Nov. 11th, 2012

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 Armor. Our president has it, in the blue and grey suits he wears, the solid tie, the crisp white shirt. My son's therapist has it, in his graphic tees and Croc allstar knockoffs. Some people come in crystal clear in the symbols they choose to drape upon themselves, charms to ward against cruelty or derision. Charms to attract acceptance, wealth, happiness. Love. The newest kid in my son's class wraps himself in longer hair and a cool British accent. He was dropped into their midst, popularity assured, bulletproof in his otherness armor. The kids who come from India, from Palestine, from South America, are not afforded such coolness of place. Their color betrays them. My son befriends them. 

My son has no outward wardings to protect him from the offhanded, cruel vagrancy of other children, no symbols to proclaim, "I belong!" He wears handmedowns and thrift store clothes, utterly uninterested in fashion or labels. The cool DCs lie forgotten in his closet as he grabs the closest, easiest shoes to hand. He wraps himself in whatever I shove at him in the mornings, and goes out to life open, unprotected, unwarded against the world.

No wonder he's so easily bruised.

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January 2013

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