Fragmentation: my trauma

The fragments pull,

what fragments and how exactly can objects, or ideas, or parts pull and in what direction?

I suppose the fragment of forgetting,

the fragment left behind by compartmentalized pain,

What exactly do we mean when we say trauma?

It all goes back to the concepts of consciousness and memory,

but we discussed that memory is often reinvented, remade

the balloon suddenly appears and it is red

never-mind that you never consciously perceived it,

but it is there,

an explanation to the fuzzy image that distracted you and made you vulnerable.

Perhaps the falsification of memory allows us to exist beyond violation.

We not only invent after the fact but interpret memory in whatever way

allows us to exist, allows us to not jump when the subway zooms by,

so when I woke up with no memory,

I remembered the question, that I would have theoretically posed:

I never expressed my consent, except in remorse,

in the crawl on the floor, in the rising anxiety, in de-realization,

in letting you touch me again,

until I couldn’t anymore.

 

The paradox of class

Wikipedia mentions that the working class are those who have merely a high school graduation. It fails to examine the plight of the immigrant who lives as a sub-human in a land where his language is not spoken and his degrees are just papers. Immigration when I was a young girl made me think of the ducks as they fly from sky to sky never finding borders, able to find land to settle, never afraid of loss. Citizenship is one of those misconceptions; people think that it will grant them privilege. Instead they find a cold morning, a line, and police screaming that they should line up: lining up to attain a privilege of becoming the factory animal or the house maid. Human immigration is full of obstacles: there is the language to learn, the lower level class to escape, all left to the individual. As Samuel Huntington once said:The American Dream is in English. I capitalize the words to emphasize the problem that the immigrant must tackle. If he doesn’t make enough, he is left to deal with his problems alone in a world of bureaucracy that makes help a burden. If his taxes do not reflect that he makes enough because perhaps his work is not solely the 400 a week that he makes on minimum wage, but something off the books that is not taxed, he is denied everything that he would need to exist. No car, no apartment, no education for his children. He is boxed in a square that threatens to suffocate him. There is too much to say about immigration and too much that perhaps I do not understand but when I see the leaning figure of my family threatened by suffocation, I myself the one with the least barriers begin to understand that when I grew up thinking that it would all get better, I was lying to myself believing in a dream that is only known in English. I left much of my culture behind afraid of the eyes and the ears that judged me for not being American and middle class enough. For a long time I  denied my authentic situation, I floated hoping men would save me. It is time that I rise to my identity. I am not a pair but a daughter of people who the system has made suffer and frankly fucked over. I am a girl white enough to hide in the reflection of privilege. A fake reflection that when broken spouted the lies that had begun to fill me. I do not know what is ahead but I know that my life is not a normal one. It is not stages but walls. I have to break down walls: of poverty, of inner-hate, of assimilation, of patriarchy, of racism, and the walls that pride equations more than the creativity inside my head. For some time I may have to sail the streams but one day I will swim in the opposite direction halting the lies that bound me.