Privilege of Skin

This twelfth month of the fourteenth year of the calendar-marked and calendar-made millennium  brings to end the year in public disorder and outrage.  Outrage in the face of the increasingly undeniable disorder of rights and their privileges that have been strewn like candies among the favored.

Me? I slip into the privilege of white skin every morning.  Fraught with countless vulgarities inflicted by economic class systems within this privilege, equally perpetrator and victim, I nevertheless go about my business knowing the possibility of being meaninglessly killed in the street is not going to be one of my legitimate concerns for the day.

Other times, other places perhaps...but not on this day.  Rights? they are simply too far from the natural ordering of the world to be of serious interest to me.  What I know is that if we were truly free we would not have any need of them.  But we are not free in our human-made world.  And never have been.  To be human, to build and live in a human-made world, it would seem, is to enslave.

If there were protests in my little town I would probably join them today despite how ultimately futile I believe them to be.  I would join the living dance of them, the living raging poetry of them. But there are no protests in my little town. Not yet anyway.

I think a walk in the woods this morning would be the very best thing.