Strange

 

This year.

I lost all interest in life and strived even harder to improve it.

I saw a white old man take the reins of the free world from another white old man and the woke celebrated like all our problems were solved.

I wore the brightest red lipstick behind my covid masks. 

I didn’t take any photos and stopped calling myself a photographer. 

I stopped writing and kept calling myself a writer.

I fell in love with an animal and joined the ranks of those I used to scoff at who called their pets their children. 

I accepted that teenagers are not the humans they will eventually be, and I became a better parent.

I grovelled at a white woman’s feet so she would stop making my life miserable, and the grovelling didn’t make me more miserable. 

I flaunted my ‘Fuck’ mug in a virtual job interview and still got the job. 

I found joy and peace but saw my health deteriorate in the midst of all that happiness. And a naturopath gave me remedy for grief. 

Strange. This year. 

And in the early days of the pandemic, when the subway was empty and silent, I saw an ad by a shelter on my ride to work. It showed a woman of colour with a little baby. It said that Zayna used to have a steady job but now she cannot afford to make rent. They asked us to care about Zayna and her poor baby of colour. 

To the right, the tiny ttc screen flashed its own messaging which said ‘there is no excuse for not paying your fare.’ 

Between Zayna presenting the coloured face of poverty and the sign that did not accept poverty as an excuse for not paying your fare, sat a human hunched over their emaciated body with comfortable ease. 

Torn clothes, filthy hands, and the most unkempt long hair with white paint like droplets caked all over. And then I noticed the two black birds. One that sat atop the nest-like mattress of matted hair and the other one on a bony shoulder. Both birds sat quietly through the subway ride like it was the most usual mode of transportation for them. Their little beady eyes moved between states of wakefulness and sleep. Every once in a while, after every sharp turn of the train, a gentle hand patted the bird on the shoulder.

I stared. I smiled. I felt grief. 

I did not take a photo. 

Strange.