Day 8. Reflections while People watching. Journal entry. Circa 2013
She stood at the corner of 18th and Sansom talking to herself– poised in business attire with an oversized wool coat and a pair of shabby brown boots, likely all digs found in a thrift store or taken from a soup kitchen. Her head was shorn and what grew on top had been dyed blonde and already pushed out by new black growth. She stood there all theatrical with a full face of makeup– mostly hues of pink and much too light for her skin tone– and lamented about what went wrong between “them”. This wasn’t a monologue, it was a dialogue. She saw her companion before her and pleaded for understanding, “You just don’t see what has happened with us, do you? I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m torn and you don’t even see it.” There was a shrill in her voice, but the words came out proper and perfect– so perfect she would be accused of sounding “white” in the most urban parts of the city. A couple of young girls passed her and took a second look back and chuckled loudly with confusion at the woman. I took in an eyeful of her as I passed and dared not laughed or even smirk at her position– tall but hunkered over with desperation in her eyes. My brain rattled with how close I have come to losing myself in hurt and in love– never seeing myself on corners cursing or sobbing or begging, but coming pretty damn close.