Whole Fools—White Foods?


Tiny - Posted on 08 September 2015

Author: 
Raymond Nat Turner

One Wednesday

I was walking home from a 

Rehearsal with Vukani, at First Congo—

Or was it Capt. Crossman’s for John Brown’s Truth

Or an UpSurge! production meeting with Ruth?

 

Anyway, I thought I’d brave a security experience

And quench my thirst—I checked my wallet and

Prepared for sticker-shock—first!

 

I fixed my mental coat of mail and chain,

Slid the visor down on my brain

For the battlefield, shopping while black

Though this day my bassist friend, Henry

Had my back…

 

I was taken by the scents emanating from a former

Cadillac dealership across from the sanctuary, it was

African-American History Month, the shortest month

Of the year: February

 

I thirsted for a Kombucha or Reed’s Ginger Beer,

My internal clock told me I wouldn’t have long to

shop without fear…

 

After rehearsing, practicing or meeting I’m usually

hungry, too, so I headed for prepared foods, like a

bolt out of the blue

 

With my appetite growing, while foraging for a

Reasonably-priced nosh—my black uniformed

shadow, mirroring my movements, applied the

kibosh!

disrupting my simple pleasures with profit 

preservation PTSD masked by symptoms of 

white’ supremacy measures—maybe he thought

He was antioxidant, and I was a free radical to frame?

Or, just some dumb darkie he could bluff and shame?

 

I’d just seen some Bogey, Brando and Gable

So, I decided to Chekhov in turning the table

Stopping short in the middle of the floor—

As if I just couldn’t take any more, questioning

My shadow in my most moral, authoritative, voice

As if offering him freedom of choice:

 

May I help you?”

 

What I really wanted to say was, “Look, MrMuthafukkka, you need to find

 some real work to do around here today, and not try to use my shopping to

 pimp a paycheck under the ruse of profit preservation, the pretension of 

loss prevention’— ‘cause if you’d been paying attention, the ‘white’ girl

in the black business suit just slipped a lipstick down her boot… the ‘white’

boy yappin’ on his phone just conned a Black family with a sub-prime

Loan’—effectively stealing their home!”

 

My shadow in black uniform turned red as an ember—

Before the loudspeaker shrieked from a Team Member: 

 

Spill some blood—

Choke this dude!

 

Spill some blood—

Choke this dude!

 

Spill some blood—

Choke this dude!

 

Spill some blood—

Choke this dude!

 

Comin’ in 

Not ‘white’ hued!

 

There were old one, young ones,

Rich ones, poor ones, passive ones

Lame ones, wanna act the same ones

Standing watching the Staten Island massage

Like it’s Shangri-La, and all a mirage…

Brought to them by Korporate Kings of

The Lone Star state: Old Foods pickled in

Hate! It was like returning to school in

September nails on chalkboard voice of

A Team Member:

 

Spill some blood—

Choke this dude!

 

Spill some blood—

Choke this dude!

 

Spill some blood—

Choke this dude!

 

Spill some blood—

Choke this dude!

 

Say amen

Gertrude!

 

By then I’d lost my taste for a Kombucha drink—

Before I saw the big sign written invisible ink:

 

WE RESEVERE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE 

SERVICE TO POOR FOLKS AND CROWS!

 

That’s why I shop Lakeshore Natural and Trader Joe’s…

 

 

 

 

Raymond Nat Turner © 2015 All Rights Reserved

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