THE STIGMA

The storyteller was my son Lawrence
One day I found him standing at a bus stop
Two stops down from the nearest bus stop
That would have started his journey to work

He told me the story of how he is treated
When he stands at the nearest stop in his work clothes
Rough clothes fit for his work in construction.

He sighed a sigh when he told me the story
Afraid that I would disbelieve him.
And I remember he said that an Indian
Found at that bus stop wearing his work clothes
Is stared at and called a dirty Indian
By people dressed in clothes for the office.

And that was the day it was true beyond doubt
That in spite of conflict and hard times to come
I would spend the rest of my life
Giving the best of a mother’s love
To balance the scales against the hurt
From the stigma of being an Indian.