I think of my ex-boyfriend, tall and athletic. Never acknowledged my pain. I think of the next sentence in a story I am writing. Is it funny enough? I think that fat lady in the next lane is at least trying. I can do as much. I think about love. Doggie love. Hamster love. Psychotic love. I think when I am reincarnated, I am coming back as a shark. Will I eat seals or just surfers and children? I think the next time I am at my day job, I will care less about the work. Okay, the people, less about the people. I think am I saving the earth by using vinegar to clean my toilet? Ammonia makes me nervous. I think I need new running shoes. I can wait some more and these have meaning. I think, my god, is there no one I can hire to do this for me? That is not a viable option. I think about the bridge overhead. Why climb all the way up there and just write “Manny?” I think I should wear less black. Black works. I think if that man can do push ups, I should be able to cure cancer. No push up, no cancer. I think about my last meal. That is depressing. I think more about the ex. I run faster. I run harder. I think one more lap. One more. One.
crackers make me mad
Beer makes me seethe. Milk makes my colon explode.
Sugar makes my crotch itch. Tomatoes make my eyes swell.
Eggplant makes my joints ache. Wheat makes me angry.
Tofu makes me nauseous. Pasta makes me puffy.
Cheese makes me vomit.
Luckily, there’s wine.
Filed under Memoir
shackles under glass
My family and I were having our annual Thanksgiving slavery debate when my cousin Michelene—mother of four, employee of none—shoveled turkey in her mouth, pointed a Hennessey-laced finger at me and said, “You’d be in the big house making lighty-white babies.”
This was not news to me since I am the lightest of my clan. My father is black. My mother is white. My family is difficult.
Raised in California, I spent summers and holidays with my father’s side of the tribe in northeast Portland, Oregon. It was a multi-generational community built on soul food shacks, beauty sheds and gospel choirs. But when my grandmother moved in circa 1945, the welcome wagon included bricks through the window and charred crosses on the lawn.
Now the predominantly black neighborhood of my youth is filled with friendly white transplants. Cadillacs and jerry curls have been replaced by Subarus and micro-brewing lesbians with rescue dogs.
I embrace the change in demographics. My family does not.
Filed under Memoir
