We spoke with a block of splinters between us. They were glued together, compressed, laminated, and given drawers. She called it a desk. I nodded because I’m not one to argue semantics, even if I am.
Her voice was smooth, easy in the way of dealing with the disturbed. She did not want to agitate me. How strange to be seen in such a light! And it was the light of efficiency and haste, though I spoke too long. She pulled forms from her splinters and turned them to face me. She summarized for me as though I cannot read, as though I do not write. There was something disturbing me about what she thought I could not do. I didn’t push the issue.
And her splinters…I wouldn’t touch them. I touched very little, though I shook her hand as I left. She hesitated. She didn’t think I noticed, but I did. It registered on my face but for a flash. I was humored in the way of the cynical, and her grip wasn’t as firm as it should have been. It wasn’t committed. It wasn’t dedicated to seeing me. She couldn’t tell that I am her peer and equal as much as disturbed and in need. I am both. Or what I mean to say is I am all of these.
It was the same way she asked which ethnic background I was more strongly tied to. I told her both. Why did she look surprised? Never has my mother not been my mother. Never has my father not been my father. Her whiteness and his blackness have never separated them from their titles and roles. Never did it dictate who was my more “real” parent. They have both always been. She eventually erased white, because “the system can only take one.” But I am so much more than one, but who am I to argue semantics with an eraser that makes clicking sounds?
She did not understand that I saw myself her equal and reached out my hand to hers as I left. She did not understand that I don’t walk with my head down. Yes, I am humbled, but will always have this strength. I can’t shirk it even though I’ve tried. It doesn’t wash off or bleed out, it just burrows deeper, nestles itself right there between my heart and my ribs. And somewhere in there I remembered that I knew myself as weak. I’m not. …just dichotomous. …just duplicitous. …just exploring the variants within me.
Yet for the life of me, I don’t know that I’ll ever understand how she didn’t realize that I have my own block of splinters. I also have the real thing, the old one, the special one that I protect. It is the secretary and as the name implies, it is secret. My splinters wobble as pixels become printed words. It is hazardous by having no drawers. And the secretary tells the story of Green Stamps during the Depression. It is the story of a great-grandfather I never met giving his wife a gift. I call each of them “desk” and it is the wrong word for both.
It describes neither.
(January 5, 2008)
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