“When the injured humerus is accompanied by a serious rupture of the overlying soft tissue the injury is regarded as fatal.”― James Henry Breasted
A dramatic composition escalated by instruments of expression must swiftly accomplish its objective of being born, so it is with the flooding accompaniment of tears that the human arrives and departs. It is our shifting swells of pain that allows the ships to pull anchor and finally return home.
The state of the world seems not to change theirs. A police officer parks his vehicle in the middle of the street to attend to loiterers. My car slows at a stop sign, and two men begin arguing in the middle of the crosswalk, one on a bike. Their disagreement can’t be understood, but their body language is clear. The man walking punches the other, causing him to fall from his bike. Others along the street are watching, but the only vehicles are mine and the police officers. I contemplate stopping and getting out to stand between them, but I wasn’t angry – enough. Instead, I pulled next to the police car, rolled down my window, and called out to the officer.
When he acknowledged me, I explained there was a fight several hundred yards away from us, then pointed to the men trying to kill one another with their fists in the middle of the road. He thanked me, then said he’d get to it in a minute. He was alone. Under-staffed. Under-protected. Misunder-stood.
Tax dollars are the wages that pit black and blue lives against one another in a distinguishing discriminatory cage, so folks like me can drive smoothly paved roads accelerating towards a comfortable truth that says their battles originate from the devil and ours from snakes.
We know the cage, and we know the captor. So who will bail us out, if not the uninhabited vehicle in the middle of the road? Who will pull the anchor for a society too afraid to fight for a flood upon dry land?
If they ain’t got no place to call home, then how can we?