Thursday, September 22, 2016

Day 15: Grieving the war

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

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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