The invisible veil represents the restrictions imposed on all women (who do not wear real veils) through identity theft in society. Is slavery real? The emotional expression of facing such discrimination in society as a white person is close to the historically negative experience of the beautiful black race.
I’ve been running non-stop down Mt. Vernon Avenue with my eyes speaking to the passersby on the side of the streets, always in the hot summer of every year, for as long as I can easily remember.
I have to wear a veil because I can’t speak, even though I’m a white woman, but once again I feel black on Mt. Vernon Avenue, running around in shorts that are too small and with an invisible veil under my eyes. The veil is heavy and maybe a woolen burqa.
The people I pass are also unable to speak, and an owner once again takes out my painting of Che Guevara: she places the canvas on a chair, while two of her colleagues, or their friends, stand like soldiers, drinking water to remind me I can have a drink. I’m never sure. I’m running hard in the heat and I just hope I’m alive when my legs stop running, without me, without my will. Later I am no longer running, but just walking long distances like an athlete now, with no relief under the same hot sun, with the same degradation in my veins for another year or more.
I am a kaffir when I look at my beautiful lost boat, my catamaran at Ft. Baker, and once again a cookie when I look at the Spirit of Norway, another lost item parked with assault in the Old Town Harbor section of the Potomac River. . I’m simultaneously looking at frozen men and women, looking once again at frozen people, well dressed but old fashioned, standing mannequins who never speak to me, looking like strange rich cheats with duplicity in their shoes. I also don’t talk to my cheap old shoes that might not be good enough to recognize intruders, and I sigh with relief once more that I don’t recognize them.
Suffering and in and out of homeless shelters my whole life, I am haunted by the feeling that great wealth follows me, but it is never mine, as people never really speak, as people must really think I am. a white wraith, boy, they think I’m a honkie as I review another homeless situation, with degradation an essential ingredient of the shelter’s dirty, insulated floors.
Metal animal traps wrap shark teeth around my legs, just as dying bear traps trap me for hours. I remember terrifying police rifles shooting tranquilizer tubes into my skin as a child, and not too long ago in Northern California and elsewhere. I was surrounded by menacing boos in Union Station, Washington, DC, not too long ago. The well-known “slave owner” walked behind the gang that surrounded him with a horrible gait that I had known since my childhood. He walked deadly confrontation bondage, the formal capture of a walking human being swinging a stick from side to side in front of him on the food court floor.
He moved towards me as I walked in the middle of the back of the group. I walked with a terror seldom seen, like a willful gang leader shooting me for a slave sport, my beauty the prize before further degradation under his shoes in his house, more than likely in his bedroom.
His thug employees were going ahead of him calling me scary calling me loud, “This is Kitty Kitty Kitty Kitty” like I was an animal. A huge dense wall of people surrounds me to protect me from him and his terrible inhumane crime against me, a crowd of cashiers and their relatives, nearby passers-by, security personnel, really everyone in the food court made a wall around me. I’m worried about being crushed, but I have plenty of air space, though I can’t see anything but the countless backs of many previously unknown friends, surrounding me for protection.
Still alive today, I run again non-stop down Mt. Vernon Avenue in the Program, my eyes speaking to the passersby on the side of the streets, always in the hot summer of every year for as long as I can easily remember.
I must have a veil on as I still can’t speak, though I’m a white woman, but once again I’m a castaway and unwanted on Mt. Vernon Avenue, still running hard in the heat and cold hoping to be truly free . in my life, although I am really free and I know that I am free in this world.