Alabama to become a forester in Oregon and in so doing
became fundamentally white for the rest of his life, except
when he traveled without his white wife to visit his siblings—
now in New York, now in Harlem, USA—just as pale-skinned,
as straight-haired, as blue-eyed as Paul, and black. Paul never told anyone
he was white, he just didn’t say that he was black, and who could imagine,
an Oregon forester in 1930 as anything other than white?
The siblings in Harlem each morning ensured
no one confused them for anything other than what they were, black.
They were black! Brown-skinned spouses reduced confusion.
Many others have told, and not told, this tale.
When Paul came East alone he was as they were, their brother.
The poet invents heroic moments where the pale black ancestor stands up
on behalf of the race. The poet imagines Great-Uncle Paul
in cool, sagey groves counting rings in redwood trunks,
imagines pencil markings in a ledger book, classifications,
imagines a sidelong look from an ivory spouse who is learning
her husband’s caesuras. She can see silent spaces
but not what they signify, graphite markings in a forester’s code.
Many others have told, and not told, this tale.
The one time Great-Uncle Paul brought his wife to New York
he asked his siblings not to bring their spouses,
and that is where the story ends: ivory siblings who would not
see their brother without their telltale spouses.
What a strange thing is “race,” and family, stranger still.
Here a poem tells a story, a story about race.
This kind of reminds me of James Weldon Johnson's The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man. A colored person who passes as white.
ReplyDeleteI like the mention of heroic inventions, tales told, and not told. Unlike "A Striaght Rain Is Rare," it is really easy for me to read between these lines.
Would Paul's brothers not see him because of their wives not being invited, or because Paul was white with his wife? Race is a strange thing. Paul's brothers seem more righteous for being proud to be black. But genetically speaking, these siblings must have been pretty white. I'm not proud of being white, and sometimes at least I envy people with greater hardships. In 1930 though, I can't blame Uncle Paul at all. I don't think the narrator does either, she just states what happened.