The Procession of Fools

In a small town, far away, but not far enough,

There’s a parking lot, atop a tiny hill,

Where a dozen perfectly chromed silver pick-up trucks,

Are lined up, windows wide open, speakers on full volume.

The music is loud, and a stream of “adults” come out,

Kids dressed in their parents clothes,

The girls caked up with makeup, their hair tied up all proper,

The boys look like walking commercials for a sports brand,

Muscles gleaming with sweat and hair perfect, smirks in place.

Their arms will wrap around a girl’s anorexic waist, gripping just too tight,

And girls will say nothing, because in this town, you don’t get to say no.

Down the hill, you can see the glow of the only shop open this close to midnight,

And you can see the beacon of warmth and capitalism radiating,

Spreading through the homes that have centered themselves around it,

And it’s like watching a hive in action, with the drones and worker bees,

Circling the Queen, being paid minimum wages so that a white kid,

Living in a posh area in the States can live like royalty.

This is how we learnt to stop thinking, to follow the sheep, over the ledge and into the abyss.

Somewhere in the town sits Sarah, quiet, silent and pleading for love,

Sarah was a straight A girl, with perfect hair, and bright brown eyes,

She was pretty, but they said she was fat,

So she turned away the food offered to her,

She learnt to lie and lie,

Her waist became smaller, her face shallow,

And her eyes lost their shine.

This is how we learnt to fit in, to be what people want us to be.

In this town, we learnt to wait in line,

Dressed in short skirts, and bright red stilettos,

Painted lips with dark eye shadow,

Wait for a man to find us worthwhile,

Wait for a man to come along, and teach us how to live,

How to use our parts and put us together,

Piece by piece, leg-breast-arm,

So that we’re useful to them.

Be pretty, be thin, but not too thin,

Be smart, but not too smart,

Because intelligence is a turn off,

So be a lampshade in the corner of a room,

Don’t speak, don’t think, don’t move.

Ria is a simple girl, but she’s never fit in,

She’s larger than her skin, she’s stuck,

She feels like a boy, but who would care?

She’s not a girl, but a boy in a girl’s body,

And oh, how she would love to be a boy,

Be treated like one, be accepted for who she was.

But she doesn’t say a word, as fear runs down her spine,

She doesn’t want to be beaten, to be raped, to be hurt,

She doesn’t want to go through that,

Through that “therapy” that’s actually torture.

This is how we learnt to pretend, to keep our silence, to cry in dark shadows, hidden away.

Fatima doesn’t go to church, but a mosque instead,

She wears a hijab and hides her skin and flesh,

She gets pushed around and they call her things,

“Terrorist”, “Suicide Bomber”,

Not exactly creative, but painful nonetheless,

And now she’s lying on the sidewalk, blood flowing down her wrists and legs,

Tears of pain and sadness, eyes full of incomprehension,

Because some men decided she didn’t have the right to live,

Because she was a Muslim, and because those men were closed-minded twats.

This is how we learn how to be bigoted, self-absorbed pricks, how to break people.

This town isn’t here, though, its far away,

So who cares what happens there, its not our problem,

Its theirs, let them take care of it.

But exactly how far away is far enough,

And since when has humanity been disconnected enough for that to hold true?

[Inspired by the poetry of Lauren Zuniga]