notes for a poem not yet written, 4/29/03

[novapsyche]

Michelle Grabitz trying to use the blackest epithet, but it meant nothing to me, not personally, and I was too young and sheltered to have the cultural, African-American identity. Race never meant much to me, neither positive nor negative. So what did that word mean? It was jarring--the first time it's alarming, a physical shiver--but I felt no anger nor any shame. Her mouth had turned into a toad, and it leapt at me.

I don't know if anyone since has said the word about me, at least not to my face. But I cannot forget working at the window at the Burger King in Wooster, Ohio. The customer set his money on the ledge and stared forward. He collected his food the same way. Oh, the lack of recognition, to be treated as less than a robot, even less than a child--it shocked me into myself, made me acutely aware I was nothing like this Caucasian man. I was a collector of change, a doler of food, not worth wasting a single breath on.

Images: sitting on the hardwood basketball court, gym class; Michelle's hair shaking like sinister rain; left to stare at the roundness of my knee

flaking red pickup; the smell of searing beef; the thin coins flat against the slate grey ledge; the profile of the shaven face, stubble waiting to appear

Comments

[zenrabbit.livejournal.com]

All i can say is that rich Caucasians treat EVERYONE like that. To them, if you dont have money and status, you are just a serf, there to serve their asses.

[novapsyche.livejournal.com]

This man was not rich.