Carlos Fentanes

Sometimes I think about the absurdity of customs. We follow them like lambs—not because they make sense, but because someone once told us to. Why sit at the back when the front is empty? Why turkey every Thanksgiving when I don’t even like it? Why drag a tree indoors every December and cover it with lights, as if that were natural? Absurd. Yet to question it is to stand out, to feel like an alien in your own home.

And so customs grew into chains—slavery, segregation. Customs dictate who belongs—by skin, by speech, by where they come from, and I’ve never fit their mold.

The city’s leaders blame every person that is different, maybe because of fear or because they don’t want to know who they really are. They blame us, the “outsiders” for everything wrong in the country. Not as workers keeping things running, doing the jobs others won’t touch, but as scapegoats. Blame the different so the rest can thrive. I’ve spent years organizing, quietly pushing against rules that demand my silence, yet still I’m told to follow.

Yes, I’m different. But everyone is, in one way or another. The color of my skin—does it matter? I love it. I didn’t choose it, but I wouldn’t trade it. Why should anyone be blamed for something so natural? My skin, my voice, my very presence—they mark me as other, as if I don’t belong in the city I’ve called home. I buy bread, ride the bus, work my hours—yet my presence is read as a threat. Their voices shift when they speak to me: polite, careful, marked. A pause, an extra word. Always that whisper: you are not one of us.

That evening, as I left the store, a radio’s hum caught my ear, carrying words that lingered. To others, just noise, but to me, a quiet call.

“Only you can make all this world seem right,
Only you can make the darkness bright.”

The words settled in my chest, a quiet spark, as I boarded the bus home. The air was damp, winter clinging to the streets. I found a window seat, my fingers, worn from sewing and signing petitions, rested on my lap, I let the neon blur outside soften my thoughts. At the next stop, a man climbed aboard. He scanned the bus, found me, and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“This place has its rules, and these folks don’t respect their place. They think they can sit wherever they please, taking what’s not theirs. Too many of them. And if we don’t stop them, they’ll take our jobs. Bit by bit, they bring nothing but trouble. And we—are left standing.” His eyes locked on me.

No one replied. The silence was heavier than noise.

Then his words sharpened, landing on me. “Why should I be left without a seat while people like that sit comfortably?” His gaze was defiant, his tone slicing through the cabin.

The driver straightened, his voice cutting like a blade. “Hey! Enough of that. You—move, or I’m calling the cops.”

For a moment the bus held its breath. The driver sat high, a king in his castle, ruling the narrow aisle. His authority filled the space, sharp and absolute. My body was tired, but more than that—my soul was exhausted from this endless theater of superiority.

The man stepped closer. “Well? Are you going to move?”

I shook my head. “No.”

The driver sighed and, spotting officers down the street, waved them over.

They approached briskly, practiced and businesslike. One officer reached for my arm. “Name?” he asked.

“I’m tired of being pushed aside,” I said, meeting his gaze evenly.