Until the struggle sheds its divisions

A friend had sent me this poem in response to my note on my resignation.
Just getting around to posting it now, but think that it’s as relevant today as it was at that point.


This strike was not my strike
Somewhere deep down I still know I was
and always will
an outsider
to this wretched
my blood too Jewish
too Spanish
my French
too weak
despite years
of assimilation
the strike hit me
with a reminder, somehow
that I am not of this land
until the struggle sheds its divisions
and sets us free.
If I feel this way
in my white skin
imagine others…

(anonymous, upon artist’s request)