Crazy White Girl

Crazy White Boy and I did it again last night: we infiltrated a black poetry stronghold. We've done this before, of course. The first time I was really nervous. I had heard there was a regular poetry night going on (my old one had faded away) at the Coffee and Dessert place in the desanctified church and we waltzed in on what I feared was a black sorority meeting. They were, however, very welcoming to us and in time they encouraged CWB to go back to playing guitar.

The group eventually broke up and we missed meeting with them each week. We missed being their pet white folk.

So when one of our old poetry friends told me that there was another poetry group starting up, we dusted off our poetry ears, turned off our computers, and sallied forth. It didn't have the swank of a coffee shop, being in a barber college, and there wasn't anyone we knew. I had been falling asleep right after dinner and we were planning a discreet retreat early (our source said it ran from 7 to many 9 or 10 pm) so I could be put to bed at a decent hour for a change.

Again, they were welcoming although they didn't know who we were. There was a $5 cover charge each and they tried many times to get us to taste the refreshments, but we'd just eaten a huge meal and were full to bursting.

The emcee seemed a bit nervous about us - warning us about the rap style of someone coming up, but I must admit that we do look like a couple of pasty-white, middle-class nerds. I didn't want to protest, "Oh, no! Go ahead and do your worst. We can take it." We're subversive in our own quiet way.

There was a low turn-out, but one of them was an old friend whose handle is "Spoken." There were about 5 reader/speakers and a couple of singers. One brought a keyboard. The next gathering is March 31st. Again, the quality of their creations can be stunning. I was brought to the edge of tears twice. Okay, maybe I was just a bit tired, but the writing is compact and moving.

They were again very nice when we left, shaking our hands and expressing the hope that we would return. I wondered if they packed up, hugged us and each other, waited until we were out of the parking lot, sighed, and turned the lights back on. CWB didn't think so.

Gobsmacked

The group was gobsmacked. They had been working on the project for two weeks and it was almost finished. And Farhad had asked to be moved to another group.
"Why?" asked Bev, because she was always the one who had no governor on her mouth and said the first thing that came into her head - the things that other people wanted to say but couldn't.
Farhad raised his head but did not look any of them in the eye. He looked to his side, as if someone was there to give him support. "My father says I cannot be in this group."
Eve became very still. Her eyes searched Farhad, but he wasn't looking at her either.
"But why, why does he say that?" Bev slogged on, crashing all social barriers as she went.
Farhad looked pained. He looked as if he were barely keeping his face from crumbling. His wide brown eyes became even wider and his forehead seemed to be performing some minimalist gymnastics feat.
"Why this group but not another?" Bev continued, and Tony shook his head at her. She glared back at him. "I want to know. I bet everyone wants to know." She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. "But I'm the only one with the nerve to ask. Why, Farhad?" And she was about to go on when Eve made a hesitant noise that was more a gasp than a throat-clearing.
"It's me, Bev."
All eyes immediately went to her. Eve's arms hung like wooden forks. She didn't dare move for fear she would start shaking. With everyone's eyes elsewhere, Farhad relaxed too soon. The group's eyes shot straight back to him like spectators in a tennis match. Now he looked hunted.
"You ... you mean you two - " Tony began.
"No!" Farhad said, too emphatically. He grimaced and tried his adult voice again. "No, no, it's not like that - "
"We're not - " Eve interrupted.
Net ball.
The group began to breathe. Then Caleb stuttered, "Because she's J-jewish?"
Farhad could not answer him.
"That's just - that's ... silly," said Tiff.
"You don't understand," Farhad began, wanting to defend his father even though he was angry with him. "He is my father. I respect his decisions even if - "
"They're stupid?" Bev added, again with no governor on her mouth.
"No, even if I do not agree. It is called respect."
Tiff shook her head, "Farhad, that's medieval!"
"No, it's not," said Caleb. Then he blushed when they all looked at him. "There's lots I'd like to do but my parents won't let me. They do it for my own good," he added, echoing something he had heard many times.
"Like what?" Bev's inquiring mind never stopped.
"This isn't what group projects are about," groused Tiff. "We're supposed to learn to work together. If it's not sex," and here Farhad looked shellshocked, "I don't see the problem."
Another polite, if strangled cough, came from Eve. "I do." She flapped her wooden arms aimlessly. "My parents ... my parents told me to find another group, too." Farhad's head jerked up.
"What did you tell them?" Tony blurted out.
Eve wriggled a bit under the stares. "I lied." Plucking up some courage she continued. "I told them I was in Anna's group now."
"Great," said Bev, grasping the positive, "problem solved. Farhad, just tell your dad you switched groups and stick with us."
But Tiff was still working on the previous thread. "Let me get this straight - Your parents wanted you out of this group, why? Because of Farhad? Because he's Iranian?"
Eve glared at her. "My uncle is in Iraq, remember." Then she caved. "But, yes. That was it. Farhad's Iranian, he's a Moslem. They say he - " and she stopped. She couldn't bring herself to express it.
"I can't, Bev," Farhad said, breaking the silence. "I have to do what my father tells me to do. I'm not like you. The truth isn't something that's ... " he gestured with his hands trying to find the word, "that's elastic." It came easier now. "I respect my father because he is my father. I also respect you, and I respect Eve. Most importantly, I respect myself."
Eve's face attempted a smile. "So do I. I was angry with my parents and my first thoughts were to defy them. What they wanted me to do wasn't right. Farhad isn't - Farhad is a good student and he brings a lot to this project. We had a chance of getting a really good grade on this." She blushed. "Not that it's all about grades. It was just wrong to label him. And they wouldn't listen to me." She sniffed and started rolling her eyes around. Tears were forming. "It would have been embarrassing to ask Mr. Lynch to move me to another group. I couldn't explain it, I couldn't tell him why." She fixed her eyes on Farhad. "What did you say? What did you tell Lynch?"
Farhad lowered his eyes. "I said that for personal reasons I wanted to be moved to another group."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing. He just looked at me for a long while and then said yes."
Tiff huffed. "He knows."
Caleb agreed. "You bet he knows," said Tony.
Eve nodded. She sniffed again. "Farhad, I'm - "
"It's okay," he said quickly. "I too am sorry. I liked this group. Maybe not at first," he admitted. "But if things were different ..." And he walked away.
Tony shook his head. "He's just ... " but he had no words.
Tiff repeated her "Just medieval, man!" She turned to Eve. "You did the right thing."
"Did I?" Eve said.
Caleb sighed. "Maybe the right thing but the wrong way."
Tiff looked at Caleb in a sidelong way. "What about you, Caleb? How did your parents feel about you being in the same project as Farhad?"
Caleb started at the question and looked at the others. They knew he had lobbied long and hard to go to public school after being homeschooled most of his life. "Yes, well, about that," he began and then faltered.
"Yes?" prompted Tiff.
"Actually, I didn't tell them."