JULY 1956
JULY 1956
Outside our neighborhood—
like in Bowling Green—
some people look at us
and SCOWL.
If Richard sees it
he holds my hand tighter.
After they pass by
he’ll lift my hand,
kiss it and say,
“Caramel.”
Tappahannock’s carnival
is bigger and better.
Here we won’t
see so many folks we know.
The air is sweet with cotton candy
and salty with popcorn.
We hold hands,
swinging our
clasped fists.
I say, “Let’s go on the octopus.”
Richard isn’t crazy
about fast rides
but I love them.
So he has to be brave.
careening, soaring.
I scream.
He laughs
of course.
I know he did this for me.
When we’re on solid
ground again
he says,
“YOU’RE the brave one.”
Sometimes we don’t hold hands
just so people don’t stare.
But sometimes—
SOMETIMES—
you just have to hold on.
Richard puts his arm around my
shoulders,
pulls me close
for a kiss,
and some fool
passing by
says,
“Nice piece o’ colored ass.”
Richard tenses up—
balls up his fists—
like maybe he’s even gonna
haul off
and slug the guy.
Pull hard—
drag him away
really
till we are running down
the street and
laughing
again.
It’s not like it happens
all the time—
cruel people.
The drive-in is good
’cause no one can see us.
And we always fill
the car
with family and friends.
It’s like taking
Central Point
with us to the movies.
Richard once said,
“It could be worse, Bean.
If you was the white one
and I was the colored one,
people saw us together?
They’d lynch me.
We can do this.”
I’m not real dark—
’bout the color of a grocery sack—
and I have good hair,
couldn’t
pass.
There are plenty of people
from our section,
who are mixed like I am—
and one day,
when they’re grown,
they leave home
and never ever
come back.
And we know they
passed
into white society—
away from
where everyone knows you,
where everyone truly
cares about you.
I feel sorry for them
who pass—
and don’t come
home.