In the aftermath of a KKK meeting, my beautiful friend Lateefah, who happens to be black, feels as though no one gets her. She interprets every move I make and every word I say through race, and I don’t know how not to hurt her.
And my other friends fight over political semantics, feeding on each other’s opposite points of view, wallowing in self-inflicted pain, judging me for not entering into their dance. But I just won’t take sides.
And the man next door, he never got his college degree, and he defines all that he is by this simple perceived lack, convinced that he is ostracized, belittled, humiliated. He sees his lack of degree in every sentence I speak, and it’s the last thing on my mind. And it feels like I can’t win.
Being different is a secret everyone shares.
And it tugs at the root of us, because we can’t quite understand why others don’t understand. We can’t quite accept that others don’t accept. We can’t quite see the way that others see.
It’s all part of the human experience.
What if you were okay with me not “getting you” perfectly? What if we celebrated difference, and diversity, and the riches of different opinions?
What if we assumed responsiblity for our own reactions?
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