

As if they are our own.

Let’s fill this room,

With who we are.

And what we feel.

Word by word.

World by world.

Voices, open.

"Happy. With helpful friends.

Roaming around with new girlfriend.

Cinema. Stories, Poetry and some dance.

Failed exams. Alone.

A purposeless life.

Gutless. Alert.

Bully and bullied.

Voices, fall.

"Disliked by family.

Have to prove myself to others.

Fear losing friends, shy to the core.

Orphaned. Discriminated.

Introverted. Scared.

Expressionless. Frustrated.

Battling commitment issues.

Lying to myself.

Realize each day.

Missing grandma,

who just passed way.

Voices, rise.

"Fights with mom

Fights with brother

Fights with my friends

And fights with my father.

What are these fights for?

Sometimes, over small little thing

Sometimes, they become the missing purpose.

Feels like crying, Cry I shall not.

Passion, what’s that?

Poverty. Neglect. Irritation.

angry with family

Angry with politics

Angry with self

Angry

Angry

Angry.

Fuck! Angry!

Let’s open,

The windows

And our hearts.

To let air flow.

In the room

Between our walls.

Let these yellow sticky notes

be flown away

and carry a piece of our hearts

that's written on them,

now forever, into a world unknown.

But before we step out

From each other’s character

And wear our souls back,

Let’s look into our eyes - 

Do you see they are moist already, my friend?

- Based on the responses written by Apni Shala Youth Project students as part of a Verbatim Theatre activity. 

#Day09 #The100DayProject #100DaysOfProseToPoetry #VerbatimTheatreApni Shala #Youth #Voices The Laramie Project #LaramieProject