I pray that all of you under the sound of my cyber voice are well. This week I wanted to share a Facebook post a friend of mine wrote tonight that I found interesting. I’m also going to share my very brief (approximately 500 words) flash fiction story. Enjoy!
From a FB friend,
“Male Privilege is never once in your lifetime questioning if you should truncate your first and middle names to initials on a resume or email because a concern crosses your mind that you might be perceived differently (or less qualified) because you are a woman.
White Privilege is never once in your lifetime questioning if you should truncate your first and middle names to initials on a resume or email because a concern crosses your mind that you might be perceived differently (or less qualified) because you are a minority POC and your name might “give it away” before you’ve had a chance to prove yourself.
Racism is when one believes the POC above should just have a “more normal sounding name” to avoid the problem.”
Agreed, although on the racism part, one could call it race based insensitivity. There’s a difference. Now if one thinks melanin-less folks are inherently more inclined to cause less trouble, and fall in line, therefore superior to POC, that’s what I’d call racism. So is overt racism fully loaded with ethnopaulisms to hurl. Objectively speaking, isn’t it possible that one can think POC should “quit complaining”, and not think of themselves as racially superior? Definitions matter, and when we define racism as something it is not we undermine the urgency of eradicating it. Just my two cents…
“Mrs Ellis’ Reunion”
She should have recognized the urine in her toilet as not her own. After all, Mrs. Ellis’ least favorite, yet necessary accessory, to her long lived life, were the adult diapers she was forced to wear, and she lived alone. After sixty-eight blissful years of marriage to her husband Stephen ended, adapting to life without him proved unbearable for her. The blurred lines of his life and death, brought forth from within an unyielding stubbornness, which was uncharacteristic of her. Stephen had been the tenacious, unrelenting one. She was always the one who acquiesced. He had returned to her, something she noted forcefully to herself in silence, and aloud.
The eighty-four year old widow was never physically able to expand their family. “We can travel the world together, or adopt,” she recalled him saying, from the first of many assurances he gave her, after learning she was barren. Back then she agreed and chose travel. Now his eternal devotion to her, manifested in expected, physical clues in the home they shared – a ghost unconfined to the spiritual realm. Stephen was alive. The trail of his old habits in their large home proved this. “Just be patient old woman,” she urged. “He’ll show himself whole if I’m patient enough,” she convinced herself. Entire monologues were devoted to expressing declarations of her love, should he have the ability to hear as he was. The unflushed toilet, a habit of Stephen’s and pet peeve of hers, was the proof of his return she longed for. Two days prior, it was the window screen on the ground below an open, basement window. A concerned neighbor had noticed it and informed her. He even inserted it back in place. “Those are my footprints in the mud,” she lied.
News of their reunion would have to wait until Stephen could be seen by all. She wasn’t interested in having her mental state challenged. She was lonely, but sane. Loneliness and patience are incompatible more often than not. No one could know – not yet. Each clue he left for her was met with sonorous laughter, which echoed throughout to their home. So much laughter, that she could hardly contain herself when visitors came to check in on her. Shy giggles escaped. She was a young bride again. Her visitors left with the warm, satisfying feeling that their presence had done this.
Had her grief filled delusions not taken her over, she’d have recognized that the young, lean, pale, sweaty stranger rushing towards her that night was not her beloved Stephen. That wasn’t a rose in his trembling right hand, it was a red handled knife. He was demanding her valuables, not her hand in marriage again. His dark, unkempt hair bore no resemblance to the silver crown on the head of the only man she had ever loved, since 1951. After his funeral two years prior, most attendees predicted, that she’d be able to live without him in due time. Little did they know, that the smile frozen in flesh on her face, paired with her outstretched arms in full rigor when she was found, proved them horribly wrong.
Until next musing,
Talitha “TK” McEachin
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