American culture is nothing more than a pastiche of fixations. We are obsessed with health. We are obsessed with pleasure. We are obsessed with speed. We are obsessed with efficiency. In simplest terms, we are obsessed by the desire to accelerate every element of our existence in a futile attempt to experience as much life as we can in the shortest possible time. We have all entered a race to devour the largest volume of gratification before it kills us.
There is no trickier subject for a writer from the South than that of affection between a black person and a white one in the unequal world of segregation. For the dishonesty upon which a society is founded makes every emotion suspect, makes it impossible to know whether what flowed between two people was honest feeling or pity or pragmatism.
One time when I was seven, my sister found a black crayon and drew all over my wall.
“It’s fine, Shhh.” (That’s all of ‘Shelly’ she could manage.)
I was upset. Very upset. She ruined my perfect beige-colored wall that matched my perfect colored comforter. Okay, so maybe life wasn’t that tough at age 7…
Yesterday, my friend David, put a frame on the back of the storage shed at Conjunctured.
Now I want you to ruin my beige-colored wall. I want you to make art.
Use Sharpies. Sprinkle glitter on it. Paint it bright colors. Cover it with stickers. I don’t care. Just make it fun.
It’s okay this time, I promise.
How can I resist this happy, happy face?
My sister just returned from Ghana, Africa where she spent 10 weeks working at a children’s home. She taught a social studies class, worked with the kids on their writing, and helped them thank you letters to their sponsors.
This photo is of Deborah, or as the kids call her, Kwaakybea. She’s my new sponsor child who’s 3 - and needed donations to attend school and live at the home. I saw her bright, shiny face and was sold. Can’t wait to get her letters!
