Mind Gardens: October 2006

She Left Her Marker

She left her scent in my nostrils.

It stuck there like an erotic marker

—a cloned sister siren—insisting, beckoning,

drawing me, enthralling me; not allowing

me for a sane moment to forget her.

On A Dixieland Bus - 1950

Little Girl: Mommy?

Mother: Yes?

Little Girl: Why did you just tell someone they can’t sit with us?

Mother: Because she is a black woman and black people are not allowed to sit with white people.

Little Girl: She’s black?

Mother: Yes.

Little Girl: It’s the color thing again?

Mother: Yes.

Little Girl: Is color that important?

Mother: Sometimes.

Little Girl: The color of people is important?

Mother: Yes.

Little Girl: Do black people talk differently?

Mother: Sometimes.

Little Girl: Uncle Alfred talks differently. Is he black?

Mother: Good heavens, no.

Little Girl: Are black people bad?

Mother: No more questions please.

Little Girl: Johnny Russell is bad but he’s not black, right? I mean because he sits on the bus with us sometimes.

Mother: That’s enough.

Little Girl: Mommy?

Mother: Yes?

Little Girl: It’s really hard being blind.

Mother: I know dear.

Little Girl: How will I know when someone is black?

Mother: Don’t worry, dear, I’ll teach you.

His Name Should Be On The Wall

I’m watching television—a Vietnam War documentary. It’s about the cruelty, the insanity of war. People weep. A wife of an American Vietnam War veteran says her husband’s name is not on the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. She says it should be. She says he went into their garage one day and shot himself and left her a note that said, “I love you, sweetheart, but I can’t take the flashbacks anymore.” So his name should be on the wall, she says. I agree and I sit here and I weep.