Mask

My time in the Marine Corps is synonymous with powerlessness, oppression, pain, and fear. I felt a kinship to the old lady on the bus in Maya Angelou’s poem, “The Mask,” survival dictated surface or outward acquiescence and conformity. So I smiled. While I knew code switching growing up (if not the term- the action), this was different, this was an everyday mask that gave tacit approval of the system. So, I smiled, and inside I seethed, raged, and wailed against the chains of violence and oppression aimed at me and others. And to my shame I was a part of the oppressive war machine. My fights, when had, were for principle only. There were no battles to be won here. This was the first radicalizing period of my adult life and this is why I will never put the mask on again.