Lucky Smells Like Hash-Browns

The world was alive. So said her friend who also believed the Universe had a secret agenda in that it had no agenda at all. Sometimes it was hard to look her in the face without shivering violently at the amount of pure satisfaction she emitted. She was in her own little niche in which she operated freely and without angst. Is it fantastical to have one’s own Universe? Is it something that eases the soul to know that the Universe has one occupant and that singular existence is yourself?

Lucky smelled like hash-browns.

The tea in her stomach was making her sweat in the summer heat. Why was she drinking hot tea anyway?

‘If I drink iced tea, I won’t get stronger. I won’t appreciate the total awesomeness that is heat. Don’t you get it?’ she said. No—she thought to herself—no. But, Lucky was like that, and she could only be herself. As for Frida, she could only be herself as well. How unfortunate for her. The grass that was once merciful and cool under her hand became only prickly and itchy. But would keeping it there make her stronger, like Lucky, who drank hot tea in 80-degree weather? Would she experience that awesomeness that is discomfort? No. Why? Because she didn’t live in Lucky’s little Universe. She lived in the Universe that everyone else lived in, like a public toilet—like a cesspool. In Frida’s Universe which she shared with billions of people, there was no awesomeness and there definitely was no strength gain by drinking hot tea in the summer heat. No strength in suffering itchy, prickly grass where bugs crawled over her fingers and she had to snatch her whole body away until she pretended that it was long gone. None. But, she tried because she wanted to be closer to Lucky whose sweat smelled like hash-browns.

Frida asked Lucky if she preferred homemade hash-browns or the frozen kind that cooks in the microwave. Lucky didn’t like hash-browns.

The world is alive (why?). So said Lucky who took mercy on her friend and allowed them to sit in the shade of tree on packed dirt and sharp rocks. The bark was digging into Frida’s back and a rock felt like it was on the verge of actually piercing her upper thigh. She let it rest there—to make herself stronger. Lucky sat next to her, sweat drying and looking quite grateful for the cool sanctuary under the tree. Perfectly gracious shadows under the tree were ruined by fractures of light let past by leaves that played poor guards. A beam was resting on the top of Lucky’s head and speckled all over her legs which were stretched out in front of her. Frida wondered if maybe she could stop trying to get stronger now since Lucky had stopped as well. No, she decided. And so, the rock stayed, digging into her skin.

Lucky was building cairns which reminded Frida of witches in that fake horror documentary they had watched years ago. Something inside of her became restless and she squirmed a little. The rock dug deeper into her and the pain made her bite the inside of her cheek. Lucky said that this might be why the world is alive. Frida was confused. How could her friend be so sure of something and yet know nothing about it? Frida voiced her question. ‘Time goes by quickly, but not so quickly that we can’t ask why. The world is alive! Don’t you get it?’ she said. Lucky said that the world breathes.

It doesn’t have lungs.

Plants breathe without lungs!

It’s a rock.

Frida knew that trying to understand Lucky was as likely as having God popping up just to shake her hand and say thanks for existing. God was grateful for nothing—sometimes she had to remind herself of that. Closing her eyes, she listened to Lucky daydream. She listened to the world breathing, being alive. She tuned in on her Universe which was very quiet even though there were so many people in it. There was only a static-like hum.

Little Black Girl Cries

And something swelled up inside me. And looking at my White boyfriend, I felt bitter. That thick bitterness that slides up and over the tongue like mucus. Something regurgitated out of some place that pains me every once in a while. I looked at my White boyfriend and that bitterness was brief—but bitter all the same—and the taste sank into me. Hurting something inside me. Not my soul. No. It was that light. The light that everyone has. That they say is life. That they say is wonderful and full of grace.

I haven’t the slightest idea how to write beautifully. I must hope that only my deep pitiful sadness will grab the attention of those White people that work with the news and twist my little words into something else. The Black people who want all the White people to see and hear me—dumb little Black girl that has decided to say something. Something evil and saturated with hatred. Something that just shouldn’t be said.  Something that my parents would be especially ashamed of. But I’ll say it. I’ll say it kindly though because I want you all to listen.

In a college speech class I gave a presentation on police profiling and the brutality that stems from it. I presented everything with a big smile. I showed beatings. I showed statistics. I almost told them that I’ve been called a Nigger before. My White professor told me not to smile so much. But, didn’t he understand that if I didn’t smile, I would be seen as unreasonably angry. That if I didn’t smile, that there would be people that opened their mouths and told me that it is the Colored boy’s fault (never mentioning his race or name—he is only ‘him’).

Is everyone still with me?

My Daddy complains about many things. I joke and say he’s surly. But it’s true that he complains about many things—and for a long time too. At work, he settles things and gets even through insults so bitter he has to coat them in flour, butter, fry them, and serve them with sugar in whipped cream. That’s how he’s kept his job so long. My Daddy is smart. He knows what’s going on with Black people and White people. I know that he knows. I know that my Ma is just as intelligent, and that she knows too. But Ma says, ‘we can survive four years’. She says this knowingly, with wisdom and grace. But, I think that she’s wrong—something inside me is certain of it.  But, what needs to be said, doesn’t get said. In my home, I forget sometimes the things that shouldn’t be forgotten. Ma can’t stand to watch politics anymore, so we don’t. Daddy doesn’t talk about it, at least not until my cousin or our uncle brings it up, at least when I’m in the room (though sometimes he does and it’s like being allowed to stay up on a school-night).  Otherwise, we just crack on each other.

But who cares about that?

When does the little Black girl cry?

As I’ve said, my boyfriend is White. He’s a radical socialist. He’s a feminist. He hates bigots and just about anything that inspires hatred. He’s very smart, and understands most things better than I. He definitely knows the political situation better than I do. However, even though he loves me, there are certain things that he will never understand. I hurt so very badly when he said that he wanted our kids to know their ancestry. When those words left his left his mouth, I was briefly disgusted—his White privilege was showing. I hadn’t expected that from him, who seemed to understand the situation so well, who was just as outraged as I was over the brutalities, deaths, and just overall unfairness that was just recently becoming a public nightmare. He was angry. I was angry. But he was angry about different things because there was something missing in his anger that I hadn’t noticed until he uttered those words with firm conviction—as if he knew better than me. But I knew he loved me, so I left the room so that I would not say cruel things—bitter, painful feelings that could only come out as cruel at that time.

North Africa, West Africa, East Africa. He said that maybe those are my roots. But he was wrong. I’m just as brown, but those aren’t my roots, not unless we use that watery argument that ‘we all originated from the African continent’.  My roots are in the soil—sweat and blood soaked in the bedrock. Broken nails and nappy hair (yes, nappy) caught between floorboards and stuck in foundation. That’s where my roots are, lost and buried except for miserable stories and old plantations that people tour solemnly. How could I explain the difference between being African-American and being Black? And then, after that, how could I explain how our (Black people) children must be warned about the dangers of being? There is something like shame or embarrassment, covered first in anger that I ever entertained those feelings, and then frustration because it makes me sick that I have to feel those things at all. How could I explain all those things to him, who would never truly understand the depth of this unique brand of suffering? But I had to try because he loved me purely, admitted that he didn’t understand, and asked me to explain it the best I could so that he could understand it the best he could. So, I did. I don’t think I did it any justice though. But it felt good to try, and it felt good for just one White person come to me and say ‘I don’t understand your pain, but it exists. I know it exists’ without frustration or bias, or any sort of negativity—I was glad that he just wanted to understand this part of me, even though he couldn’t experience it with me.

Crying doesn’t do any good if you won’t fix it—if you can’t. Don’t just sit and cry, do something about it. My aunt told me that after my cousin had put me in a chokehold which was one of my first experiences with helplessness. She teased me so terribly because I couldn’t beat her even though I took karate. I’ve taken that lesson with me for a long time, and even though I can’t stand her now, I have been grateful for that lesson. I don’t know what to do with that lesson now. The other day I saw on the news people marching through the streets of a place I’d never heard of before. They were an awful sight, and even though the glow was made with cheap tiki torches, that glow was bright and burned through any sort of naivety or peace I had. I saw them marching through the night like demons. Like specters. Like sick, ugly, snarling pigs spewing slop and steaming shit everywhere. I watched them march, and an old terror took hold of me. They didn’t want me here—where I was born, where my people bled and sweated and died as slaves. Where would I go? Where do they want me to go? I had no idea. I had no thoughts. All I had was my sadness. All I had was my defeat. They had torn it out of me.

And I hurt so bad.

And I hurt.

I hurt.

I hurt.

And finally,

The little Black girl cried.

I have a funny taste in my mouth. Do you? Viler than the taste of bitterness. When you get that taste in your mouth, you’ll know. You’ll know what I feel. I hope you get that taste in your mouth. That is the cruelest thing I can hope for another person.