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The air is damp and bruised, like a mishandled fruit. A fan hums in the background. The house is empty except for you. He is gone. Confused, unprepared, forced into leaving.

You had tried to explain to him that race is central to your own identity as a minority. Race allows you your best days and guarantees your worst days. It gives you your strength and also depletes you of it.

He, a white male—your dearest husband, told you talking that way only made the differences between you and him even more prominent. In a relationship, he didn’t want that; neither did you.

What he was saying made sense, to a degree. But you were a fighter and activist; he was not an activist and didn’t like fights. He saw the world as flawed but improving. You saw the world as improving but still flawed. He described America as postracial. You said not to use words like that in the house.

He was hungry and tired. You were tired of arguing and hungry in a different way. You and he had pits in your stomachs. The more you both talked, the more the differences arose, insurmountable. The air grew heavy with fatigue and hurt. At last he left. You didn’t want him to but you didn’t stop him. He didn’t want to but felt he had no choice.

The world outside arose, fraught with conflicts, between you. You had not allowed it to enter your relationship in the first few years, but since each of you carried it within, it was there, bigger with every passing year. This world born between you, dividing you, was the same one that had swaddled, suckled, and eventually poisoned you.

You felt sick but knew that to talk meant to take risks, in a marriage, outside of one, out in the real world. But you never knew how loud and empty misunderstanding sounded—and how conclusive a departure could feel—until today.

You and he were two halves, two colors, two sides to an argument. These two halves could not complete each other. Instead, they made a hole. But that was not argument enough.

You put on your shoes to go find him. He was approaching the door as you stepped outside.

At last week’s “Justice for Trayvon, Justice for All” protest in Seattle, many wore hoodies, but the cousin of Trayvon Martin didn’t. Cedric President-Turner wore a necktie, white suit jacket, and a trim haircut. He calmly faced the federal courthouse, the people with signs, and asked simple questions. How the trial could end this way. How racism could exist. He wanted reflection, but the crowd erupted with grief and rage.

His questions—in fact, all of the protests that occurred in American cities on July 20—became a valve. They released a surge of anger at the injustice of the ruling. This surge has overwhelmed the country, sizzled along the radio circuits, infiltrated our bedrooms and divided households.

To protest the Trayvon Martin ruling is not to simply use a narrow, racialized lens to view the incident. It is about acknowledging the inherent flaws in our justice system and reigniting the civil rights movement. Knowing we do not have a postracial, colorblind society is not enough; we must fight to improve it and commit today.

What rhymes with “race”?

A face.


Cultural space.

As a cross-genre Korean-American artist in Seattle, I explore all of these concepts through figurative and abstract art, writing, and performance. And through blogging.

Welcome. There will be plenty of narratives, images, and discussion. Visit again soon.