In the 70s we use to draw on our Levis with blue ink pens.
It was our way of recognizing each other maybe.
We were first gen latch keys of middle classed divorced single working moms;
we were young and those were our tats and badges of honour, it was our graffiti.
We would sit outside if we didn’t have a key waiting for somebody to come home
and we would draw.
Once I drew a swastika.
I don’t know where I first saw it (yes I do, my uncles GI Joes and Model planes),
but I didn’t know what it meant.
When my mom saw it she asked ’do you know what that means?’
I had to go change my pants.
And when I found out what it was,
I threw those jeans away.
My fragile preteen emotions raged inside as I did my best to hold my composure.
I had only liked the shape of it,
it was just a shape to fill the space, and time.
This was around the time a pink razor showed up in the bathroom for my express use.
I remember these things in the night,
the things that stole my innocence.
But these experiences shaped me into who I am, I know that now.
Created: May 03, 2017RaveOn Document Media