black people can cook

Posted: August 12, 2010 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

we had picked up our paper plates from the food line and ended up sitting outside at the cement table  under the oak tree. in the tire  swing the little one squealed every time the swing got close to the big oak. it was possible to swing into the tree, but not likely. my daughter lowers her voice: they make excellent food. half of my mind on the tree I half heard her without realizing: who are they? the black people, mom. I looked at her for the first time in 31 years: she never had said such shit before.  the lowering of her voice, ripped right through me. she said black people like some say mother fucker. in a careful tone. that voice followed by a furtive look around her.  lest some “black people” be lurking around. i remember how we never talked like that. how we did things that were color fucking blind. how we didn’t  have to ponder IF to invite black people to the house. i couldn’t for the life of me, understand where she had picked up such  a fucking tone.   her husband, of course, my husband says. but i can’t see that in him. or better, i have not seen that in him.  the food was enormously delicious, just the right taste, the right amount of salt, the right amount of fat, if was simply fucking awesome. even the macaroni and cheese which i despise as a form of culinary transformation of pasta and casein, for its plain jane simplicity, was better than average. so i remind them that i can cook as well. they discount my comment as not applicable, i’m a mother and they guess mothers can cook. so many myths in my grown up child’s mind: when did fornication and reproduction result in culinary ability, for god’s sake. i didn’t see it coming. must have been focused on her not having sex, not drinking, not using drugs, not getting raped, not becoming a thief, not watching crap TV, not listening to country music and forgot to see her sinking into an unwarranted racial superiority swamp. I wonder if  she will fish herself out, if i can bribe her again with a two hundred dollars gas grill like i did when she wanted to move out at nineteen: it scared the shit  out of me. the old horror and shame of not having an intact hymen all coming back and she really didn’t give a shit. i couldn’t imagine her doing it with that boy who smoked cigarettes and wouldn’t look me into the eye. or when he did i could read the most plain, blatant aversion for me. i didn’t know where it came from, but it was very much there: in the booth across from me having his first legal age beer in public which was no big deal because he had been drinking in public for quite a while. and to have my daughter laying with a boy who smokes and drinks beer, and drives a ridiculous car, i just cannot imagine him putting two sentences together or touching her with the tenderness required by young and old girls alike, so as not to break the magic of the unnatural proximity of two. and yet they didn’t take the bride: i gave them the grill anyway and didn’t worry too much about who she was emulating now. until i heard her lowered voice, a self-assured tone that comes from lack of analysis or comprehension, from a view  that is shot from one’s asshole: i don’t know her right now and yet i can see she is content. she is superior, even if it is only because she knows something as stupid and untrue as that: black people can cook.


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