How lucky you are, she told me,
to be met with smiles as you walk to your desk,
no daggers staring at you
and none in your back. To be free of fear
of being lied to or about
or undermined or overburdened with doubt
about the work you dissolved all of yourself into
for days and weeks and nights when
you were too busy to make it home in time for bedtime.

How lucky you are, she told me,
that you fit in, and you stand out, and are loved for both.
That you don’t dread the dawning of the day,
and the long, long ride on the train
and the arrival at a place
where nobody looks like you or talks like you or cares about you
enough to ask
“how are you?”
and listen closely
enough to see your eyes answer
above lips stretched into a smile
before they brand you angry.

How lucky you are, she told me,
that you have never had to question
never been questioned
about your work, the worth
of what you bring to the table and into the rooms you have earned
with degree after degree after degree
and the pedigree you have paid for in toil and midnight oil
knowing that the coil of your hair and the deepness of your skin
and the mouthful of your name would always make you a jagged pill for some
but still hoping,
hoping that they would learn to swallow the idea of you
and then, at least, stomach it.

How lucky you are, she tells me.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Ankur Dutta on Unsplash