tw: racial violence

history taught me white folks don’t care about our blood until they can wear it as nail polish. ma’am what shade would you like? perhaps the macabre of my ancestors, dressed by a haughty whip and slithering rope. you may always alternate colors as well! we have the scarlet cacophonies of our black boys. slurs beating skull, becoming bat and parents are told not to come to the ball game unless they wanna hold their child like a shattered flower bud, beautiful black boy never bloomed before his bruises did. and perhaps a blasphemous red sea? dip your crescent toes in tallahatchie river; claim emmet’s legacy and it’ll be gorgeous until it stains your white picket fence.

history taught me white folks don’t care about our blood until they can wear it as nail polish and i shame them though i know i am the salon. they say i claim my honey brown skin as a gown, fabrics ablaze. and i say soak me in your remorse. soak me, soak me. dilute the blood. this blood, this blood. take it. ma’am i can be your favorite color.

and when did i say this? i can’t remember but it must’ve been when i was drunk on discrimination. so desperate i’d seek another oppressor in the form of an ally? and no these words did not flow from my mouth like a red sea but they must’ve hid in the way i glance at my white friends with desire. or the way my pupils break whenever black history is taught as though it doesn’t reside in my neighborhood. or maybe it’s because i exist. aren’t i asking for your pity? your white pity drowns this land, making us a sunken bone and the vultures can’t find meat but are they even looking? yes, we are only bone and you know the beautiful thing about bone is it’s whiteness. strip us bare, strip me bare. ma’am, for when you want to wear us without brandishing grim. black is the new white and for once we are your favorite color.

I will sing of Molly Maguire:

Come down to the pits of coal.

We’ll weep for Molly Maguire

And those good Irish boys of old.

Their axes dug the anthracite

That burned so hard and long.

They worked to death for petty coins;

The foremen done them wrong.

The blackness ruined lungs and breath,

Men worked their flesh to bone.

They dug their Catholic souls to death;

They’d die in the darkness alone.

For tons of coal were in the ground,

And Irish lives were cheap.

Their coal would fill the furnace and

The owners pockets so deep.

When a man could take no more,

Needed more than whiskey and piss,

He’d join the Molly Maguires:

A man would raise his fist.

They burned the company office down,

They cracked the foreman’s head.

When company men came lookin’ around

They knifed the bastards dead.

The Pinkertons came in October

When the moneyed men had enough.

They got more than just the Mollies:

Beat ‘em and shot ’em and cuffed.

They hanged the Molly Maguires

Before that year’s first snow.

Judge doomed each man on the docket

Whether he was a Molly or no.

Ghosts pace in the cells where they held them,

The hole where they broke ’em of hope.

Ghosts gaze at the beams of the rafters

Where they broke their necks with the rope.

And the Irish, they suffered and hungered

And struggled on down in the mines.

And the owners still lined their silk pockets

Just like they did beforetimes.

Let us sing of Molly Maguire:

Come down to the pits of coal.

We’ll drink to Molly Maguires,

All those good Irish boys of old.

Multiple liberties taken - in a folk song, shouldn't they be? - but here's a bit of history for the curious: https://explorepahistory.com/hmarker.php?markerId=1-A-3B9

I can tell by the last sip that it still hasn't helped you. I want to hold your hand and tell you it is okay, but I know better now. I catch a glimpse of your ravenous blue eyes before looking back down at my hand. The ghost of the bite mark still snakes its way around the crook of my hand.

"Drink," you say, though I know you are looking at the barista bringing someone coffee.

I take a sip though the cold makes me shudder. I'd told you once that I hated cold coffee but as soon as I was your girlfriend, all that I'd told you before then was forgotten and everything I've said since was ignored. Your leg is shaking the whole table, so I clear my throat quietly and hold onto the cup to keep the cold mocha from sloshing all over the table. I feel your eyes dart to me when you sense me holding my cup.

"It won't fall. Let it go."

I oblige, but only for a second before my anxiety takes over and I just use my hand as a coaster. You are perturbed by this, but the present situation makes it impossible for you to give me any thought.

"What are you going to do about it?" you say eventually, though it feels more like a growl or a snarl.

I shrug, but already knowing it isn't good enough, qualify it quickly. "Do you want it?"

"No."

"Then I'll say I don't want it."

"But do you?"

It's a test, one that I've failed many times before and felt. I shrugged nonchalantly, though the alternative to keeping it left shards of my heart pricking my stomach.

"I don't. We're better off without it."

"Good, then you know what to do."

Without warning, you get up and leave. I can feel my eyelids get heavy. Even though I know I don't want you, you still have a power over me. I sip the coffee again, and stare at the walls of the coffee shop. Wood planks like the ones I used to inevitably end up on when we lived together. A chilll like when you decided to ice me out when I denied you sex. The barista, who is totally your type, looking at something small you gave her like the waitress you impregnated did days before she interrupted what bit of happiness I'd imagined in our relationship. I tear a hanging piece of skin on my lip and look at my phone. The alimony has hit. I gave you the better half of eight years of my life and all I get is $750 a month and vague depressive phone calls when you're upset with whatever you're sleeping with this week. And now this.

I leave a small tip, mainly out of obligation, and walk outside. I light a cigarette and nurse it as I walk. The wind is blowing and the homeless are asking me for a light. I oblige. That's how we met, me asking you for a light outside of the bar where you first laid your hands on me. We'd talked for at least an hour about why I was drinking (my mother had been an asshole again) and why you were smoking (baby mama drama), and I ended up waking up in your apartment, thus starting the torment that was our relationship. The fights, the lies, the cheating, the beatings... I put the nub of the cigarette out and pulled another out. I was only halfway home, and already, I was ready to give up on going home and just find a nice alley to spend the night.

That was how our first few arguments ended, with you locking me out and me sleeping on a bench outside or at a neighbor's house. It was fruitless, you and I being together, and I knew it. Especailly with you being so much older and having so much more experience in life than me. Yet, I thought it was sweet of you to get me back in school (though I missed so many days from being in the hospital so often) and thought you were a gentleman from the first time you took me into your home. You even agreed to keep coming over until the social worker's visits stopped and I was able to have it. But now, because I refused you last night, you have once again pulled the rug out from under me. It wasn't enough to get it taken from me. You wanted everyone to know that I was some young whore that hurt you and turned your own kids against me. It was a new low, even for you.

I get to my building, and Amelia is standing there, holding it. I can see from her face she is already struggling and its screaming isn't helping. Silently, I invite her inside. I press the butt onto the side of the building and throw it into the pond in the ashtray. As soon as it is inside, it quiets. My sister eases it into my arms and takes a seat on the loveseat next to the old blood stain. She speaks, but I don't listen, cpativated by its blue eyes and familiar red face. I try to tell her that hte case is still open, but she says she doesn't care and that she can't handle him hurting it anymore.

I half listen then agree, and I can tell her heart calmed immediately. She smiles, and thanks me, then rushes out, leaving me with no time to even learn its name. It looks like you, which both disgusts and intrigues me. A self-deprecating smirk spreads across my face. This is why you didn't want me to keep it. This is the dirty little secret of the week. Though my heart is numb for you, its wiggling in my arms warms my corpse-like torso. Its goofy smile and rosy cheeks are infectious, and I realize that without even trying, it has melted my heart. The bruises on its face and old scabs only make me love it more.

Someday, I will tell you all of this in the heat of an argument. But for now, it needs me. And, for the first time in nine years, I smile.

The sun has a funny way of waking me up. It's like a kid jumping on their parent's bed obnoxiously. I turn my vision to my hands. One of them was resting under your pillow and the other on your chest. The sun blares through again and I closed my eyes tightly. When I opened them, you were gone. I sighed and got up to start the day.

My day starts the same, I take a shower, get dressed, feed the cat. I snicker thinking that this is technically your cat but you insisted you were allergic to the litter so I had to clean it up. My happiness turned to sadness as my ears struggled to remember the sound of your laugh.

I brushed it off and head to the kitchen, I turned the coffee maker on and brought out the eggs to cook. Cracking two open and scrambling them with salt and pepper just like you used to like it. The coffee maker beeped as I put my eggs on the table and I took out two coffee mugs, red and blue. The blue one was faded and looked old. I sat the red one down in front of me and the blue one on the other side of the table as I ate.

Memories flashed through my brain as my eyes played tricks on me, I looked up to see you smiling, you held the hot coffee cup in both hands and held it up to your face like you always did. You laughed then took a sip, immediately making a sour face as I remember how much you hate plain black coffee. Tears pool up in my eyes as the image fades and all that is left is a dirty blue mug filled with now cold coffee as I sit there crying and whispering apologies.

I clean up and head back up to my room. I'm not ready to go on yet, I can't imagine a world without you in it.

"Let's not fall in love," he said, his voice reverberating off the subway tile and blending in with the crowd.

And you couldn't help but think that this wasn't the place for that statement, that request. You could pretend you didn't hear him at all, but that would hardly be honest. You heard him well enough. But in the subway, of all places? And then you think.

You think the subway is a dirty nasty place, and maybe that he equates it with you and that's why he is bringing it up now. You think, you don't like crowds. You think that maybe he couldn't go a moment longer without deminishing the possibility of connection. Though, mostly, you think about how it's a little too late for him to ask for this.

<b>This</b> being months of time together. You think about meeting in front of the apartment mailboxes. About finding out his dog's name was Ralph, like your uncle from Connecticut. The plans you made for next week. You think about the first time he watched <i>Breathless</i> with you and how you could tell he really liked it by the way he used it hands to talk about his favorite parts. You think about the fact he loves ravioli naked. How his birthday is coming up, soon. You think about his hands: clutching a pencil, scrubbing the wok, tapping laptop keys, making the bed.

How unfair, you think. And its only been seconds. You feel the weight of his gaze growing heavier. As if you were a boat and he an anchor. But you have needs too, you just don't know his and it's hardly right to ask now, isn't it. What do you say, then? In moments like these.

Looking up, you answer:

On the horizon are entire cities floating like ships on water. If you listen closely, the sea breeze guides the voices from the distance. They’re full of simple phrases, a couple of I love you’s, a couple more okay’s. Now and then, there are some exclmation point endings, quick banters, nothing too serious, between husband and wife, mother and daughter, strangers on the street.

And there is a scent of-- what is it-- some bacon frying on a griddle, nearly ready to be served on the white-clothed tables, sweetness of the wine poured into crystal, a concoction of women’s perfume and the open door of a bakery. You may see a silhouette, or a few, of a person bending over to pick up a coin on the street, of a wedding party on the shore this clear-skied day, of the circus that came in town a few days back. You can nearly feel the sensation of giddiness, that of one caused by hours of dancing, spinning, twirling with partners whose skills you could care less about.

Over there, everything is lovely.

Yet you hate to admit that there is an entire ocean between you and them. Where you stand is darkness, silence, the absence of names. In your hand, a pebble, and you thrust it with all the might in your right arm and upper back, a twist in the hip and a placement of a foot, with the form of a professional pitcher, hoping that this pebble would reach the other side, a little hello to be picked up by a silhouette and brought into life.

But the little one summons you for supper: broth and water. This week’s ice cubes still in the freezer, reserved for the clear-skied days that are dreaded, for the sun can be both friend and foe. You kick the sand behind you and head home.

You try to light the flame without being bothered, but the little one wraps around your leg, eager to be by your side, willing to feel your love. You shuffle their hair, and they look up to you with their big, gleaming eyes, reflecting the small fire that burns beside. In them you see cities more grand, more extravegant than those too far to hold. In their eyes are mountains and valleys, rich rivers streaming through fields, joy for the millions to those who shine like stars in these eyes. For there in your hand is the world.

I was passing by when I saw her. A young girl who looked so tired but at the same time she looked surviving. Her clothes were old. Her smile was weak. Her eyes were full of stories. I came towards her to find the marks of the hard work on her hand, marks that shouldn’t be on such an angelic hand.

She was selling some bread, but when I saw her, there were no buyers next to her. So then, she was just sitting looking at the ground, maybe thinking, maybe dreaming. But I had to interrupt her.

I said:” Hi, I would like to buy from the bread.”

She answered:” With pleasure, choose what you want.”

I didn’t want the bread, but I liked how she kept her smile alive, although her eyes were telling a lot of stories. That’s why without I know I said:” If I could read your mind, I know it would make me cry.”

She answered immediately:” If I wanted you to cry, I would have talked.”

That was the beginning of a new chapter in her life and an unforgettable positive lesson for me of kindness, optimism, and purity.

“What? No suitcases?” I ask my friends.

“Just bring your backpack, that’s all we need for this trip.”

“Easy as pie then!”

Heavy packing ends up with heavy lifting. Happily, I’ll be doing neither.

Goodness, this frees me up to chase other work. One backpack is all I need. Zip, zap, zoom! That’s the way I’ll race through it.

I’m going to encapsulate my life into one backpack. “Less luggage, more comfort,” “Less is more,” “Simple living, high thinking,” “Dump all baggage.” At this rate, my mind has more clutter than the backpack.

So, I breathe deep and meditate.

Then, I read a nice book. I suddenly become interested in tackling all the work I really don’t have to get to, because packing is just the backpack. I have saved some time to laze around. I think I can do all the things I need to finish before I get to this.

Ready to pack now. Child’s play with the one backpack approach!

I suddenly remember that I’ve not finished the laundry. So, I drop my clothes in. “I can’t do without this coat, and I need that pant,” I tell myself pressing the pause button on the washer to drop additional items.

I make myself a cup of tea and enjoy a sweet cookie while the washer does its job. In the meantime, I make a few calls to unfortunate friends and share information about the wonderful trip ahead. My favorite friend and I get chatty, and I forget all about my clothes in the laundry. She wants to know all about the trip, and I pry a confession out of her. She’s a tad jealous I’m going while she’s not. In spite of knowing this, my enthusiasm cannot be curbed.

Before long, it’s night, and I’m beginning to feel sleepy. Then, I remember that wet load needs to be transferred to the dryer. “I’ll wake up early in the morning to throw the stuff into the dryer.” Too much talking makes a gal tired. Am I glad not to be packing suitcases!

Early in the morning, the alarm rings, and I press the snooze button. I have a long journey, and I need my rest. I got time. After all, it’s just a backpack. The alarm and I get off to an ON and OFF battle.

After several tussles, I win, for the alarm stops ringing. Uh-oh! The spoils of the war sometimes are not all that necessary. I might have slept a bit longer than necessary.

With a sudden rush, I remember the clothes need to be dried. I run back to the washer, and without looking, I put my hand in. Stubbornly the clothes sit, all bunched up in water. That’s when I see the load button light flashing red showing an imbalanced situation. After redistributing the load several times, I redo the load, but the same situation arises. I do only the spin cycle, but when I come back, the clothes feel like one big hippopotamus stuck in water . And so, I squeeze everything by hand, it drips all over, but it will have to do. I put it all in the dryer. The load takes an inordinate time to dry, but finally, I have clean, slightly damp clothes.

Of course, the backpack does not fit all.

Now, I must sift and cull through what I need.

I try to downsize and minimize, but it looks like I cannot part with anything.

As I wrest with this challenge, I find myself stressing. Then I start to roll.

No,no...not that kind of roll, silly!

It’s the Kon-mari method. I just remembered a video I watched when I was bored. “Smoothen first! Then, make rectangles, and finally, roll.”

Essentials first, and then the others. Tight rolls, clothing nesting within one another, secure tucking, and jettisoning things that anchor me down, I pack my clothes. My combed cotton pajama suit sparks so much joy, Wisps of undergarments take less room, but I need my practical grandma undies. I throw out all my briefest thongs and whispers of lace, but why don’t I gain much room?

Speaking of footwear, I pack sturdy walking shoes, but a girl’s gotta have legit shoes. So, I pack three more, and take two out.

Too many things spark my joy, and I find it hard to let go.

Talking about sparks, what about chargers and stuff, what about my laptop and my very smart devices?

What about my food?

What about my wine?

Add, dump, add, dump, dump, dump, dump.

My comfort pillow? Dump!

My make up? Reduce

My toiletries? Bare minimum.

Who thought minimalism would mean maximum work?

Whew, the add and toss has gotten all my knickers in a bunched-up knot and a bee in my bonnet.

Voilà! I manage to complete the task. What??? It only took...I look at the clock ashamed to do the math of time subtraction.

“It was just a backpack,” I thought. But I think it made me miss the boat, and it allowed the train to depart. The plane has soared off, and the ship for me has definitely sailed. Friends have left for a spectacular break...without me.

Now, I am all packed up, but I have nowhere to go.

in

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my heart s

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brightest

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