I’ve noticed a wonderful turn-around this horrid year. It started with a chair. I phoned the store where I purchased it and was spoken to so rudely that I called the company to report the dude.
A woman answered and I started off with an apology. Said I was upset, and that my tone had nothing to do with her and that I’d try to keep myself in check. I didn’t get very far into the story before she started talking to me like a best girlfriend. Understood how my upset wasn’t so much the chair, but the way I was treated. Said how infuriating it is when men behave this way, using words I had to look up after the call ended.
I didn’t need to understand her big words as we spoke, because the love emanating from the phone was enough. Actually, it was much more than enough, it was exactly what I needed. She had my name, so I asked if she’d please find me on Facebook so we could stay in touch.
This is only one of many encounters I’ve had with black women lately. The last was at the DMV as we discussed the upcoming election and how to make our vote count.
These exchanges are important.
The only way we’ll rise to equal status with men is by women of all cultures banding together. We’re on the verge of finishing the revolution us hippies started in the 60s—Peace, Love, Equality, Real-talk, the whole instead of the individual—and all I can say to that is bring it on already!
Here’s to you if you’re voting this election cycle, championing the shift in. It’s time to realize Greg Kuzma’s dream.
PEACE, SO THAT
every stinking son of a bitch
can come home
to his lawn mower and rice paddy,
every punished son of a bitch
can return to his father’s bedside,
every child of every bastard
every child of every hero of peace
can talk it over with the man he blames,
every woman, mother, wife, daughter,
will rise in our arms like the tide,
every bomb be water
every bullet be smashed into frying pans,
every knife sharpened again
to cut fruit in thin slices,
every word flung out like a bullet
come back to putrefy the tongue,
every man who has sat silent
beware of his silence,
every rising of the blood
make love to a woman, a man,
every killer have only mirrors
to shoot at,
every child a thumb to suck,
every house its chance
to sink to the earth’s calling,
every dead shall have no good reasons.
And we be a long time at this.
The photo: Honoring Goddess Pele, the creator of Hawaii, a place that has a piece of my heart. Funk chose the photo, go figure. P.S. Pele looks just like my sister did, at least in my eyes.
Greg Kuzma, www.jstor.org/stable/20595760