Tuesday, March 24, 2009

conformity.


I like to make up stories. Stories that are already in progress; with an added twist. An African family of five rides the subway; speaking their native tongues, I get lost within a language I probably once knew. The youngest girl, months old, snuggles in her mother’s arms; her contemporary thermal draped over with African fabric. The middle child; a boy with a toothless smile; and mini leather jacket modeled after the ones Tuskegee Airmen once wore, stares at the darkness passing by the window. The oldest blankly bouncing her stare to and fro from each individual home bound from the 44th inauguration is draped in a pea coat too long for her 9 year old arms and legs; I assume it is her mothers. Her father giggles at her displeased demeanor because of her apparel. She ignores his taunting; and suddenly her stare lands on me. I stick my tongue out at her; she laughs, which I'm sure has been her first laugh all day. I wonder what her hobbies are. Does she dance, sing, play an instrument, or write like I did at her age? Is there a dance and chorus program at her school? Are their instruments afforded to her district? Has anyone yet handed her a book and a pen? Does she even remember enough of her culture to preserve it into art? Does she?
-riv-

3 comments:

Jewel Anderson said...

Did you take the photo? Its beautiful.

LaLa said...

always a pleasure reading your blog, your amazing!

ty said...

i love it. so much detail and poetry captured in the span of a second. it only takes a second for the eye to realize what its looking at...you're dope