What a Terrible Place to Be Different
Physically, I've moved on, but I honestly believe that the emotional stain of growing up here will take a while to rid myself of, which is why I appreciate this site, as a sort of therepeutic outlet.
You know, on election night, as drunken frat boys ran bellowing through the streets about impending change, I sat huddled in a corner-- it was wet and raining-- sharing cigarettes with a homeless American Indian. These same people who espouse compassion wouldn't even look at him, and when they did, it was with disgust.
I remember a time working at a grocery store and a severely scarred and disfigured burn victim came to my line-- she had stumps for fingers and badly needed assistance setting her apples on the counter. Her hands oozed with some sort of fluid. I helped her. I observed how people literally recoiled and grimaced in her presence. I gave her the dignity, which is what we all deserve, of genuine conversation, and I found it to be personally fulfilling, to learn of her own life: where she was from, her educational pursuits, her family, her name, her interests. This wasn't some philanthropic endeavor on my part. This was adhering to the notion of judging people not by the color of their skin (or their physicality, in essence), but rather the content of their character. Hers was a good soul.
These same people who petition to rename King County as "Martin Luther King County" scoffed and rolled their eyes because I was taking up minutes of their precious time. When she left, tears streamed down my face for both admiration of her courage and rage toward the disregard and humiliation that she must frequently endure. The next person in line snapped his fingers at me to hurry up.
Seattle, what a terrible place to be different, disadvantaged, disfigured, or disillusioned.
These people genuinely don't give a fuck about anything other than their own sense of convenience and leisurely comfort. A nicely insulated lot, too. Hardship is something they know about from King 5 News, and if it upsets their appetites, they turn off the television and finish their lavish organic meals.
Speaking of the school system, I went to Catholic school as a boy. My mother objected to the public schools, and wanted a good education for us. I was the poor kid on food stamps with holes in my corduroy trousers and a perceived whore for a mother because she was young, divorced and single, attractive and... had a nose-ring. We (my sister, mother and I) were persecuted for it, by parents, teachers and students alike. The students ridiculed my sister and I; the parents and teachers spread malicious gossip about my mother--all she was doing was going to school to better her situation and working as a waitress to support us. And then we'd sit next to them at mass every Sunday, where they would absolve themselves of their sins while snickering at us in between religious utterances.
Seattle, what a terrible place to be different.