He said “My nose is running like a slave.”
I said “What did you say? Tell me you just did not say…”
He said “Yes,my nose is running like a slave with a whip on its back.”
Ohhhh I planned to lay it in on him, really thick for having the nerve to compare his cold to Slavery.
So I said “I will write about you.”
Hours later and I am contemplating his statement and my response.
Why am I sensitive whenever someone juxtaposes Slavery with a subject I deem too crazy for such referencing?
What gave me the authority to feel a bit flabbergasted by his comment and at times disgusted by some others?
Why does just the mere mention of the word Slavery heightens my senses flowing maydays to my aorta of self-defense?
When do I learn to build a wall like China that would hinder all illegal foreign unmentionable from climbing into my sensitive thinking zone.
Oops but isn’t that the Trump wall?
But the solid opinion holds firm like old oak in hurricane winds that talk of Slavery moves me.
Not only am I a student of history but I am an accepted descendant of some enslaved.
Not only does the chocolate colour of my skin and my nationality shows my claim but my emotional connection plunges me into that world which scares many away.
Maybe I will keep my sharp inhales which sometimes pierces like the final whistle on the ball court,to myself.
But maybe not because that weapon dressed up in pink that God blessed me with is perhaps as sharp as the iceberg which sunk the unsinkable ship.