My Hands Remember
Bias runs quietly. Consequences don’t.
Before Michael’s camera turns on, I know.
Hands flat on the desk.
I asked him to do this.
The call loads. Fifty names.
Some cameras flicker live…
I am already counting faces.
Michael’s square lights up.
Forced visible. Speaker. Presenter.
Twenty screens stay dark.
I watch them watch him
before he says a word…
the slight pull back, the flicker
of already decided.
My hands clench under the desk
where the camera cannot reach.
Michael begins.
Pages of work. Process mapped.
Every unknown traced.
He has cut a path through their fog.
First question - I hear it in the tone
before the words finish.
Not curiosity. Positioning.
Second question:
“What does that mean
to someone who’s not a nerd?”
I unmute. I try to…
Fifty people. I am not on the panel.
My voice from the margin, drowned.
“You need to think more like
a normal everyday guy.”
Swallow it.
I watch the stutter surface,
the small hitch that means
he is holding the line.
Not yet. He is still here.
They are not listening to him.
They are listening to his clothes,
his cadence, his forced camera face.
They have already chosen
which piece to take,
which ninety percent to discard.
Michael finishes.
The call continues without him.
He leaves.
I unmute immediately. Private chat.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
The guilt sits in my throat.
He messages back:
“They’re not ready for it.
It will catch up to them.”
Eighteen months later
the problem still burns.
They used one fragment of his work.
Called it progress.
I carry the rest:
what I saw in their faces,
what I could not prevent,
what I knew before his camera turned on.
My hands remember.
-UpsilonA