White Man in Vest and Pants

The Caucasian man in velvet cake blazer and yellow corduroy pants brushed, and bumped into me as he rushed off the street corner and down the pathway towards the L. I don’t mean to be sensitive here, but I felt political about the whole thing. Was I in his way? Not really. Why must he be such a dick? I know I’m making a big deal out of this. But I’ve found myself in situations similar too often. White old men cutting in lines as doors open, playfully playing their roles of privilege without worry, bumping into me on the streets as if I am invisible, and I know, sure, yes, I’m totally making a big deal out of it, but it’s a sensitive topic, okay? I can’t help but think that it’s just all a metaphor for something. It just burns at the tip of my tongue. Not hipster white guy ally, or queer white guy sissy boy, or thunder clap mountain man … it happens to always be Caucasian man with blazer, Wall Street, lawyer, stereotype, I’m sorry. They happen to be token black friend, golf course, Sunday with boat shoes, Chinese food with sake bombs, warm, warm, cold. I don’t fucking care, really. I know I’m just politicizing this whole thing, I know I’m just getting worked up, but why … why did you take up two seats with your open legs, man-spreading, mansplaining, are you a feminist ally, because white women, old, Hispanic maid, wife votes for Hilary and therefore you support her, therefore feminism, therefore ally? My language is starting to break down, breaking the way I feel about the entire situation down. I can’t help but call it poetry, but you call it mother’s tongue. I swear, this isn’t a poem for some artsy blog, my friend writes - sorry dude, but my point is that I can’t help but shake these chattering teeth, shake the feeling that it’s just a symbol of something. Hmm? Why, why did you have to bump into me again. You’re like 40. Stop. 



Beyoncé is not for you. 



By Domingo S. 

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