The Other Side
“You can’t eat here.”
That’s what he says as they walk up to his stand. A small group of the Faction looking for sympathy among the moral constituents of society. This reaction is nothing new. The same old, same old that happens out in the open everyday where you can’t miss it. The slurs haven’t started but they’ll soon follow. They always do. An ordinary street vendor is indistinguishable from a monster in the crowd.
It’s the same thing everywhere you look. And the others will lower their heads and pretend it isn’t happening. Keep on eating. No one saw them enter the outdoor court of the marketplace. No one sees the monster standing in front of them. Busy eating. They slowly get into the lines but no one can see them before it’s too late. Eating. Do not look at them. If no one sees a tree fall in the forest, there is no tree. Welcome to the ignorance of bigotry.
“Get your filthy hands off of the merchandise, Greentail. I told you, I can’t serve you. I won’t. It’s against the law.”
“You heard me. Move it. Can’t you read? We don’t serve your kind here.”
“Filthy Greenbacks! You think you can come in here and demand to eat. Go back and eat in the holes they made you out on 9th. There should be enough room for you and the animals.”
One by one the crowd draws nearer and nearer with its hatred and slurs. Arms line up and fists began to throw things. The names get louder and the actions get stronger.
Approaching the vendors are the unquestionably brave citizens of a pure background. Their children and grandchildren will never bear the mark. They are pure of the old country and pure in the new country. None will endure the slander that is present in the marketplace. Soon enough they will endure the opposition of their choices.
Greentails. Greenbacks. Green trash. Greenie. Greppa. Greezy. The names have evolved but the slurs that are implied never changed. Second class citizens now living to survive in a society that claims morality to be its compass. Criminals are in jail for no more reason than their lack of conformity to the system of society. The Greens’ have a new station in this world. It’s that of the lesser member.
Green or White? What color you land on determines your station in this life. Between every three city blocks there are the checks. Scan. Drop. Dose. Green stands to the left of the street when white is walking on the right. Living is a disease that doesn’t forgive and wasn’t contracted by choice. Those labeled by their genetic origin are limited by their station in this life. You can’t change who you are. They will tell you that you are a slowly dying race of human. Inadequate. Undeserving of the same privileges of the others. The other class. Filled with the ones you can’t ever hope to be a part of.
They will tell you, “Go on Greentail. Get out of here. We don’t like the sights of you. You know the law. You can be arrested for trespassing. Read the signs. There’s no place here for you to eat. Get out of here. Your kind makes me sick.” But they never stop to understand the other side of the signs. The signs that shut you out. Lock you out for your difference.
The signs. Three by three. The green mark of the damned beneath a red ‘x-ed’ out circle. The color of your stamp bears the right of passage. All signs state the obvious. No Green allowed. Green will only be allowed in the selected areas. Many public areas are designated White with a no-tolerance policy for Green. White is allowed in the unrestricted zones without any additional documentation. Public domains are split into factions. You bear the mark of undesired and you shall not enter.
AWAKE!
After it happened I knew that it was a matter of time before they arrested me. It was something so small and unnoticed that lay unseen before the screening changed. That morning was the last I would be able to enjoy without a stigma over my head. And the day marked the last time I listened to one of my favorite modern composers. Haydn Christophe. A man known for his remarkable ear and ability to compose from the common sounds of life around him. His slightly uplifting asymmetrical melodies danced in my head as I left the safety of my home and stood in the line for check.
Life danced all around me before it happened. Before the scanners noticed my family trait three generations back I stood there in line waiting like all the others. Watching the soldiers handle the Green’s on the other side of the street. Never thinking that something so small could change my life. The altered scanners began to pick up dormant and unnoticed markers, until they began capturing specific genetic markers in my human blood. Unnoticed ancestral markers made visible. Things that compose my body into the pleasing shape that it conforms to. Things that stop me from eating in the plaza with my colleagues on a warm summer afternoon. Then it happened and all I could think of was my exposed family, my loyal partner and the life that was about to change with that small amount of blood. The flash on the machine sent them shuffling me off for reassignment and coding. A fugitive with a criminal past in your composition.
There is not much you can do once they know you have it. You are automatically marked. A small branding is placed at the base of the right ear. A few days spent in the tank for hospital quarantine. All new cases of discovery are immediately quarantined. That day when I passed through the scanners. Without receiving my white pass card and moving forward. Something felt terrifying. Although my card still read white, my eyes read the words of dread across the scanner. A new category for which I would become accustomed to live under. A regime of misguided false judgments and overabundant spending to lock out half of the population because it is undesirable. Now I was a part of it.
Every day is green. Green is bad. Today is bad because of the Green. As I watch the small group of dissidents being arrested in the marketplace I continue to sit quietly eating my meal. Preparing myself for what’s to come. Silently. Hiding behind my fake id and false coding patch. A minor glitch allows me to appear clean when in fact; I have several genetic abnormalities in my composition. Necessary if I’m to remain unseen. Quiet. Imposter among the false perfection.
There are small numbers in the resistance that walk through them clean. Like me, they are hidden. Hidden in plain sight in order to bring about change. Change will only come if we can remain hidden. It’s my only hope to continue to remain unseen and stop the others. My partner assures me that there is hope as long as I can stay out of their way.
Staying out of their way is all you can hope for. They hate you as much as they hate themselves. There is no chance of winning them over. You are a subclass version of human and there is no hope that you will survive the testing. Once we are all arrested and processed, then begins the treatments. The treatments are there to administer their versions of perfect. Science says this can be cured so they will save you or kill you trying.
There is no cure for living. They can not change who or what we are. There will always be an abnormality to the morality of society. Morality is what society deems to be sound. Anything working against that is considered immoral. Criminal or not. And today is the day that they are shown the criminal nature of the immoral. Staying out of the way can be done two ways, silently or loudly. Through the actions speak the loudest words. There can be no missing the understanding of action.
Powerful actions mark the signs of change. An undeniable sign of change that they can not miss. A change that may kill few to restore a balanced life to many. There’s no choice in making a change. It happens whether it is wanted or not. The only choice there is how it will happen.
Carefully the few remaining Faction members are dragged through the outdoor court surrounded by the mob of the morally capable citizens who object to their presence. Slurs and strikes fall against these final pieces. The last remaining resist more than the others. Hanging arms that are heavy as rocks. Legs that drag like lead weights. Slower and slower they pull downward until coming to a stop. Then one by one they make their move. Up against the soldiers they push. Towards the surrounding mob. Bodies shift with the balance of their cargo as they create the diversion. Unnoticed as they press into the marks. Pushing. Shoving. Until the release of a hell storm. Down one after another the sound of impact releases shockwaves as the air goes up into a cloud of fire.
Specifics of the scene are limited to minor details. Ground tears into a multitude of pieces both lifting and falling to earth. The air is thick with the stink of burning flesh as the rain of explosion spills the foreign limbs of the fallen. Among a densely packed group of White there is no sign of life. The last remaining breathes of life are scattered among the dying ranks of the opposing higher class.
When you’re in the middle of the war, the world is split in two factions those who are and those who are not. Unless you are on the right side of the coin, life can be an everyday battle.
Awake. Separation in classes. It is all around already. Blinded by their own morality. Judgments and Egos are hard to miss when its someone else they are pointing fingers at. There are labels that are far more damaging than anything else in this world. Labels that limit and divide us. Anyhow... Idea was originally from February. And plans to revise. Have a good night. Enjoy. Kisses. m.
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