The Maudlin Mist of Morning
I, like the fog
Was born with a veil
On my face.
I frolicked with shadows
Played hide-and-seek
Through the dark corridors
Of my soul.
I saw what others could not see
In the maudlin mist of morning.
I wept. And the fog and I,
From our eclipses,
Mourned the sun.
Audrey Lee
This is one of only two poems that stabbed my heart the minute I first read it. I was in a small tent in an Eritrean refugee camp reading an anthology of Black Poets when I discovered it. As a Peace Corps Volunteer in Yemen, I had worked hard to get myself placed in the camp as my primary assignment. I taught English in the nearby village, and helped another volunteer build a school in the camp. For two years I lived and worked with these refugees, eating what they ate, suffering from the same health issues (typhoid, malaria, and hepatitis), and sharing their heartache as they faced a bleak, uncertain future.
I knew immediately that the poem was about the anonymity of being black in the USA. I also knew it resonated with me because of the situations of the refugees, and women in general in this Islamic country - veiled, moving silently about like shadows. But what I didn't account for was the depth of the personal connection, at least not for several years. Not until I realized that I had worn a veil all my life. This veil had kept others out and prevented me from seeing and feeling the world in its natural state. I don't think I have ever really belonged anywhere. I have enjoyed fleeting connections with others, and I am certain that I love my family, but I have never felt that I was where I belonged.
I don't attribute this lack of belonging to the experiences inside my household growing up. This uneasy truce with the world comes from the way the world perceived me as I grew up. I know how we appeared to the world then: Those half-dressed children living in the run down rental at the end of the street, dirty with snot running down their noses. Children from the house that exploded frequently in a frenzy of domestic violence. Children of a family that was best avoided. Children that made you feel better about your parenting skills, no matter who you were.
I am sure I didn't notice the way some people looked at us, but I am also sure it affected me. From an early age, I didn't appreciate authority and I came to view the USA negatively as an entity early in my teens. And although I have met many people since who did not judge me thusly, I believe I have continued to project this pity or loathing or disgust onto them, and maybe onto society itself. Consequently, I have found that I have always related to people and groups who have been marginalized somehow by society. This has made me a good advocate, at least half and advocate, for you can't advocate for others if you do not relate to those you are petitioning. I am amused by the fact that I still carry this around with me. I have been out in the world for thirty-three years, and I am no longer identifiable as that poor kid from the crazy family.
I have learned that no one should be invisible, no one should have to look at the world as a place they don't belong. I need to remember to acknowledge everyone I deal with, not just those who I feel deserve my attention. As a leader this is doubly imperative - I probably rememeber every gracious gesture given me by my supervisors/superiors over the years. These gestures shouldn't be rationed out as "bones", nor should they be used to exploit people (Paulo Freire). They don't make we weaker or vulnerable as a leader. They are more than just gratuities: They are the tools that humanize the workplace and create an inclusive enviroment for everyone.
