Raised By Demons

I've typed that description in my Twitter profile. Ubiquitous and casual as they may be, sometimes our profile descriptions speak to truths otherwise inexpressible. From the simple to the intricate, they are reflections of deep waters. Was I truly raised by demons?

There is no love lost between the white male who adopted me, or is racist mother, and I. Though the white woman who adopted me; her mother let me live, treated me as a human being ought be. Though I have seen her daughter pour out more emotional heartache over her physical possessions than a brown child's spiritual, emotional, or physical well-being; and I'm not talking about my own welfare. I don't hate her, but a deep-seeded, lifelong sense of distrust has been inflicted.

Is that enough to call her, them, demons? They are white, to some that is substantial enough criteria; and for which I could place no blame. They are Evangelical Christians, moreover; yet another nail in a demon's coffin. They are not poor. None of these are sufficient reasons to castigate anyone as a demon; so why will the notion not submit to the logic of compassion?

I found the words today: because they have no hearts.

The human heart, when it is open and conversant, allows us to connect with other humans; it is our connection to the world around us. But if we do not have our heart to connect with, we cannot connect to others. In place of our hearts, the vacuum is filled by vanity and ego. Left unchecked, this is how, in my opinion, a demon is born.