Wednesday, June 14
TRY TO REMEMBER THAT SOUTH AFRICAN MAN
Sometimes I try to remember the name of that South African man, who insisted on being called "Coloured," even though in this country he would have qualified as "black." He was more attached to that identification than any other, such as "older," "dapper," "tourist," "uncut," "speaks Afrikaans," "wears glasses." His hair slept under my fingers like lambswool; he could tongue longer than any guy I've come across thus far. What did we talk about as we lay on the comforter in his hotel room? Getting around Boston on foot. How we'd both considered studying architecture. Apartheid over there, racism here, especially how Black Americans had achieved so much in comparison, how we seemed to take everything for granted. Back and forth. Imagine if just bitching about inadequate schools and lack of housing could land you at the bottom of a ditch? he asked me. But it happens here too, I protested. He smiled: respect your elders, even if they're lovers. Be quiet now, and then his palm covered my mouth and nose, leaving only a tiny slit for me to breathe. This is how they held me before they began to beat me, he said. Then he rained down another round of kisses.
(John Keene)