Discovery
Violin clutched tightly, I wait.
The bus roars up, clattering
Like a broken dinosaur
In bad movies. The stinging
Fumes stab at my lungs
Piercing the sweet spring air.
Climbing the steps make
Mountains seem easy.
Paper wrappers flap on rubber
Treads. The waiting fare box
Grins like a Gothic gargoyle.
Then they yell at me.
I try to give an old
Lady my seat. She has pain
Behind the brown in her eyes.
Bundles and bags spilling from
Skinny arms, pulling her dress
Askew. She yells at me too.
When I go to the back
To slide on the long seat
The way we used to, Grandfather,
The bus driver stops,
Tramps back, grim, gray
Face behind the glasses.
The whole bus begins shouting
At me. The noise settles
Like crows, around my head,
Pecking my bones with sharp,
Shiny, cruel beaks.
He throws me off the bus.
I was lost and had no fare.
Why didn't you tell me,
Grandfather, that people
Are different if their skin
Is like night, like coffee
With cream, like topaz?
Everyone's the same underneath,
Aren't they, Grandfather?
Their blood is red.
This poem was written by my mother. She is remembering being a child in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1952. I thought it was relevant given the occasion, this week, of remembering the 50th anniversary of the events in Selma, Alabama. I was listening to Obama's speech on NPR.
I had a bad day at work. I don't like being a disciplinarian, but I like even less having other teachers get angry at me for failing to be the kind of disciplinarian they think I should be.
[daily log: walking, 6.5 km]