“This is the town that everyone would avoid because of something I can’t remember,” my father-in-law told me as we pulled off the highway and into the town. “You just didn’t come here. I can’t remember why.”
I was 10 years old before I recognized whiteness and what was worse was I had no idea how to communicate what I was experiencing. On the inside, I loathed our move across town. But on the outside, my white privilege reared it’s ugly head and life, simply, went on.
I’m on the couch pouting, about the throw the camera against the wall but resisted, only because it is not mine. Our photos were blurry, unfocused, glaring messes. I left them in a pile on my partner’s desk with a note: “Please do these.” I refused to ruin them further.
"Don't forget to look up," I said, and we did. We stayed staring at the speckled, complicated sky until a shooting star, bright and gold lit up space. "Did you see that?!" we said in unison. It was a pure, universal magic.
My back is curved like a banana and, I too, feel nutrient rich. I am sitting on the edge of our coffee table / dining room table / tv stand / foot rest. Yes, we eat on it, sit on it, and put our feet on it. I'm listening to two siblings talk.
As the train pulls into our final station, we make our way to the door. The kid writer watches us. I nod at them, trying to peek at their notebook without moving my body from where I stood. I can see nothing.