Showing posts with label race and friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label race and friendship. Show all posts

Monday, March 7, 2011

When the White Man Told

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When The White Man Told


When the white man told
the Black woman, twice, that
she was naive about race in the U.S.,
his attitude was authoritative,
terse, and humorless. Thus,

we may deduce that he
did not know how risible
his statement was. Sure, it was
possibly frustrating, possibly
infuriating, but also just
goddamned ridiculously,
unwittingly ironic.

And when a report, gussied up
as a poem, observed that a white
man watching a tennis match
between a Black woman and a
white woman made a white man
connect with his white tribe,
a synonym for clan, the report

was many things, but what it
wasn't was complicated,
sophisticated, news, or
helpful.  But of course
the white man and the report
had on their side the privilege
of all that confident leverage
that comes from centuries
of heavy, dull, but powerful
weight--I mean, a weight
that hangs around the neck
of the U.S. like an anvil.
A white man myself,

I can easily imagine this white
man, having corrected
the Black woman twice
(or so he imagined),
smiling; and then reading
congratulatory emails
from other white
men and women.



Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

Friday, February 11, 2011

Friends Black and White

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Friends Black and White


History made us Black.
History made us White.
Anyway, my wife and I
(history made us White)
invited three friends over
(history made them Black),
women. We five laughed

all night, it seemed. Sure,
we talked about some serious
stuff. One of the friends said,
"I'm about to tell you some
sad shit."  But mostly we laughed.
Teased each other.

One of the women asked me
what I was up to, as I'm always
up to something. "Among other
things, I'm writing blues lyrics--
but," I added, "white guy--blues
lyrics?--I don't know . . . ." She
said, "It's okay. You're on the list."
And we laughed.

History made two of us White.
History made three of us Black.
We made us friends. I mean,
real friends. It takes some work:
friendship--hell, you know that.

You have to want it. You have
to know your histories. You
have to like to laugh and know
when not to laugh, as when somebody's
telling you some sad shit. You
have to want to learn, especially
if History made you White.


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom