By Susan Truxell Sauter
They sit apart, yet together.
He has always gone by B,
she’ll go by TL.
They fully face the now
of careful, quiet talk
across the glacial crevasse
of Black in white America or white in a separatist land.
B, his ample brown face under ball cap, sports graying sideburns.
He keeps his eyes on the shared computer screen. A silver cross
dangles from a chain, his black T-shirt its backdrop.
TL’s years run across her creased white cheeks,
her hair turned light. Her loose, brown-white side braid
sprays short hairs over her shoulder.
She leans toward the laptop,
in red-and-black-checkered shirt.
They could have been classmates, both
high school graduates of 1978.
A question.
Can you talk about a time when you were afraid?
TL says, That’s hard. There’s not a lot that scares me, but I remember one time.
1968
As a child brought on beach vacation,
TL’s shallow-water play turns with an ocean wave
—her float and small body flip.
Float-become-weight pins her face down.
Arms flail, eyes close, cheeks and nose
press into coarse sand shifting
underneath
sounds muffle brighten, lighten—
Father’s arms grab up
her little-girl-round,
heart-beat safe,
free
to grow again.
B says, My scariest moment’s gonna make your all’s hair raise—
happened just outside our town, Masontown, Pennsylvania, which is not too far from
New Geneva, Pennsylvania—which is Klan country.
1977
Summertime young-time car cruise,
cousins & niece ride in the backseat.
Warm air billows through open windows.
B, at seventeen years, takes in the view.
Brother-in-law behind the wheel knows
the way, speeds down scenic side roads.
Like rotten fruit
the ripe green hillside scene
splits open
to reveal swarms of white-hoods
gathered in the distance.
Time becomes humid, sweats.
Brother-in-law brakes,
wheels the car around for a second pass-by
sticky seconds a tic too long.
Pistol appears above B’s ear,
a shotgun aimed
over the car hood,
Klan guards hidden until now.
B stops breathing.
White man talks into walkie-talkie, toc.
Cold metal presses a lifetime against
B’s head & he’s sure he’s gone.
Brother-in-law talks, tries
We’re gonna tell the state trooper,
parked in a cruiser
not far from here.
Boy. You. Are. Dumb. come the uncocked words.
He’s one of us. You. Are. So. Stupid.
Silence.
Guns withdraw.
Threads unknot,
pull through the heavens.
Slowly the car creeps forward,
bodies freed.
TL cries, shakes her head, says I’m so sorry. B says, I’m just blessed to be sitting here, to be able to tell this story. TL says, I can’t stop crying. That’s got to live with you a long long time. B says I’m sorry I didn’t mean to bring you’all down. Full man-body-breaths move the memory to rest, for now.
Another question.
Can you describe something you think other races don’t know about your life?
TL explains, I was part of the busing and school integration in Williamsburg, Virginia, for my middle and high school years. My mom and dad talked about it and felt it was the best thing that could’ve happened—and I did too. I was in fifth grade.
1974
Lettered yellow bus scrapes to a stop
like a rolling heap of metal lunchboxes.
Folding doors open
with a long exhalation.
TL hops up the black-matted steps,
aims down the aisle, tucks into an open seat.
The bus pulls away from her street
and she gazes out the half-hazy windows
onto the school she won’t attend.
Metal upon metal creaks, air brakes
release; another child on. Next stop, repeat,
and the bench seats fill with skin tones,
sandwiched together. As the bus heads
into one neighborhood, brown-chocolate
children file on; in another, pink-peach.
Adults would describe them
as Black or white, though many
shades of flesh are present.
While the bus travels its route, TL
watches them mix together. By the end
of her hour-long ride,
a new taste is on her tongue.
B asks for the question to be restated to which the interviewer repeats: Can you describe something you
think other races don’t know about your life?
B says: Boy there’s a lot of that.
A thousand slights over a decades-long career
his supervisor’s always eager to share
the same story:
B, we had a meeting and a Black man was there,
a Black man, he was dressed so well,
an African American man,
and B,
dressed so well,
and B, a man of color was there and he
spoke very well
spoke very well
dressed so well.
Well-well.
At an out-of-office meeting,
B carries a duffle, laptop, and projector.
What’s he doing here?
Guess someone’s
got to carry
the bags,
squelched snickers.
To surprised eyes,
B is introduced, gives his slide show.
At session’s end, B says, We do know a little bit—
and do more than carry bags.