Scenes from Childhood, Part I
Band class was stopped so that we could watch the OJ verdict. Not guilty, as we all now know. The black kids were euphoric. We shouted “Yes!” and did dances. I have a snap shot of myself falling dramatically into a saxophonist’s embrace—-rambunctious, defiant, and talented, he was never the teacher’s favorite. I don’t remember what the white kids did, but the contenance of the instructor, a middle aged white man who put you very much in the mind of Mr. Holland, will be forever etched in my mind. Red, clinched, seething. He shook his head. What we, perhaps 15-20% of the class, must have looked like to him. He said nothing. … Fourteen years later I cannot bring myself to feel the slightest bit guilty. If anything, I am amused and filled with the kind of wonder that tastes and smells of rust.
And with this in mind, I think of Vick. I am not a football fan, I doubt I will watch any of his games, but I am rooting for him and Philadelphia. I would be willing to bet most blacks are, even the animal lovers, or those who, like me, buy their chicken free range and organic in the hopes of assuaging guilt (alas, grass fed, free roaming beef is often too expensive).
Indeed when I hear the term “post racial America” I feel a quick and sudden urge to shit. … Extraordinary rendition and our young president shall be covered another day.
(But I did see a very cute, little blonde child on the way home while thinking these thoughts, she clutched a brown cloth doll with hair made of yarn. The image makes me smile, yet all blind optimism, to say nothing of hope, belongs to someone else.)
