Movies Translation

There’s an obsessive repetitiveness to the thoughts I put on paper…aka. my writing…

It’s as if I’m learning a new language that demands mastery through repetition. I’m self-taught and thus inefficiently so. I don’t understand the evil that drives the prejudice. I’m not familiar with the culture, the coding, the innuendos or the secrets withheld. I feel like an intruder trying to make my way through a maze only to fall to my knees in the middle, overwhelmed by terror and the sensation of feeling lost. Escape seems futile. Moving forward feels impossible. Knowing where exactly I am is honestly elusive.

So I’ve sat and I’ve watched and I’ve observed. My new teacher – Noire Movies: “Us” “Them” and “Black Box”

They’ve been translating my nightmares.

I’ve been shamed, scared, medicated, “talk therapied” and desensitized. What I’ve been afraid of most is being my true self…being my true feelings. Being angry.

My subconscious knows it.

-Like invisible strings attached hidden in another dimension, my true self mimics in silence what I display to be in the real world (movie credit: “Us”).

-Lost in the basement, a nightmare of torture set ablaze by racists alive today and centuries past (series credit: “Them”).

-Life frozen in a downloadable moment torturing myself for freedom (show credit: “Black Box”).

The more I acquaint myself with my nightmares, the more I realize that I don’t recognize my reflection. I’ve been hidden away, tucked deep in the bosom of mental safety. What strolls through the day is a veneer that’s demanded of me to operate in a functional enough way to make a living. When that stopped, I dug deeper into my burial site since the presence of me was so offensive to those who dictated who has a right to exist.

Nowadays, I can pinpoint the moments someone shoveled a pile of dirt hit on the coffin of my truth. I shudder each time.

When the international organization I used to work at proved to be a torture table full of nationality mockery, racism, sexism and LGBTQ+ intolerance. When someone attacked me in my office and told me I shouldn’t have been hired and I thought she would hit me – I shudder and then blacked out in violent shakes. When someone assaulted my person without me slapping her hand away, a tremor takes hold of me. I shudder as she touched my hair without me walking out of the meeting once my Manager seemed to give consent by dismissing what they all witnessed. I shudder when I quietly asked for help but was betrayed by the institution in the absence of discretion. When in another a white man physically imposed his will on me, and then the job left me stranded overseas at the start of the pandemic. I shudder and curve into a frightened ball in recognition of the systematically ingrained hate they display.

What is this fear that still grips me so tightly after so many years??

I don’t know how to fight back in the way permitted in this “justice system”. Maybe I’m a pacifist?

In these movies, they save themselves. They set things on fire, they slap and punch and kick and scream and raise hell. I admire that. I want to be that. I want to make those vile people who hurt me, pay – (literally, there’s an overwhelming economic cost to this shit). But still I’m not moved to fight much more than I have in standing up and speaking out in the quiet spaces that I’m allowed to. As deadlines loom and statutes of limitations impose actions irreversible if not done in time, I’m frozen.

Maybe the futility of it is too overwhelming…After all, in the end, usually something dies. We are never really never fully restored or made whole…

Maybe I’m just not strong enough.

Maybe, I know I may never win.

Maybe it’s too hard to know my truth.

Or maybe, I’m still learning in my own time…and that is incompatible with this plane of reality.

So I sit in my hole in silence, at the very least I’m no longer covered over and buried.

Only now, in my nightmares, I rage screaming.

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