I am stepping in for our benevolent leader. As usual, I am including a poem of sorts that is political nature. Do not fear. It far from the U.S. politic scene!
The author, Eduardo Galleano, was a divine force in the world of the unrecognized. He wrote endlessly about those the history books have forgotten. He tells our history with voices that has been silenced or never heard.
He reminds me that not everyone in the world follows the same narrative. It is too often the case that victors record history and victims remain buried. He reminds me to ask who’s story is left out of my news feeds, alerts, and papers.
Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping
poverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on
them—will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn’t rain down
yesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck doesn’t even fall in a
fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their
left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right
foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.
The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the
no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life,
screwed every which way.
Who are not, but could be.
Who don’t speak languages, but dialects.
Who don’t have religions, but superstitions.
Who don’t create art, but handicrafts.
Who don’t have culture, but folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have faces, but arms.
Who do not have names, but numbers.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the police
blotter of the local paper.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.”