I don't know how to
explain the warzone I work in because
there are no tanks, or
guns --
except for when there
were, once, last year during the uprising after
Freddie Gray was killed
and I
walked in to work past
the National Guard lining the streets in
riot gear.
But it's not really
about that because the warzone I work in is
the police problem and
the
poverty problem and the
oppressed people
problem and the
hungry children in a
food desert problem, and the
shitty schools that do
illegal things routinely problem, and the
no way out problem.
It's the "my house
burned down in the snowstorm" warzone, and the
"I might get
deported" warzone, and the
"they got rats in
the daycare" warzone, and the
"don't speak the
language and nobody gets me an interpreter" warzone,
and the war of: "can't pay my
BG&E bill," and "don't have a working car" and "got a
kid with a disability" and "school keeps
calling me to come get him so I lost my job."
And me --
most days I show up
with a pen knife to the gun fight.
"With all due respect, ma'am," he told me,
"you say you understand that this is hard.
But you don't."
He's not wrong.
I can feel it in my
bones, but I
will never have to live
it.
I feel so
small, knowing there is
not an
enough that can stop this
bleeding.
A patient arrived
nearly half an hour late today.
He was pulled over by
the police for speeding.
He left the session and
I cried:
grateful he
made it alive. Praying he
made it home.
Allowing myself 5 minutes to
grieve the war.
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