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Mother with Me on Canal Street, New
Orleans
By Mona Lisa Saloy
My
mother's face
in the sepia photo
like an Egyptian mural,
a painting speaking my past.
My mother
was so chocolate
so sweetly smiling
full of hugs and
how're ya doings that
when my yella face
hit the front of the St.
Charles Avenue street car,
riding on Canal Street,
and she let me sit on
the only seat, the Ponds-smelling
gray-haired lady asked us,
"you keeping her for a white
family uptown?"
Well, my mother's face broke
into a belly laugh and so did mine
and she told that lady,
"Oh no, we live downtown,
and like it just fine."
Then we stepped on to
the steamy pavement
and the bus pulled off,
my mother hugged me
tight and told me that
I might be yella but I was
Black as her, and I could
hold my head up foevva
cause my heart was pure
and Black just like hers; and
chocolate was good
and meant to be savored
whether it was light or dark
and don't evva forget it; so, I
said no indeed mother, but
I sure wished my chocolate
showed brown like hers
and white folks wouldn't have
to ask me if I was a war
baby or a Chinee or anything
other than what I was,
so happy to be just
my little Black self;
and when we get home,
I'm gonna make her Papa tell me
about how when folks be
carrying shit in their pockets,
it makes 'em stink. Alright,
she said, don't get uppity now;
let it go then. So we
went home holding
hands all the way. * *
* * * posted 26 October 2005 |