Ordinary Hazards: List 3

Then Carol, who dreamed
of being a singer like Della Reese,
started humming along
in her smooth contralto.

Maybe it was time
to heal the rift.

I quickly learned how little
I knew Grandma Mac—
her preferred moniker.

She came from poor stock down South,
sharecroppers, to be exact, and she’d
had to quit school early on to help
support the family.

She’d go to considerable trouble
to bake a pineapple upside-down cake
from scratch, just for me,
then would gleefully watch
as I set aside my
adolescent aloofness
long enough to devour several
honey-soaked slices like
someone starving.

No point hankering after good times
long gone.

CAROL’S MANTRA

My sister used to say,
“The world is going to hear
from the Grimes sisters...”

KINDRED SPIRIT

A girl named Jackie saved me.
We met in the school library,
two glasses-wearing geeks
who the other kids
called stuck-up.

Every infraction
was followed by
a cackle.

Past, present,
darkness everywhere,
sinking its gnarled roots
deeper into the world

Everyone has a nexus,
that place on the map
of your life where
who you were born to be
is clearly marked.

But my father
spoke away my fear
with a powerful incantation:
“You’ll do marvelously.
Just keep your eyes on me.”

And don’t get me started on
the wonders of potato latkes, lox,
and pickled herring!

And don’t get me started on
the wonders of potato latkes, lox,
and pickled herring!

In ninth grade, I came home excited,
though as a teenager, it was necessary
to feign nonchalance.

In ninth grade, I came home excited,
though as a teenager, it was necessary
to feign nonchalance.

The A+ barely garnered a grunt.

Desperation drove me from bed some Sundays,
Through this world of toil and snares
hungry for the hymns that rocked me like a baby.

After the shudder, a sigh,
and the ground grows still again,
pretending to be terra firma.

Profanity is frowned upon
in school.

Summer brought a little piece
of nightclub heaven,
fine dining in a space
once sharing the same
rarefied air as the Cotton Club

Smalls Paradise, the first hot spot
owned and operated by a black man—
a flashy footnote in the annals of jazz
I knew nothing of on the day when
my father and I crossed its threshold.

“So very, very honored to meet you,”
blathered one woman,
pumping his hand
too long for comfort.

Hearing that,
I stared at the man
long and hard,
memorizing the contours
of his face.

The gala at the
Copa went on for hours,
punctuated by songs, speeches,
and the majesty
of lithe-limbed black dancers
snaking across the stage.

Of all I saw and heard that evening,
I was most struck with
this single revelation:
not all stars in the firmament
were white.

“We’ll take it,”
my grandmother told the sales clerk,
and I sashayed out,
sore feet forgotten.

Grandma Mac certainly knew
a myriad of ways to
rack up brownie points.

I made up for the difference, though,
with confidence enough to squander.

One afternoon,
we three dressed up
in our finest rags
to help Gail’s boyfriend,
a fledgling photographer
in need of a portfolio
to display his considerable skills.