Seven
Nineteen
Of all days,
I was late on the first day of school, but it was no matter,
so was the bus. As I approached the bus stop I exuded a
nonchalant attitude of arrogance. In the past, baggy, blue
pants with a 36-inch waist, more material than my frame
required; a crisp, loose fitting shirt; and fresh, white
Adidas high tops was my signature attire.
There were two
of them chattering and giggling stupidly when I arrived:
a frumpy, caramel colored girl, her stubby, dimpled limbs
proportionate to her plump body and diminutive height;
and a pale, freckle-faced girl whose dingy appearance,
stringy brown hair, and odor epitomized trailer trash.
I drew immediate
attention just as I anticipated. Not only was I the new
girl, but I was also from New York. I felt the intrusive
stares of the two Gloucester County, Virginia hicks as
I easily ignored their insignificance. I did not want to
get to know them and I dreaded their exasperating twangs.
I refused to introduce myself or ask their names. While
I waited to arrive at the bright yellow school, or what
all the kids so fondly referred to as "The Cheese," I pondered
what my friends back home were doing at that moment-7:19am.
I contemplated what my new school would be like since the
white people were racist, smelled like wet dogs and everybody,
black and white, was slow, at least one grade level behind,
and dated and had sex with their own cousins. Finally,
my reflection was interrupted as I asked myself how many
of those "country livin" stereotypes would prove true.
An irritating
cackle resounded followed by a rural, trailer park intonation. "Nigger,
please," the freckle-faced girl quipped.
Her words pierced
my mind so intensely that for moments thereafter all I
heard was the sickening repetition, "Nigger, please! Nigger,
please! Nigger, please!" The words drawled from her southern
tongue with an ease born only of familiarity. At last,
I brought myself to look in their direction. Laughter reverberated
between them. Trailer Trash's was simply a failed attempt
to soften her spitefully virulent words and Stubby's, a
reaction of sheer self-consciousness and discomfort. Despite
her feigned drollery there was a telling insolence in the
trashy one's eyes that challenged, with bold defiance,
all that was related to acceptable behavior. My nonplused
expression diminished the stubby girl's amusement to a
mere titter. She knew as sure as I that there was nothing
to revel in when one has been called "Nigger."
That was years
ago…
Of all days,
I am late. Waiting for the M104 there are three of them
at the bus stop when I arrive. The white, middle-aged brunette
paces the sidewalk as she complains on her cellular phone
about the inconvenience of a flat tire in the gridlock
of Midtown Manhattan and how she will be late for her business
meeting due to AAA's inefficiency. A teenaged Latina seems
frustrated by her inexperience with motherhood as she struggles
to balance the weight of her irritable infant on her right
hip and that of a baby bag and backpack on her left shoulder.
The boy who sits on the bus stop bench is bobbing his head
rhythmically while he twirls the tips of newly braided
cornrows. He is young. He is so young that one may question
if he understands the words that he mimics:
"…Lock the top
lock. Momma should cuff me to the radiator.
Why not? It mighta
saved me later from my block.
NY cops, hookas
crawlin off the stroll, coughin,
stitches in they
head, stinkin and I dread thinkin they be snitchin…"
As his vehemence
competes with the powerful bass of his headphones, his
raspy voice's intensity tattles on his own reality.
I look at my
watch then peer down the street in anticipation of the
approaching bus. I step back. The middle-aged woman, now
finished with her call, stands silently alone. She is glowering
at the boy.
"…See the sergeant
and the captain-strangle men
Niggaz gaspin
for air til the move no more and just stare
with dead eyes-tired
of riots, shit is quiet.
Simple-minded
fools infiltrate grimy crews
Overcrowded cribs,
uncles home from bids, sisters pregnant, father's on drugs,
moms is smokin, beds is piss-infested…"
Her expression
is laden with contempt. It is a look with which I have
become all too familiar. "Nigger, please."
It is 7:19am.
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