References to Salvador Dal? Make Me Hot and Other

My son had his first day of public school Monday.
We had him in a private school in Van Nuys
but it was a little too far away for us,
too expensive, and he’d come home all sad,
saying, “How come there are no
brown faces in my school, Mom?”
So we finally got him into a magnet in Echo Park
—prestigious—
and there was an assembly Monday
and on the stage the principal got up
to talk to the new students and said,
“Okay kids, now don’t you be bringing in
no guns to school in your backpacks!
Hear that, children?
I want no guns, no knives,
no chains in your lockers
or in your backpacks
or on your person.”
This is the principal!
This is a magnet school in the humanities!
And she says,
“Stay close to the school,
don’t wander away from campus.
There have been drive-bys in this area
so don’t leave the school grounds!”
I’m thinking, oh my God!
It’s getting out of control.
We’re at war.
Citizens killing citizens.
We don’t need the government to bomb the city.
We do it to ourselves,
taking the knife to cut open the throats
of our own children,
and then when we’re out of hand,
when we’re too good at that,
the police are brought in,
like an occupying army, you know,
jackboots all polished up,
hardware all glistening,
big robocop shoulders,
nightsticks ripping open the heads
of our little boys—it makes me crazy.
’Cause you know, it’s all their fault!
The economy bad?
It’s the black kids!
Air pollution?
The black kids did it!
The dollar down against the yen?
You know who to blame! God!
Made me want to take a rock
and hurl it at some politician,
some bozo running for mayor,
any of those quick-tongued hypocrites
assigned to protect the citizens,
’cause, no, I didn’t feel protected,
I felt exposed, all opened up,
like some criminal was pointing
his Saturday night special at me
and every day I sensed those trigger fingers
out there and I was at the end
of their sights and they were just watching me,
waiting for the right split second
to send a little ounce of screaming steel
into the back of my brain!
God! God! It was not to be believed!
Being a woman in this city,
sometimes, oh my God,
I needed some help!
Especially when my boy went
out that door, you know?
And my imagination has created his killer,
some sweating, over-anxious, rookie cop,
too afraid to piss straight,
slamming into my child at the wrong time,
in the wrong place, ’cause he’s thinking,
“Of course, boy’s in a gang, it’s natural,
they run in packs,
those boys up to no good, you bet.
But what’d you expect?
It’s a genetic thing with the black kids,
they’re innately less intelligent,
but don’t talk to me,
it’s already proven,
there are statistics,
it’s testable,
they’re naturally more comfortable
with a .45 in their hands
than a volume of Faulkner.”
So why the hell not cut the school budget?
Why not send them off
to some genocidal death in the penitentiary?
It’s a waste of good American tax money
trying to educate these
unteachable black kids!
Jesus Christ! It’s time to build
another super-prison,
you know, with a hundred Nautilus machines
and hot tubs and libraries,
’cause, let’s face it,
it’s a whole lot nicer on the inside
than the corner of Florence and Normandie.
Going to jail is a good career move!
Oh, God! If I wasn’t a peaceful woman
I would’ve thrown rocks!

Trouble is, I don’t think enough people
believe in the multiplicity of God.
Not enough people understand
God’s great face has a nose
and eyes of a thousand shapes and sizes
and all of us, down to the last ugliest
and lowest person, we are all the living,
walking text of God.
Yes, the life story of God is
written into each one of us:
we are the pages in the book of God’s mind.
And if we’d just take the time
we’d be able to read God
in each other’s faces,
read the funny lines as well as the lines
of wisdom and healing—
because the Word of God
isn’t written in the Bible, no,
the Word of God is written in your mirror
and on your brother’s black face
and in your son’s blue eyes.