Injustice in America Form: The Bop Ann WJ White When a teen, I raised my fists against racism, violence; but for LBGTQ rights, women, elders, battered children, nature. I squeaked and squawked in righteous fury, pushed away, seated, a white bread girl against a tide of political indifference. I pointed out a promised future. Waved my hands, wanted to join. But peers, elders...I was unliked, invisible, ignored. I fell away Sandwiches made with white bread, unnourishing, stale, Boring filler on a plate, something stronger must rise. Children vibrated in rainbow colors, full truth, hope. Fed my nature, fed my soul. My own tin pot dictatorship with rules that opened doors. A classroom. Be kind, true, needed. These were the policies of deterrent where I had control. But outside, on the corners, bus, streets, nothing changed. Segregation by class, schools without props, myself ignored. Brief wars came and went, unfocused and fled. Still unresolved. Sandwiches made with white bread, unnourishing, stale, Boring filler on a plate. Something stronger must rise. Until the internet, the wave of life was submerged, then... Black, Brown and Gold, chased by armed police in riot gear, military weapons of war, killing knees, choke holds, no humanity. Streets filled with horror. I heard the rage I felt. Breathing. The young rising up, elders standing in the streets. Riots, followed by protests, fighting for change. A plague to battle. Sandwiches made with white bread, unnourishing, stale, Boring filler on a plate, something stronger must rise.