“I’ve found that there is always some beauty left— in nature, sunshine, freedom, in yourself; these can all help you.”
—Anne Frank
My President Hates Me
My president hates me. He calls it patriotism. My president hates me. He says it with a smile meant for cameras, while the ticker at the bottom of the screen counts the jobs like casualties. My president hates me. I hear it in the static between commercials, the roar of a crowd mistaking layoffs for touchdowns. Pink slips flutter like confetti. The anthem plays. The cheer is for my absence. My president hates me. He loves the echo more than the truth. He claps when the word lunatic grows teeth in my sleep, gnaws through the seams of my paycheck, leaves bite marks on my dignity. My president hates me. Still, a neighbor lends me bread. Still, I plant seeds that sprout in the dark. Still, the children on my block draw chalk rainbows on the cracked sidewalk, and not even the rain can erase them fast enough. My president hates me. But the crowd beside me sings louder. The chorus is ragged, off-key, but alive. My president hates me. That is not the whole of me. My president hates me. And yet—my name will outlast his applause. My president hates me. Which means he fears the part of me he cannot erase.
From behind enemy lines,
—Rebecca M. Bell
www.rmbellwrites.com
Let the record show: we noticed.
Filed Under: State-sanctioned spite and citizen defiance