Reading 4 the Rev: May 2008

The blazing yellow sun beat down on the curvy black road so fiercely that I wondered if I would witness a hardened street turn back to the same soft tar it had been when the sturdy brown men had laid it three years ago. I was in that fresh zone that accompanies participation in social movement for positive change; I was full in the throws of it this day a few weeks ago. My homegirl Keisha had called to say we were going to have one of our final building sessions to think through the logistics of this Children’s Social Forum that was to commence in three days, and to ask if we could meet up at my spot. Kate Shapiro and Karen Lopez – two young sisters whose veins pump organizing-type blood – were going to come over so we could talk about lesson plans, order last-minute supplies, and re-check our story telling/music creating/sign painting/capoeria playing schedule for the youth. Keisha, doing her usual million-and-one things at once, was out 20-W by Six Flags, and had decided to come over a bit early. I was running a bit late, because I had taken longer than I planned in the supermarket.

I knew I was trying to make this new dish Lewy had told me about with chicken and onions and tomatoes and garlic. I knew I wanted Italian seasoning in it, and I decided to go with boneless breast meat instead of drumsticks and thighs. The Tyson chicken had a “Manager’s Special” stamp on the price tag, so it was a little less expensive than usual. I thought for a moment about what it means for meat to be on sale. Is it bad? Going bad? Do they just have too much? The sell-by date was still two days away, and the isle was so air-conditioned that I figured the chicken – resting in an even cooler refrigerated shelf – was fine. I decided for sure that the chicken was just on sale because there was too damn much of it. It was stacked neatly from my knees to above my head. Chicken packages stretched several paces. Then the refrigerated meat section turned to turkey. Then to pork. Then to beef. Just beyond the meat section was the fish market. And just beyond that was the dairy…

I was surrounded by food. I regarded my grocery-shopping task as I often do: a necessary errand that was one of many items on my to-do list. I spent time in the produce section, and picked out what looked best. I decided on grapes (green and seedless), peaches (instead of nectarines) and salad-making veggies. I threw cheese in my basket. I figured beer would be nice. I wanted to put the chicken dish over some pasta. Fusilli or Rotini? Rigatoni or Spaghetti? I decided on Linguini, to be on the safe side (??), and realized that I forgot tomatoes. I zig-zagged back to produce hurridly, chose grape tomatoes over cherry or vine, and checked the time on my cell phone.

It’s crazy how we get trapped by goodies that are intended to make life easier.

I picked up the pace and tried to ward off that localized headache that I get sometimes when I am running late. In the line, I chose mint mojito gum, browsed through People and Us, and threw Essence on the belt. The seventy –eight dollars and seventy-eight cents caught my attention not because it seemed like too much money, but instead because it’s the year of my birth, twice. Seventy-eight seventy-eight. Not too much money for a 28-year-old graduate student to spend on some groceries…

Back home, I was preparing the food while Keisha read in the living room. The temperature was nearly 100 degrees outside, but “my” air had “my” condo down to 72. I own 800 square feet of property. Word has it that I am a successful American. I am a successful African American. I am a successful biracial American woman. I am a successful queer citizen of the world. I chose my identity. I create my subjectivity. I have a bachelors and a masters degree. I’m working on some more letters. I say who I am and where I live and what clothes I wear and what kind of tomatoes to buy. I decide when to take out the trash from my little kitchen.

So I did this day, I took out the trash because I wanted my guests to be able to throw away with plenty of space. I jogged down to the dumpster. It was absolutely blazing hot outside.

This is where my memory turns into s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n. There is a way that I have to swing my garbage a few times, to get up the momentum to get it in the dumpster out back. It’s the type of industrial-sized dumpster that has a rusty door that slides back to reveal a window opening, about chest high, through which to throw one’s trash. With heavy bags, it’s actually a bit tricky to get it in, but I have had much practice and have come to perfect the craft. “One… two” I said to myself as I swung the trash back and fourth. Just as I was about to swing on three, I looked at my target and saw a man stand up. In the dumpster.

I froze.

He put his hands up.

“Excuse me ma’am. I – I’m sorry ma’am.”

His hands were still up, in a freeze-stance I have seen when people deal with cops.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he said quietly. “I’m just looking for some food to eat.”

I stayed frozen.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again softly.

I laid the heavy bag of garbage I was swinging on the side of the dumpster and I gently put up my hands to mirror his. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, and I turned on my heels and ran.

Irantothehouseandcollectedlotsoffood:cheese,grapes,crackers,andtomatoes. I hurriedly told Keisha what had happened and I darted back out the door to bring him what I had gathered. I was shaking and running and out of breath.

But when I reached the dumpster and peered in, he was gone.

I stood there, shocked and scared and embarrassed and devastated. Why had I not said anything? Why hadn’t I been faster? Why was he in there in the first place? Where had he gone? Why was it so fucking hot out here?

Slowly, slowly, slowly, I headed back up to my air-conditioned space, to build with friends about social justice.