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Concrete
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Personal "A young man
called me a
racist
yesterday.
He said
with no care
it must be so,
because of my hair.
The hair on my scalp
designated
my predisposition
to one's color of skin.
I actually laughed,
because it caught me
off guard,
I've never been accused before.
That moment
not so lost in time,
ran through my mind
once, twice,
three times more.
I had asked,
I see, that's interesting,
but what makes you think this?
Have you seen me
ever once before in your life
before this time?
No,
but he shook his head,
for in his point of view
there was no need for justification,
I must be racist
because I had a haircut
like the white guys did
in the Buzzfeed video
he saw on his Facebook.
I laughed again,
because the only time
I was ever so mad
at a man
was not because he was
African
or that he was a lesser man
but because he
was trying to kill me
in Afghanistan
not because I was or wasn't
Mexican,
but American.
So frustrated I was,
thinking back to how many times
I've laid a fellow brother to rest,
and I'm not talking skin,
I'm writing of my fellow kin
who have shared the din
and roar of combat with the enemy.
Thinking back to,
the few
who didn't make it home,
who's blood
I had to wash out
off my blouse.
The enemy didn't care about skin.
They didn't ask
which chump
I had voted for.
Or if I was pro-choice
or against Jesus Christ
or how much I've studied
the Sunni and Shiite split,
which I admit,
I know way too much about.
No one asked me anything.
So when this young man
approached me,
when I'm trying to buy some
beans and rice
and informed me
that I was a racist,
I was upset.
He must be blind,
he must incorrectly
assume I am white,
he must have an issue
I'm about to fix.
But before I did anything...
his mother came down the aisle.
She looked at him
and me,
and almost sobbed out sorry.
You see,
there's a lot going on lately,
and I don't blame him.
I know a few things,
like the muzzle velocity
of a 9mm round,
the recipe for homemade pupusa,
and how to train
a dog how to lay down,
but what has me frowning
is that I can't help
a young man's
perception
of a new haircut.
Of just staying in regulation.
For there was no conversation,
no back and forth,
no chance to reach out
and cool out and speak.
I had no paint,
for those who have seen
and heard and experienced
have a canvas
that won't accept a new coat,
and that's no one's fault.
There is no wrong here.
But a painter
cannot paint on a canvas
not there,
a preacher
can't save a non-believer
who half-listens,
and a young man
can't be shown
that hair
don't make a man racist.
In a life
where skin color
were just crayons,
black, white, brown, yellow and red,
the accuracy of such an accusation
is skewed.
But to the young man,
who more than likely
lived a life where these colors
had a different view,
his words rang true.
For perception
is as fluid as water,
but hardens like concrete,
and it doesn't change once it dries.
And at that moment in time,
that's all I was,
a kid trying write on concrete,
trying to talk
and write some chalk
on this little sidewalk.
Except chalk
never stays.
It always dissappears.
And different ideas
never appear.
Changing concrete
talks that aggressive, intrusive,
violent thrusting of the jackhammer,
drilling away in chunks
concrete with noise
and pain and calamity.
It's a damn shame.
If only perception
worked so efficiently,
Instead of one or the other.
Black or white,
Democrat or Republican,
Liberal or Conservative.
Killer
or the enemy's target.
There's no in between,
when you're dealing
with concrete."
