Not Your Job

“Memory is a tough place. You were there” (Rankine, 64).

This is nothing new to you. You’ve seen this before. You’ve breathed this before. You’ve felt that. And that. And everything they think you haven’t. You have.

You wish it was different. You know that that is just your excuse. For what?

Inaction. Passivity. Willful ignorance.

Funny. That reminds you of “Willful Obstruction.” Obstruction of what? Beyond police officers, perhaps those around you are willfully obstructing justice. There are no innocent bystanders. Silence isn't simple. "Willful Obstruction." Isn't that a felony? How would you know?

You know.

What even is a felony? What applies to your brothers and sisters might mean nothing more than a warning to the girl in your math class.

You know this. Your TV knows it. Your eyes and ears and mouth and hands and toes know it. Your memory knows itself. Your memory's job is essentially to never forget. It’s a trap, a prison. The whole damn thing.

And no, for God’s sake, you don’t want to read about it and talk about it over and over with people who don’t actually care to acknowledge that your life is real and valid. Your life -- and your experiences. Of course, that’s what you meant. You sometimes forget that people don't always see the correlation. You’re sorry you didn’t clarify.

Reading and rereading your experiences is like the universe giving power to your memory. Don’t they know how hard you’ve worked to move forward from that, rather than backward? You know they do, and you know they also do not at the same time. You know they don’t understand that concept, and you know that you won’t ever be able to get them to understand it. Understand you.

You.

You’re here. You were there, but you're still there. You're here. You’re real. Tell yourself over and over. What happened was real. What’s happening is real. Don’t they know? No. And it isn’t your job to teach them.