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Who Do You See (Words from a Brotha)

Well, what a crossroad. I always believed that diagram of an intersection they showed me in that soul-sucking, yet reviving classroom would appear my truth. So I waited. I waited until I, too, stood at the pavement. Daring to walk? Always. But, giving away my sense of self and power to fall down a ditch by the side of this road, a mistake.

A workplace encounter. A troublesome and invasive clarity that my gender-less aspirations are yet to apply to our group, still reaching at each other, pulling the next one by their ankles, and dreaming of escape from our bucket. The white man’s fishing trip. He’s having crab.

A workplace encounter. One I knew I would have but hadn’t yet imagined and realised, taken in the reality that I would one day face the expectation: to be the brother, or to be another senseless gender bending ignition.

I have always experienced the pressure of choice. An elevating blessing, but never when forced. To choose who to be amongst this performed generosity and understanding of my identities.

You do not see me. You see a brother. Whom you can relate - but only when he fits your standard of the sister you dream to deliver you from the pain: the burden of the fisher man. I mean, I understand your pain.

A workplace encounter and the familiar expectation to be bold in her ways but I am in fact he. The degradation of myself and the poisonous disregard for me. To be me.

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