While
I am very good at punishing myself for the obstinate choices of youth, and then
inveighing about subsequent injustice at the hands of an urban, impoverished,
and dubiously competent minority caste which overpopulate our cities, that same
caste which places Kanye
in his own inequality bracket (obviously a tolerated bracket), I suffer in
obscurity over why I objected to the living complex my then still sanguine
parents located for me in Woodlyn. I have no idea if the complex was operated Elwyn
Institute, or Delaware County HUD, but it was white, seeded with peers whom I
knew. Independent Living Centers weren’t yet quite incorporated in Pennsylvania
at the time, which is why activist groups still had the muscle to have tort. Perhaps
I would have had a little job in the town library, remained a technical virgin.
I really can’t say. The visit was pre-college, meaning that my whirlwind of
hormones had not yet made me even more unreasonable with presentation of the
men I wouldn’t be able to lasso. I’ve also posted before that I searched for
this Woodlyn unit on various housing databases prior to my 2017 crisis in
October, to no avail. The only thing I vaguely recall is an unwillingness to be
concentrated among other wheelchair users, like pole vaulting into North
Philadelphia was going to resolve that issue.
Service
coordinators, against whom I invariably rebelled in the early eighties, and
whom I invariably terminated in 2007, replacing with continual persecution by
the women’s negro league who tried to incarcerate me, and who now frighten me
with phrases like “protection from abuse,” do absolutely nothing but make
assessments. I was one, and I too, was powerless for clients, so I am uncertain
why their salaries are justified. At best, they make suggestions, and are often
subtle projections of bias and stigma themselves, shielded and difficult to
come up against in fidelity to process.
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