COMM5 Instructor Manual Chapter 8
8-7
But my mouth would not open.
“Why did so many of them come to England?” she continued, muttering as if she were
sharing a confidence. “A ruination, that’s what it is.”
It struck me that she might be a landlady having trouble with tenants. I tried and tried
to part my lips. Where is the end of the tangled thread? How will we roll it into a ball if we
can’t find an end?
She chatted on about something less consequential, never seeming to mind our utterly
one-sided conversation, till the lights went down. Of course, I couldn’t concentrate on the
rest of the play. My precious ticket felt wasted. I twisted my icy hands together while my
cheeks burned.
Even worse, she and I rode the same train afterwards. I had plenty of time to respond,
to find a vocabulary for prejudice and fear. The dark night buildings flew by. I could have
said, “Madam, I am half Arab. I pray your heart grows larger someday.” I could have sent
her off, stunned and embarrassed, into the dark.
My father would say, “People like that can’t be embarrassed.”
But what would he say back to her?
Oh I was ashamed for my silence and I have carried that shame across oceans, through
the summer when it never rained, in my secret pocket, till now. I will never feel better
about it. Like my reckless angry last words to the one who took his own life.
Years later, my son and I were sitting on an American island with a dear friend, the only
African American living among 80 or so residents. A brilliant artist and poet in his seventies,
he has made a beautiful lifetime of painting picture books, celebrating expression,
encouraging the human spirit, reciting poems of other African American heroes, delighting
children and adults alike.
We had spent a peaceful day riding bicycles, visiting the few students at the
schoolhouse, picking up rounded stones on the beach, digging peat moss in the woods. We
had sung hymns together in our resonant little church. Our friend had purchased a live
lobster down at the dock for supper. My son and I were sad when it seemed to be knocking
on the lid of the pot of boiling water. “Let me out.” We vowed quietly to one another never
to eat a lobster again.
After dinner, a friend of our friend dropped in, returned to the island from her traveling
life as an anthropologist. We asked if she had heard anything about the elections in Israel—
that was the day Shimon Peres and Benjamin Netanyahu vied for prime minister and we
had been unable to pick up a final tally on the radio.
She thought Netanyahu had won. The election was very close. But then she said, “Good
thing! He’ll put those Arabs in their places. Arabs want more than they deserve.”
My face froze. Was it possible I had heard correctly? An anthropologist speaking. Not a
teenager, not a blithering idiot. I didn’t speak another word during her visit. I wanted to. I
should have, but I couldn’t. My plate littered with red shells.
After she left, my friend put his gentle hand on my shoulder. He said simply, “Now you
know a little more what it feels like to be black.”
So what happens to my words when the going gets rough? In a world where certain
equalities for human beings seem long, long, long, overdue, where is the magic sentence to
act as a tool? Where is the hoe, the tiller, the rake?
Pontificating, proving, proselytizing leave me cold. So do endless political debates over
coffee after dinner. I can’t listen to talk radio, drowning in jabber.
The poetic impulse—to suggest, hint, shape a little picture, to find a story, metaphor,
scene—abides as a kind of music inside. Nor can I forget the journalist in Dubai who called
me donkey for talking about vegetables when there was injustice in the world.
I can talk about sumac, too. When a friend asks what’s that purple spice in the little
shake-up jar at the Persian restaurant, tears cloud my eyes.