sitting there laughing: cause white people don’t have culture. Ha!
ah, too blended this red hot, dove dark, mocha lite, and mac nut woman with her potato skin flesh to have culture. Too. To have irony, to have synchronicity, sacrosanctity, solidarity certainly, or community.
What do I have? I’ve got beer—light beer—not like those europhile types with their slick chests and slick voices and thick lagers—and football (michigan vs. notre dame currently). At 1, 4 enjoying. n-JOY-ing. Not EN-joy-in-Guh. But there goes my thesis, deepsunk in the attempt (subsume me) to hear my native tongue with clarity. Correcting turns protecting subliminally.
Didn’t mean to offend. Didn’t mean to wear yellow and brown, or gold shoes (so sue me). What’s with the clothes he says (nicer way than some—where I come from, they roll round culture appropriation like a NT epistle—“all scripture is God-breathed.”)
Up ordering coffee, avoiding (eye) contact with her since she’s white, since she’s black, since she’s talking to the guy she just kissed about t(d)ort(d)illas—since I’ve got no culture, no inner light, no ethnicity or apocalyptic use: no calendar, no creation myth, no blood-fist moon, not a chosen race, not a wild ass, no holistic value—my people. What people?
Nod and smile, flash a credit card, loose change—color green which
(she says that’s my color since I’ll be the only gringa when I go down to visit the family in México. No matter I’m “Mexican now, girl, part of the familia, goodbye anglo.”)
--Link to Tracie Morris's book at Soft Skull Press: http://www.softskull.com/detailedbook.php?isbn=1-887128-30-8