My mother and father, light-
skinned, but too new
to make the upper cut,
were, nevertheless, welcomed
into the marble foyer
under an icebox-sized chandelier
to mix martinis with double-edged
men and women trained to outwit
and out-white the whites. Almost all
were light and straight-featured
enough to pass—some did,
some didn't.
Claire's brother Bob
passed. If seen weekdays,
he wasn't
to be spoken to. Light and dark
did the same—an inward
move to protect those
fortunate enough to choose.
But why did my mother
(who looked as white
as Loretta Young—and as beautiful!) see
Bob one weekday walking
toward her up Woodward
and cross
to the other side? Why,
when anyone would
only have seen
two white people?
It was something in my mother
not visible: in her
mind's eye
she was black and wore the robe
of it over her fine features; but
just in case
some inner misstep
might magnify and fix
them (the inner world
being vast and treacherous!)—
as if they were slaves running
for their lives.
-Toi Derricotte
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment