TO BE A LOWER ONE

Thanks to my stay at the San Diego Rescue Mission I was inspired by this lovely piece.

You walk around barking orders at women from the moment you walk into the door.

You stand there pointing your finger over and over again.

Kids run around screaming their heads off.

Moms sit and stare, some on their phones, some puffing on their cigarettes.

Me, sitting waiting for the day just to be over.

Wondering how and what I was doing there.

What is wrong with me, how could I do this to my kids.

Resignated and defeated I make the one call that I have dreaded all my life.

To their father. The one who has never been there.

And to my surprise he laughs and tells them that he can not help.

We walk downstairs to the room of death.

A morgue for the dead now converted for the living and in despair.

It’s gloomy and loud. for the children have not settled.

Five minute showers that’s all that is allowed.

While she walks out and yells to the kids to keep it down.

A feeling of depression overwhelms me then I hear her speak.

The devil in disguise. Welferas. People of the system.

She is spitting out words that roll of her tounge about how we have to get out of the system.

She then tries to smooth out her prejudice by saying,

“I once was there.”

But I ask myself where?

I have worked almost all my life since I was fourteen.

Making 8, 9 dollars an hour can not pay for 1200 dollars of rent.

The face that she makes is of disgust.

Then she bows down her head and says “let’s pray.”

The lower ones.

We are underground and not allowed to speak to the ones that live above us.

The lower ones.

The ones without a roof above our heads.

The lower ones.

At 7 am is the dismissal so you can return at 5.

Carrying your belongings all day long.

The lower ones.

You cant brush your hair because 4 more women are in the only bathroom.

I am thankful. Do not get me wrong. There is a roof on my head and food on my plate.

But this feels like the system.

I feel like if I was being punished and doing time for being poor and broke.

My health seems to get worst.

Then the devil return with a grim in her face and looks at me and says,

“You don’t look disabled.”

Wow I shake my head. I did not know or was I aware that one had to look disabled to be disabled.

The lower one.

In a dungeon of grim and the sad.

Where the food looks like slops.

The hot dogs are green and recycled chicken is every 3 days.

The lower ones.

But I am thankful. I have a roof on my head and food on my plate.

I want to cry and scream I do not want to be a lower one.

I want to work and have my own roof and cook my own food.

But I can’t afford it. Our health seems to be deteriorating.

But you know what.

Come to think about it.

I am not ashamed to be a lower one.

I am just one of many that has been lowered due to all this political greed.

I am one of many that have tried and somehow missed that step to greatness.

I am a lower, a lower who will rise from that dungeon of sadness,

And I will live to see many brighter days.

The Judge

You sit there in the front, 

With your black robe,

gavel at the side.

I sit here facing you,

at your mercy.

You look at me like if I was the scum of the earth,

When the scum is sitting next to me.

You do not ask

you just point and judge.

You look at me with those piercing eyes.

And scuff at my defense.

You do not know me.

You do not know my children.

Don’t pretend to know that you have been faced with everything.

Because if you ever did.

You would see the true love of a mother for her children.

You would see who is lying your courtroom.

But you let your feelings get mixed up.

And you think that I am to blame.

Not caring for one moment what my kids want.

Not caring at all.

Do you have kids?

Or are you single and in need to get laid?

This so called man has children with other women.

I only have two kids and both by him.

This jerk abused me.

Cheated on me,

Offered my minor brother at the time, drugs.

He has a record.

I have none.

He was never around.

Time and time and again.

Until my daughter cried her last tear for her dad.

Until my son grew up well to know the truth.

And now you sit there,

And you do not want to hear the truth.

I refuse to go on a witch hunt. 

I refuse to focus on vengeance.

I just want to focus on the well being of my children.

I am not a perfect parent,

But I have been there for them always.

Yet you look at me with those piercing eyes,

and shake your bobble head.

You 50’s looking grandmother.

That acts like she never once was young.

That acts like she never made a mistake in her life.

That acts like a perfect parent.

You sit there shining with your black robe,

shaking your bobble head, 

And slamming down your gavel.

Judging unfairly,

Judging unjustly,

Giving him everything that has kept me alive,

Giving him my life wrapped up as a present,

For all the things he has done wrong.

Awarding him because he woke up one day and said,

“Today I think i want to be a father.”

After how long ten years.

After I continuously told him,

“they are young they need you right now”

Now after they are older and never have been with him.

Him, a person who had the nerve to tell his daughter

that she should not hug or kiss him because she was a growing up.

Him, the person who talked shit to his son because he came to his sisters defense.

He is the great father. 

He deserve them.

I don’t understand. 

YOU, WITH YOUR BLACK ROBE, YOUR BEADY EYES, YOUR BOBBLE HEAD

WITH YOUR GAVEL AT YOUR SIDE,

THE JUDGE,

MY EXECUTIONER.