Big

For the first time today, I am not in a privileged body.
The clothes here are too small,
Or I am too big,
Or something.
I have a tiny Ganesha in my pocket.
He isn’t helping.
Some of my friends are black.
Their bodies mark them out
Possibly for violence
Often for being left roadside
By cabs or even buses that won’t stop for them.
In a million ways, in most venues
They aren’t in privileged bodies.
Most of my friends are women.
They can’t go up to the temple because
Their clothing is not modest enough
But my male friends are wearing the same thing
And nobody chases after them.
I have a tiny Ganesha in my pocket.
He isn’t helping.
A few days ago the cabs wouldn’t stop for me
Because I’m white.
What a reversal.
I walked farther than I wanted –
Such a mild inconvenience.
No, I don’t know how it feels.
My friend of size cries in department stores at home.
I hold her hand, wait with her while she tries on things
That are never going to fit,
Never going to look right,
Because we’ve decided her body is wrong anyway.
I have a tiny Ganesha in my pocket.
He isn’t helping.
I’m a little big but I’m a white man
In America
Only today
I’m not in America.
No, small inconveniences don’t matter.
For the first time today, I’m not in a privileged body
Only I can never leave my privileged body.
It is a privilege to be annoyed by
Such minor matters.
I can’t wear the clothes. The taxi won’t stop. But in a few days I will be home.
With a tiny Ganesha in my pocket.