Mature Flag


Getting back into the flow of writing, mostly with wordplay and poems. I'm a creative soul, from childhood to middle age, and my joy is to produce new things the world has never seen before. I'm an educator from the USA working as a college professor of lit and music. I'm learning to love myself little by little.

Story is marked as mature.

I understand colonialism. I was treated like a terra incognita by a boy who thought he'd plant his flag in my fertile, neglected soil, the first adventurer to bother conquering a continent with so few natural resources. I wasn't pretty, popular, a brain, or sexy in any way. Instead, I pitied myself and wondered who'd ever recognize the good qualities I had inside, which didn't show on the outside (I assumed I must have SOME merits).

I identify with the natives who were killed off, converted, and shooed off their own land, to some extent. I was claimed, my natural personality was chased off, I was remade to suit him. And his vigorous little flag claimed me again and again, even as I liked it less and less, even when I told him to stop.

So I think of myself as a colonized land that wants to be uncolonized. I have a flag of my own now. It's sharp.

I only need to plant my flag in his heartland once, and he'll never imperialize anyone again.

In the name of Queen Largeasalone, a victim no more.


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  • Published 7 years ago.
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