27 Jan: "Mourning What We Thought We Were" by Frank Bidart

We were born into an amazing experiment.

At least we thought we were. We knew there was noescaping human nature: my grandmother

taught me that: my own pitiless naturetaught me that: but we exist inside an order, I

thought, of which historyis the mere shadow—

*

Every serious work of art about America has the sametheme: America

is a great Idea: the reality leaves something to be desired.

Bakersfield. Marian Anderson, the first great black classicalcontralto, whom the Daughters of the American Revolution

would not allow to sing in an unsegregated

Constitution Hall, who then was asked by EleanorRoosevelt to sing at the Lincoln Memorial before thousands

was refused a room at the Padre Hotel, Bakersfield.

My mother’s disgustas she told me this. It confirmed her judgment about

what she never could escape, where she lived out her life.

My grandmother’s fury when, at the age of seven oreight, I had eaten at the home of a black friend. 

The forced camps at the end of The Grapes of Wrathwere outside

Bakersfield. When I was a kid, Okie

was still a commonterm of casual derision and contempt.

*

So it was up to us, bornin Bakersfield, to carve a new history

of which history is the mere shadow—

*

To further the history of the spirit is our work:

therefore thank you, LordWhose Bounty Proceeds by Paradox,

for showing us we have failed to change.

*

Dark night, December 1st 2016.

White supremacists, once again inAmerica, are acceptable, respectable. America!

Bakersfield was first swamp, thendesert. We are sons of the desertwho cultivate the top half-inch of soil.