All tagged POC

On Being a Whiter

Did you always want to be a whiter?

Not always. But from a young age I did have a “creative spark,” or so my parents tell me. First it was drawing, then I wanted to make video games. In high school I wanted to white fantasy. But then I got older and I went to college and I was introduced to Hemingway and Faulkner and O’Connor and all the greats, and slowly I began to realize: I wanted to white literature.

Drawing Class

I sniffed the right armpit crease of the polyester “Japanese” robe I was given, wondering how many had felt its itchy gold stitching on their bare skin before I had. From the conflicting musks, I guessed at least one woman and two men. I sniffed again. Three men. Four, even. Taking turns glancing at the clock and scanning the empty room, I was overwhelmed by the sensation of air sweeping my knees, cradling them cynically. I felt dry cracker dust fall in my cleavage from the stale matzoh I was eating and dusted it off with my pinky before Agatha sidled in, holding two long PVC pipes.

Newfound Grace

Raj stood in the entryway of his cubicle, staring out of the office window, watching one of his coworkers try to back his car into a too-tight parking spot. The mid-sized SUV lurched forward and backward until its broad ass fell center within the two white lines and two much larger SUVs next to it. The rain had started with a sort of clatter—a large rumble, really—that had brought everyone out of his or her cubicle for a moment.

Mandala and the Bear

In Domingo they catch a bus west to the Santo Domingo Pueblo. Another three bucks a boy, courtesy of the Hägëdörn house. Simon told his parents they were spending their Saturday at the Albuquerque Zoo, as Josh told his mother. The brothers couldn’t find their father to lie to.

Rainbow Disease

The colored boy at my front door is asking if I’ll donate to RR—Ridders of the Rainbow, “a group dedicated to finding a cure for people whose skin is multiple colors,” he says. He tells me his name is Robert, that he’s twelve years old. Even though I can see for myself, he says, “I have a red head, orange torso, yellow left arm, green right arm, blue left leg, indigo right leg, and violet eyes.”


She’s taken to asking questions now since Helen is gone. First about the accident. The details. How could we forget to strap Helen in? Do you think she knew what was happening?  Do you think it hurt?

At the Laundromat

Tonight, however, there was an old man sitting on the steps next to the entrance. His huge marine-blue plastic tub full of soggy clothes was blocking the entry. I appeared in front of him with my shopping bag packed full of clothes and waited. We stared at one another.