Culture Shock Rocks

Just kidding.

This is now old news, but I let the thing molder in my drafts, afraid of something. Afraid of you.

I crossed the ocean to live permanently in the US. The point of no return was this January when I didn't renew my teaching contract in Morocco.

I had things to do:
make more money
be away from an inherently sexist culture (Sure it's bad here; it's worse there.)
be accessible to my family
engage in a culture

I hope this ordering of priorities is not accurate.

This land, this land that is yours and mine, has been mysterious and painful to me as I returned to it. For all I can tell over the past four months, the good things happening were not caused by me, and the bad things happening were not my responsibility to fix. My whole responsibility, especially this summer, seemed to be to watch and listen.

Watch at the Starbucks outside of JFK, where the plain-clothes cop raised his arm to get the creamer, and revealed his handgun sticking out of his jeans.

Listen to my niece's stories about our family over the last year.

Watch as traffic moves in a slick rhythm on a very fast highway.

Listen to the radio announcer tell who is to blame, and understand every word. Understand nothing.

Watch as the people I love reach out, and out, and out. And reach back. Tentatively at first.

White Card

It was mine the moment my Mom chose my Dad.

Families go way back.
Sharing this same faith (at
least it looks that way) (at
least that's what you said then).

Decisions made in childhood
trickle down through my hometown.
You didn't see me at the country club,
but, sure.

I can shout about the power that sours on
color on cue at the view of a brother
approaching as you clutch your Coach.
Sure, but

no routine traffic stop
will look like a butcher shop when

my white skin absolves me of my minor violations.
Without
hesitation
let off with a warning in pen that only writes in white.