he came to me,
this African man,
and in a thick accent,
asked; “how dare you
write about being black? 
what do you know about
oppression, about racism,
about history?”
I replied;
“I used my imagination.”
he scowled and said;
“you have no right.”
defensively, I exclaimed;
“I only did it because
the Native wrote as if
he were white.”
together, the African
and I found the Native,
and I pointed a finger
accusingly.  “how dare
you write about being white? 
what do you know about
having to live down your
ancestors’ evils?  it is
not my fault your
people died.”
the Native replied;
“I used my imagination.”
I scowled and said;
“you have no right.”
defensively, he exclaimed;
“I only did it because
the Woman wrote as a man.”
and so together, the African,
the Native and I found the
Woman.  together we
declared; “how dare you
write about being a man? 
what do you know about
being a father, a son? 
of being feared by abused
women, even though you
are gentle?”
the woman replied;
“I used my imagination.”
we scowled and said;
“you have no right.”
defensively, she exclaimed;
“I only did it because
the Dog wrote about
being human.”
the Dog was found and
cornered by the African, the
Native, the Woman and I. 
together we confronted
it and said; “how dare you
write about being human?
what do you know about
depression, anger and
opposable thumbs?”
the Dog replied;
“I used my imagination.”
we scowled and said;
“you have no right.”
defensively, it exclaimed;
“I only did it because
the Goldfish wrote as if
it were a dog.”
the group, by this time,
had gotten furious.  we found
the Goldfish, and held his
bowl to our eyes.  together
we screamed; “how dare
you write about being
a dog!  what do you know
about licking your genitals,
and having to obey
your master!”
the Goldfish replied;
“I used my imagination.”
we scowled and said;
“you have no right.”
defensively, it exclaimed;
“I only did it because
the Cricket wrote
about being a goldfish.”
full of anger and rage,
we charged to the Cricket’s
home, and holding it up in
our palm, we bellowed;
“how dare you write about
being a goldfish? 
what do you know about
having to live in a glass
bowl, never being able
to escape the water?”
and the Cricket replied;
“I did it because I wanted to.
because I could. 
because I am not only
a cricket, but
also the earth and the sky. 
because I do not need
a permit to be creative. 
because I am alive. 
I am not
as the goldfish…
I am the goldfish.
I am the dog,
the woman,
the Native,
the African,
and you. 
and if you close
your eyes,
you will see that
you are me.”
no one moved for
some time, awkward
in this enlightenment,
till the Cricket spoke again.
“you do not actually
have to be here
to understand this
concept.” it said. 
“go away, I am writing.”

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