There are times when the poet or the photographer or philosopher emerge - and I use this page as a recording location for those musings.

Redemption of a Guinea Pig

“Yes”, I feel inside. “I do have hair, but MINE is incurable, so please don't look at me.” My shame is for my hair. I am the one who is not normal.

They are bald. Kids and women and old men with emaciated faces and broken bodies.

They are bald. Husbands and wives and lovers who accept help getting up and walking.

They are bald. Proud men in wheel chairs and girls with hand-knitted caps. But I have hair. And I’m ashamed.

On Mondays, we wait in the clinic, hoping for magic, praying for mercy, paying with blood. After four years, I have seen many come and many go. I don’t know if they have been healed. I have not. My hair causes me to feel shame.

But today is different among the bald people. The children and women and men with emaciated faces and broken bodies. The proud men in wheelchairs and the girls with hand-knitted caps. Today I am proud to wear my badges of courage. I have taken the rat poison – the first man ever - I have been probed and measured and proudly wear my bruised veins and colorful tape over the gauze bandages. I am emaciated because of the rat poison. My body has been broken for others.

They are bald. But I am not ashamed.