• the shop
  • the blog
  • the chimera
  • the artist
  • the symbols
  • the archive
  • the swing
  • the rhythm
  • Social Studies 48" x 40" Oil on board

    . . . I have to go if it kills me?

    Nobody can understand. It's like I'm blind. When it starts, I hear, but I can not see. Everyday my skin crawls and my neck burns red. My face turns itchy and hard. I hope they can't see what I feel, but I know they can. My eyes sting. My heart bangs loudly in my ears. They sing, almost in time. You're ugly. You're stupid. You think you're smart. You're yellow. You're black. You think you look good? You gone get beat after school. The world is gone.

    You gone get beat after school.

    People think I'm stupid and clumsy. It's like I can never do anything right. That's not true. I really know a lot of things. There is a lot I want to do. So I pretend I'm somewhere else all the time. Somewhere with people who don't care whether I'm smart or not. Somewhere with people who just like me. I need to be somewhere else. Then I wouldn't trip when I have to walk past them. Then I wouldn't hate it when the teacher calls my name. Then I could laugh and joke without crying over it later — wishing I'd never said anything.

    My mother has to get off work to come and get me. People pray for me at church. All up in front of everybody. My mother says stuff. I wish she wouldn't. It just makes everything worse. Everybody stares at me like I'm wrong or something. The police write my name down. I must be bad. Why don't I just fit in? It doesn't make any difference. I still have to go.

    I just pray I don't get beat. . .

    Detail — Social Studies