My Glasses Are My Own

Everyone jumps on the wagon, professing to see. To feel, to taste, to be enamored and endeared by the man. He is our hero, they say; I see a distortion, a blurry abnormality. They see someone to cherish, I see someone who makes me shriek. What kind of glasses are you using? My cousin asks. He examines me, starting with my teeth. I see yellow, brown and gray, I say. I have no idea how you see red, white and blue in this moron. I get thrown out of the family. They accuse me of being an independent. I am overjoyed, because I am an independent. They begin a chant about independents. It is disparaging and mean. I see them more easily now, understanding what went wrong. No wonder my view had always been drippy and blurry. I head back to the neon lights of the city, Remembering now that leaving ensured I would live.