Oh A Sis

I saw her by chance
     after 30 years
the SoCal dream glinting in their eyes,
the perspective of the photo
had the best interpretation
     the best reminder
two palm trees growing
     out of their heads
 

Black and White Spaces

April 2018
Ashland, Oregon

On this warm, windy Spring day I wondered a mile or so from the downtown section of Ashland, Oregon and found myself on the campus of Southern Oregon University.
Finding the Student Union was simple and here I sit with a fresh cup of coffee in a space where I am easily, save one, the oldest person.  I found a bathroom, a bookstore, and an internet connection with little or no effort as well.
I feel safe in this space even though I'm just passing through.  College campuses seem particularly interested in the concept of safe spaces these days and in the wake of a recent incident at Starbucks in Philadelphia some folks are unabashedly conscious of how they are being perceived by others and worry about whether to buy something or if it's even OK to wait for someone you are meeting if you don't seem busy and like you belong.
Do we want a culture of coffee shops where it's acceptable to spend a few hours taking your time?  I think so.  People work from these spaces; they spend money and extend their effort in the company of like-minded folks.

Of all the comments and consequences of two black men being arrested in a Starbucks for waiting, the most compelling commentary I've read concerns black people in white spaces.  While this is nothing new for black folks, it's alien to many white people, who assume they are safe by default.  And what exactly do we mean by safe?
So while Starbucks forgoes profit for a day and tries to make its workforce more racially sensitive, perhaps what might be more productive is to give its white employees a sense of being white in a black space.  Rather than work on a forced sense of understanding, get at the emotions behind feeling like "the other."
My experience is a bit atypical in that department because I once taught an ethnic studies program to high school students who were predominately black or in a few cases all black.  That's rare, and rightfully questioned, but it yielded an unforgettable experience.  Let me add that I was the most qualified person at the time.  But going further I did have a few other experiences where I was definitely a white person in a black space.
The first time I recall came in a small neighborhood bar in New Orleans.  While a VISTA Volunteer in 1969, some of my fellow VISTA colleagues and I traveled from Houston, Texas to New Orleans to visit some Louisiana colleagues in a section called Gert Town.  This was one of those little poverty pockets tucked inside the inner city.  At one point we entered a small tavern in this all-black neighborhood and sat at a table near the jukebox.  One of the local VISTAS knew a few folks there and within minutes two things happened.  One was a gentleman bought a pint of something (it was dark in there) and brought it to our table.  In these small bars, it was not uncommon for patrons to purchase liquor at the counter and bring it to a table.  It was less expensive that way.  We chatted with our new friend and welcomed his gesture of hospitality.  He left our table shortly afterward and that's when the second thing happened.  The place got back to normal.  People danced, they drank, and they laughed and talked.  We were an anomaly, to be sure, but the page quickly turned.  We left the bar and went back to the place across the street where we were staying.  That was about 1:00.  By 2:30, the place emptied rapidly as a jealous woman attempted to "cut" her rival before leaving herself.  Within an hour all was quiet on the homefront and another Saturday night in Gert Town was in the books.
The other experience for me came when I attended a party in Oakland about 10 years later.  My department hired a young African-American teacher and she invited everyone to a party at her home. There were about 50 people jammed into that small two bedroom apartment, but the vibe was wonderful.  The late 70s offered great dance music and these folks were intent on dancing the night away.  By midnight I realized that other department members had left and I was the only white person there.  That realization brought a surprising array of emotions with it.  Most notably, it was something I'd never experienced. Did I belong?  Was I vulnerable?  Did my presence make anyone uncomfortable?  I remember standing around after that and watching people dance.  I must have been moving to the music in some way because a woman came up to me and said," I know you want to get out there, so c'mon."  We danced a few dances and then she went into another room.  Shortly thereafter I had an interesting conversation with a man who was a detective, and then I left.  Did I belong?  Probably.  Was it a safe space for me? Definitely, my dance partner saw to that.
The takeaway for me was that I had experienced something new, a little unsettling, and most rewarding.  Most important of all, this was not an everyday experience.  I had the luxury of going years instead of hours where those emotions might resurface.  My experiences are unique to the time and place.  What I do know for sure is that we remember and reflect on our experiences through our emotions much better than through contrived experiences.  Also, we are still working on the notion of "our spaces."

April Born

April is National Poetry Month

Down a worn path,
Years etch my moveable roots,
Decades pinch the ripe, white, poison you call home.

We have seated ourselves,
Sipped the same deep-alley blues,
Seen them take lives.

Remarkable Time

We're waiting for Spring.  Some signs have appeared, but they have been quickly erased by the rain and the cold winds.  As if we needed another reminder, the white blossom fall has added to the appearance of snowfall.

But there are subtle signs.  The morning I opt for a lightweight shirt instead of a fleece or sweatshirt tells me I'm aware of the higher temperature that punctuates the days with promise.
The clocks have been reset and the days catch as much light as they can.  But, again, when the rain comes it turns out lights and makes us want to curl up somewhere.  So, we do.
And in a similar fashion, our lives evaporate with days becoming years and the changes just as subtle as the winter/spring two-step.
The hair lightens from gray to white, the skin becomes even more supple, and the senses struggle with sound and vision.  There is joy in the mornings because we begin anew daily.
With the subtlety comes release. We no longer care what those who only suspect think.  We have nothing to prove because we have accomplished a good deal by this point.  So, on we trudge relieved of the burden of appearance.  Free from any routine we despise, liberated from our own shortcomings, but knowing full well that we are capable of mistakes, unable to stay alert on occasion, and hardly rid of impatience and anger.
I like to call it a "remarkable" time of life. We rarely have to be somewhere, and when we do it's often with the knowledge that we won't have to tomorrow.  Yet I marvel at how the days still have their familiar personalities.  Mondays and Fridays still carry the same emotion.  Sunday has changed the most because there is rarely anything that needed to be done before I put out the light on a weekend.
This different time also features the change in exchanging glances on the street.  Some ignore me more.  Age will make those assumptions.  I try to smile without being judged.  If so, I quickly fall into the let it go mode.  We can't know everybody just as we can't always know ourselves.

Windy Day

The day was darkening.  It was early April of 1968 and we still had no idea of what was to come in this fateful year.  I'd been in a three-hour poetry seminar that met weekly high up in UCLA's iconic Royce Hall.

It was the end of a very long day that began driving through Beverly Glen Canyon as the sun was rising.  Now, hoping to get back home before the LA traffic worsened, I began the long uphill trek to my VW bug parked up the Sunset Blvd. hill near one of the mammoth dorms that overlooked the campus.
Ordinarily, there were more people bustling about on the campus of 30,000+ students.  My hike back to the car seemed uncharacteristically silent and lonely.  Just as I approached the student path that ran beside the athletic field that is now a track stadium, I noticed one car speeding wildly down the accompanying road.  It stopped suddenly, two or three times in front of small groups of students and then in front of one person walking alone.  Words were exchanged and then the car moved on.
When the manic car finally went past me, without stopping, I noticed that all three occupants were African-American.  I recognized two by their naturals and from the Black Panther Party table that was a daily part of the bustle of the Student Union.
Shortly before I reached my parking lot I came face to face with one of the students the frantic car had spoken to.
"What's going on?" I asked.

"Martin Luther King has been assassinated," he replied. "He's dead. He was shot in Memphis this afternoon."
I couldn't very well thank him for this news, I muttered something and just stared off and walked away. I listened in silence to my car radio on the drive home.
By 9:00 that evening many cities, including South Central LA, erupted in violence and fires.  No doubt the last thing Dr. King would have wanted.  Yet, understandable, in some ways.
The next morning, driving back to the campus, expecting some AdHoc rallies and speeches, I listened to the news from Memphis.  I then switched to radio station KRLA in the car because they began playing some of the most relevant songs of the Civil Rights Movement.  By the time I heard "Blowin' in the Wind" the tears began to flow.
A montage of faces and places in my mind accompanied the soundtrack. I thought of the three slain Civil Rights workers in Mississippi, Medgar Evers, and of course, that unforgettable August day when I watched the March on Washington on TV and first heard that famous "I have a dream" speech.  I recalled saving the money to buy a paperback copy of Why We Can't Wait from the book rack in my local drug store. Then marveling at the "Letter from the Birmingham Jail" that first appeared in that text. Skipping along in that little bug of a car I was one person amid millions trying to deal with the sudden loss of a leader and trying to find the strength to keep the movement moving forward.  50 years later, the memory is sharp and clear.