In our town, there were several types of houses.
Historic homes, with scrollwork under eaves.
Ranch-style, siding or brick. Easter-egg pastels
in neighborhoods where words became palabras.
And over the railroad
tracks, where the weeds got taller
the houses got smaller, the paint chipped,
and all the faces on the front porches
were black.
When I was eleven my homeschool group (white)
performed a play about the Underground Railroad,
in blackface. The audience (white) loved it. There was
a newspaper article with proud photos (black and white).
While we waited our turns to go onstage, we swiped
fingertips on the arms of a painted friend, laughing that
when we were little, we thought black skin really did rub
white.
After all, “flesh color” is beige for bandaids and
pantyhose.
One girl said, I licked a boy in my kindergarten.
I thought maybe he tasted like chocolate.
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