Two black cops hassle a drunk white lady. Tables have turned I say and the African man I’m helping load boxes into his truck asks me to explain. I mutter words like retribution, payback. I’m not trying to be a dick I plead. Smiling he says don’t worry, you can’t help it, you were born that way. We laugh.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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