You Sit In On A Lecture

You sit in on a lecture. You hear about The Great Accommodator. You hear about Booker T. Washington's Atlanta Compromise. You learn the importance of loyalty to rich white businessmen. You think how the help then were just a law away from being the slaves. You hear about black housekeepers crying at the funerals of their white employers who had been their white owners. You imagine chapped mocca hands clasped in prayer under proud, melon breasts under heirloom shawls. You think of funerals. You realize your fear of death but not your own. You remember your first stepmother. You remember her funeral. You remember her smoothed, pinked skin. You remember not touching her. You remember not wanting to touch her. You remember thinking of molting snakes and their moon-blue eyes. You remember thinking the shed skin meant a more-comfortable snake. You remember growth. You remember thinking of the first girl you loved too young during the service. You remember how she was older than you. You regret losing touch. You remember scripting conversations about understanding monogamy and loss. You remember not understanding why she suddenly seemed vital. You remember hyperventilating outside in the shade afterward. You think back to loyalty. You remember Booker T. Washington. You remember The Great Accommodator. You stand and leave the lecture from the back of the hall.