The Selectivity of Oppressions

By lan Cohen

You said all oppressions are linked,

But You say nothing for most of the Oppressed.

You said You stand against Human Rights atrocities, But You say nothing of The Atrocity.

You said you would punch a Nazi,

But to Jewish ears, You sound just like Them.

You said you support Queer rights,

But You say nothing of the places where They murder Queers

You said You're a Feminist, But You say nothing of the Women.

You also said "Believe All Women,"

But You don't if they're Jews.

You said "Decolonize this Place," And the Children of Israel Did, Since Jews are from Judea.

You said you're Anti-Racist, But 1 Think You just might be One.

You Cannot see it for Yourself, But the sad and lonely part is,

Guess what?

We Do.

The Seed of Israel

I think people’s souls are generally pure

Though some of us may have been here before.

Their souls might connect to those from the past,

Remnants and fragments of ancestors carried inside.

Some are more recent, a parent or grandparent

And some are much more ancient.

The type that connects Jews across the globe to one another

And stirs something within the Jewish soul that says…

I know you, you feel familiar to me but I can’t explain it with words

I feel it with my body and soul.

Is it your eyes I’ve seen before, or the shape of a feature like a nose or a curl.

Sometimes it shows up in someone from Spain or Jordan, or in a Palestinian,

or the ancient cousin of the Jews, the Samaritans…

But you are not a Jew I am told.

Yet someone before you was, I’m quite sure.

You see, I’ve seen your face, I know you.

Someone in your past was told they needed to shed these stubborn Jewish ways,

And become like the rest of the group.

Was it a conquest or the inquisition that did this to yours who came before?

Somewhere inside, the chain to those who brought you into being was cut,

I’m sorry we lost you.

Something inside you is part of us,

but was forced to part ways from our tribe.

Do you ever feel it?  I bet you might have wondered.

Regardless, I hope you All read our story.

I hope you can understand.

I’ve tried to explain it, but the words don’t come out right.

Don’t forget us, we’re still here.

We still bear the weight of our books and words,

and what we call Avoteinu…our Ancestors.

L’Dor va Dor we say, From Generation to Generation

Don’t cut the link, don’t cut the link

we need to carry it forward, though sometimes it hurts.

For the tiny kernel that is our people, we are so very strong

We’ve been here before, over and over again.

Such is our plight.

There is still so much light and beauty inside, it binds us together.

L’Dor va Dor, the story continues to flow throughout time,

You will see

Even when you try and crush it, you cannot.

But what I want to ask is…

Why do you so badly want to try?

The Little Neurodivergent and the Antics That Follow,

Jan. 19, 2024

Now that I’ve cracked open the damn, the rupture is wide and not to heal. 

I’ve played the conversations in my head,

And when they’ve tired of their speeches in the very exclusive audience to which only I am privy, They disappear from stage until they’re ready again for their moment of reveal.  

Stubbornly, It is only they who make this decision.

In their symphony of epiphanies, they can change the world, before they forget,

that without ears to hear and eyes to read and see them, they mean nothing.

Godly sparks of clarity offer keys to conflict, but on an endless loop.

They rise from nothingness, reaching their full glory for only a brief moment, before they are rendered utterly powerless anew.

The other noises and chatter will bubble over.

Other thoughts will rudely interrupt, grabbing away the microphone, unaware of the cost and scope of their childish impatience and transgression.

Little tricks will be learned to try and prevent their tantrums from sabotaging the important work that was about to be realized.

Colored sticky pieces of paper with scribbled notes, titles in black sharpie, and emails to self that try to hold on to what I know, will at any moment, vanish.

A little pill offers to assist, and selflessly provide its unconditional but time-limited love and support. 

With gratitude, for a day, I self-actualize, and with divine energy, the formless mounds of clay almost carve themselves, left out to harden. 

They now exist, and even when the loop of gentle amnesia begins once more, 

their antics have no power over what now cannot be denied.

For it has taken shape, and so it remains.

If this sounds self-important, that our thoughts and creations can change minds and hearts, that they think they’re so special, maybe it is.  

But it is also the excitement of what happens when clarity and the cobwebs of truth dip in and out of consciousness, and we must repeatedly mourn what was lost.

Even if it was only playing in our minds.