And then there were

Forms In seventy-two, future years, not past, my kids will be able to look up my census data, 2010, and determine their father was Black, African Am., Negro. But what were his great grandparents? Property, tenant farmer, unaccounted? There's some white back there. And Native American. But not enough for a scholarship, land, or denial of Affirmative Action. The 6 question form won't let me forget a past I've only read.

Talk about sadness. Talk about finding out Power Rangers was dubbed and the Green Ranger was actually a martial artist. Talk about finding out what Dubs are, cementing your black card, and never finding wet cement to sign. I never leave a mark. I leave marks everywhere. Mark Twain offends me with his rampant use of slurs, though I appreciate the realism. “The Mysterious Stranger” is the only work I will never lose. I can’t even finish the book a second time because the premise freaks me, makes it hard to sleep. Talk about falling asleep only to realize thought may never end; your conscious is a treadmill plugged in and running. What’s the point of one more day if you have eternity in soul? Let’s talk.

(A BRITTLE DAY PASSED BY) Despite his attempt at rewriting the opening scene her Georgian film took a tragic welcome. She had almost reached the vanishing point when he broke. And then there was a tremor in his chest and he pointed at nothing to say there is something broken and she loved him. There. --------------- Upon deciding to never date again, she compiled her lists of 8th grade nevers, realizing she would never do much at this rate. She graduated and never never did anything again. There. It’s written and true. Do you have something for me to do? I should have been born somewhere else. I never.

On finally making it to the end she said Can you see a dog jumping through a hoop of ribbons? Byrd pg. 70 ---------------- On asking if she will make it she said She’ll be pregnant before she graduates. Once the mystery came to light he asked was the foot leaving Eden or entering? After finally making it to the end he said I didn’t write this autobiography, but isn’t it me?

"I'm never going to date again." -8th grade outburst upon being broken up with. ------------- "Atleast I swam away from the boat to pee. Everyone else just climbed down the ladder." ------------- "The NAACP is the reason he's down there" ------------- "My teachers convinced me not to run on the playground by telling stories of kids falling and impaling themselves with woodchips." ------------- "Black, African Am., Negro" -Even then 2010 Census finds a way to offend me.

Sand as Dollar Before this sand dollar, there were photographs of them, round beige disks. Big brother saw your smile, wide eyes and this meant confidence in your find. The friend saw upside down jellyfish, holes and no crabs; this was morbid, no need for further survey of beach or ocean floor because dollar was whole and clean. Mission complete. The disk was housing, unknowing. When the dollar came home crumbled, mere quarters and dimes in hand, worthless and unpieced, what explanation could be given aside from sibling jealousy? Aside from BMWs for graduation, your Camry is just right.

Finding your father’s paper porn isn’t like beating him at Battleship or forcibly taking over cutting the grass every Saturday morning. It’s awkward excitement, resorting to using your dad’s condom stash, only to realize he’s bigger than you— would I prefer it any other way , finding a porn without the case and having to watch it to find out your preferences differ— I’d prefer it no other way — I don’t know what I was looking for, snooping through my father’s room. I think I wanted to watch my mother’s leftovers wash away though I never saw them leave, never saw their empty spaces, but nowadays, the closet is full, the dresser is full, so Dad went metro and doubled his wardrobe or my eyes are jokers. I think you usually throw jokers out for card games and I am better off blind. Then I couldn’t see my mother as gone.