block quote: i could do that much
She bought me a little Wurlitzer electric piano. It must have cost two years of saltwater taffy savings, and it was only a tenth of the instrument that I had sold for a few hundred dollars after my father died. She showed up at my place the day of delivery, hiding her face in excitement and fear. "I thought you might want something to practice on. And to work with. While you're... while you aren't..."read the next three paragraphs, here.
i haven't had much time to blog,
but i'm almost to page 500
in the time of our singing
a vast novel by richard powers,
broiling with hyperbolie, epiphany,
music, and race.
my commute is long.
the book gives me a lot to think about
as i struggle to find my place
at a school in the bayview
district of san francisco.
the kids at work, especially the girls
come to think of it, only the girls,
are always asking me what i am.
even though i can count the other white
faculty and students on one hand,
they're not asking what you'd expect.
"what are you? a mother? a sister?
a teacher?" they grin, and maybe
hop on one foot while they ask,
but they demand the answer.
i try to avoid the question,
usually by laughing indulgently
and saying "i'm certainly not a mother!"
or "i guess i do have a sister.
she lives in seattle.
do you know where seattle is?
its in washington state."
today one of them caught me off guard
i stopped, halfway through tying
a new bracelet on her upturned wrist,
accused again of not
being something,
or at least,
of not knowing it.
"miss huddle,
what are you?"
the sparkly beads
slid off the string,
one after another,
hitting the floor.
i snapped "actually,
i'm a writer."
she started crying.
i bent and reached
for the first bead i saw.
posted by self_invasion | 1:00 PM
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