A Night on The Street

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

There is a word used that some may find offensive, although its use here is the only word fitting.
This is a true story written in real time of my experience after the mother of my sons terrorized me, but then got a protection order against me. This is my subsequent expression of my thoughts about being unjustly removed and how my personal life bears striking resemblance to collective experiences under the same human mechanisms just on a larger scale.

A night on the street


When I was forced to leave the house that was supposed to be my home around 7:30 pm I took with me a pillow, some clothes, one of the few books that survived the great ripping Tupac’s book A Rose From Concrete, and a heavier, but woefully inadequate Jacket that proved my ignorance to how cold the ground is. This sheet of ice beneath me was all that was underneath me, yet its frost proved itself to be a cozy fireplace in comparison to the contemptuous glances I had received from the frozen hearted strangers that happened to pass me by. Cutting me with their eyes as they all desperately attempted to and most succeeded in distancing me from their moral view by proclaiming me guilty and punishment is deserved. Why else would I be there? How else could I be here? I must, in their way of facts, had to have earned my space on the edge. My presupposed guilt justified their disregard and soothed them.  I wanted to get up and make myself known, force them to look at me in the eye, dance in their face, make a scene. Something, anything that implores See me!  But they were straining so desperately to push me off the Cliff of their world I was unable to make up the distance, so there I sat at the bottom, in my own world, alone. 


I wished that I had packed some water or some food, of which I had neither this day, and now I’ll have neither this night. This cold night. 


How did I get here? Why am I here? Not here sitting on ice, but here as in heart pumping, blood coursing, and mind slipping.  Why not stop all these functions at once? Is it fear? Resilience? 


My world was a cold one long before I found myself here, looking up at the stars and back down at this device in which this note is being written. The time of this sentence born is 1:26 a.m I found myself a corner of this world, behind a Bush.  Another wave of cold air smacks into the Bush, penetrates into my jacket and rattles my bones. Breathe. Control the breath is all that is on my mind to regulate temperature, as I clench my knees with one hand and type this with the other. 


I have no money, no wallet, all that is in my pocket is this emergency protection order that has been erroneously placed against me, but I’ve learned through many lost battles that if someone wants you to be guilty your say your actions are of no matter. Integrity as a hurdle isn’t respected but merely trampled by a hypnotized beast with a number of triggers and stand no chance at whatever to what they want to be true. The truth is they want you to die for their sins, suffer for their transgressions, and take their place on the moral chopping block, so here I sit where she deeply feels she deserves to, maybe she does, but I don’t think so. No one deserves what happened to me. No one deserves this path. No one deserves to be here. 


I have spent the last few years with my opposite, with my shadow externalized. Her heart as cold as the ground I now lay on, but on fire is her mind, hot with schemes, These schemes born of a mind wired to find the negatives of life. I’ll never out manipulate her. The commitment it takes to malice, is a commitment I’m not willing to put myself through. Imagine me, sitting there brewing another way to increase the pressure. No thank you, I wish to remain in the light, but look where that’s gotten me, here on the ice. 


 On the order it reads “respondent allegedly poured soda water over petitioner’s head”

Do they know what I’ve suffered from her? To put it concisely, years of isolation, group scapegoating, gaslighting, shadow projections, reputation destruction, pathological lies, my kids conditioned from me, adulation followed by devaluation, lies told repeatedly to my 3yo twins that I, their father who truly loves them has broken bones in their bodies. As if I could ever bring harm to a child, let alone my own. When she isn’t entirely unconscious she has apologized for these baseless and horrible allegations, but those weak apologies in no way whatever stops her from grossly weaponizing them again. My children, all of them by their mothers, have been used as blunt objects to hit me over the head with. Can you imagine the complex it creates the ones you love the most perverted into weapons of psychological degradation? My story is so unbelievable that no one wants to believe me. How could I explain what the phenomenon of group scapegoating is? Would anyone be patient enough to understand? Not yet, so here I sit where her self loathing has convinced her she belongs, but would rather project me here instead. My phone is dying the outlet is in another place, a scary world too far away. I’ll try and close my eyes, so I too can go a world away... 1:31 am


I woke up with Palestine on my mind. The time is 1:57 Seemingly too much of the world siding with Israel through layers of corruption, gaslighting, thievery and barbarism. My personal suffering pales in comparison to such a world. Oh, Palestine! how I wish I could hug your collective. Would you want me to say kind lies to you like “it's all going to be ok.?” You and I both know in our worlds tomorrow is not going to be ok. Tomorrow is going to look more like yesterday and the cold days of our rigid past, but the next day, after this never ending tomorrow there’s sure promise that someone will see you, that someone will see me. Palestine, may I have this dance?


Yet again no one has rhythm like us black folks, we’ve been dancing our whole lives, yet hardly nothing. Before others would point to progress that our gyrations has paid off. I’ll point them in the direction towards the tip of Malcolm X’s sharp point about the blade. 

“If you stick a knife in my back nine inches and pull it out six inches, there's no progress. If you pull it all the way out that's not progress. Progress is healing the wound that the blow made. And they haven't even pulled the knife out much less heal the wound. They won't even admit the knife is there.” This is true as he means it collectively as it also bears a much more personal burning in my back. 


We have been proclaimed guilty a long while ago and our gratitude for such a decrepit position demanded.  As I have been personally scapegoated my collective has been scapegoated who through the lens of the niggerizer which is a term I coined and means anyone who needs this emotional crutch that distorts perception to believe me to be ugly, lacking sentience, disregarded and morphed into this caricature of a being, and given a name. Nigger. Why is this dynamic needed? For someone who is unable to accept the worst in themselves, so instead of trying they fully embrace the opposite they just project it, thus the nigger is born and as the visual becomes more twisted, so to do the crimes become more cruel.  There are few words more important to understand than that word.  If this language is bitter for you to swallow, you may find that reading Oscar Wilde’s the portrait of Dorian grey more palatable. The same concept exists. 


 I, like my fellow blacks, I like Palestine, I like among the rest of my tribe of poets is often not in control of my outcome in my own novel, but instead hang on the walls of those who do not accept their shadows. Although I would much rather be here hung on a wall as a result of someone’s shadow than where Billie Holiday painfully gives her report as she stands in the middle of a forest, all around her the dangling of strange fruit swinging from poplar trees. As personal, as too the collective. As above, so too the below. 

I ask all that read this become aware of your shadow, tame your beast, and see. We all should dance For joy, not attention. 

I’m going to close my eyes again.  2:39 am

Submitted: May 24, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Trindin Wright. All rights reserved.

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