Destination: Bathroom Mirror

destination: bathroom mirror

A. woke up one morning looked in the bathroom mirror and realized she was a White American.

No. that is a lie. She realized it long ago, has known it for quite a while, say most of her life. It is only been recently that she has been realizing that while she knows in her head head that being white is not a bad thing, She did not believe it was good. Many questions and thoughts raced through A.'s head including:

1. dangit. I thought my sophomore year of college when we had that conference "mosaic" about race, that I had learned that I needn't justify myself for being white. I thought I had learned i needn't say to myself "I am white, but...." fill in the blank. A remembers that at age 19 the list had been extensive and now years later, the list remains, and perhaps even grew.

2. Why is this whole white thing coming up when I moved to a very very white state? Seriously?

3. Dangit, not another mopey sad white girl crying about her white girl pain. so cliche, so overdone.

4. Poetry is hard. Maybe I should just give up... just another white girl writing poetry.

5. Why cant I just get over this and be comfortable and confident in who I am.

6. Certainly after all these years of being asked, "what are you" I could come up with some graceful, tactful answer. Some way to say, Oh, I am white. And not feel like that is the wrong, disappointing answer.

7. Don't forget to floss.


A. was at a writer's conference this week with many other white people and a couple african-american poets. one of whom said about poetry, "i write to become a better human being." A. nodded in agreement. They were speaking of what it is like to write about other cultures. Americans know so much. War while not on our front porch, it is contained in the television. Poets write to discover humanity. Oh but the crippling pain, when realizing writing can do harm. When writing of a violent act can actually exploit the victim, can actually reanact the violent act. Make the body-harmed still just a thing that violence is done upon. Writing can usurp the voice of the voiceless. Intention, Reason, Naivity.

A. had asked a published amazing poet the question of culture and exploitation. And if A. was honest, she asked it because she wanted the poet to give A. permission to write about non-white people. Non A's-specific-life poem. And In not those words A felt like she was given permission. Why write poetry? To discover. Humanity. In words. The fun. The challenge.

In prayer at a coffee shop with a white friend, A realized that perhaps, wanting to just get over it. Just finding the method, the how-to guide for writing poetry as a priviledged white american woman was not going to appear in prayer or any other venue. That perhaps asking God to rid her of these uncomfortable feelings was not the right request. Perhaps replace it with this prayer: Give me strength to ask and continue to sit with the right questions. Give me belief, bone-resolved belief in mercy, in grace, that if I do say or write the wrong things, it is okay. There is freedom to fail. A. tried to include in that prayer to include "Thank you for making me white." but she could not get the words to drop from her lips. Her tongue was thick and awkward and unwilling to form those words. Maybe someday she will be able to.