I Am The Other
March 28, 2014

You look at your colleagues and you see your happy self --
Tolerant, intelligent, open-minded,
Having a coffee in the faculty lounge.
You look at me and you see the ugly beast inside of you
The seething bolus of hatred and ignorance
You hide from the world.
You say my mind is filled with stereotypes.
That is your stereotype.
You say my heart is filled with prejudice.
That is your prejudice.
When you accuse me of clinging to antipathy
Toward people who are not like me,
You are manifesting antipathy toward me
Because I am not like you.
I don't think like you do, no.
So who are you to throw stones?
Pardon this intrusion of reality into your
Asinine maniac messianic fantasy,
But who the hell are you to make presumptions
About what kind of person I am?
Who the hell are you to make presumptions
About what I think about anything?
Whether you like it or not, I exist without apology,
Without reference to the chimeras of your mythology.
I am the Other that you fear, despise, hate
Because I am comfortable with truth you cannot confront.
You hate me because I see through you.
Because I despise your lies and your insecurity.
Because I laugh at your affectations of decency and integrity,
At the vacuum of your imagination
And the emptiness of your stilted rectitude.
There you are, pointing fingers at me, accusing me of
Racial discrimination, red lining, general ignorance,
Profiling, stereotyping, hatemongering, ethnic intimidation,
White privilege, narcissism, de-facto segregation,
Institutional racism, chauvinism, bigotry, deviationism,
Sexism, gay-bashing, homophobia,
Disparate impact, authoritarian personality disorder
And cultural insensitivity.
Did I leave anything out?
Oh, yeah. The invisible f***ing knapsack!
Put down your crack pipes, you gasbag progressives,
You moon-calf battalions of the left,
You harpy platoons of smelly-fingered vaginal monologuers,
You buggered, justice buggering justices of the court!
Put down your crack pipes and ask,
What if people break out of their trance,
If they interrupt their transfixion with your
Constant repetition of the same fiction?
What if voices converge in unison,
But not under your baton?
What if all the dams you have constructed
So thoughts could be restricted
Are suddenly, brilliantly busted
And your sorry-ass world is flooded with unbearable truth?

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