But We Did See

Well, this is certainly an interesting picture. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields who chose the photo and to Roger Bultot for submitting it to our Fairy Blog Mother.

We called you Big Stan the Pretzel Man. Not kindly. You didn’t seem to mind. You gifted us salted pretzels slathered with spicy yellow mustard and told stories about your grandma, cotton plantations, the hard times and the easier ones. We kids sat, picking scabs on our knees, gobbling pretzels, wanting to get away while our mother’s voices repeating, “Be polite to Stan” rattled around in our heads.

The day they found you beaten, your cart burned to a pile of twisted metal and exploded glass, we pretended we hadn’t seen anything and slowly drifted away.

Twisted History

We strolled through Berlin with Pegman today. Oh, the sites he showed us. I liked this view of the Berlin wall, so stopped to enjoy a pint and listen to what Schwartzie had to say. I found out he’s not a pleasant man. On the other hand, Mordechai is very patient.

“Is this why we built the wall? Is this what we asked for? This crazy art?”
Schwartzie, shut up! One night of peace! Please! That’s all I ask!
“Finally got the Jews on their side. Us on ours.”
No, we didn’t. Chava Kline tutors my kids.Couldn’t find a better teacher.
“And those homos! Poof! Gone!”
One of those homos cleans our house ten times better than my wife.
“We built that wall to keep niggers on their own side!!! Now we’re defacing it.”
Schwartzie! Drink your beer and go. Please. People who come to my bar don’t want to listen to your interpretation of history.
As if conjured, Jamelle Horowitz, the blackest gay Jew the bartender ever met, strolled into the bar, spray paint can in hand.
“Hey, Mordechai, my sister can’t teach your kids tomorrow, got a cold. And I can’t clean your house, got a wall to paint.”

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The Interrupted Promise

Sitting alone, listening to umpa music, wasn’t what Rolando had planned.
The night was to be full of adventure, excitement, freedom. And flight.
Yes, he and Fastina were escaping this tiny town full of prejudice.
Returning to Mexico where people ate tortillas stuffed with chicken mole
while listening to mariachi music. And dancing.
Fastina’s father had shouted, “No!” Rolando’s mother? She cried.
Still, the couple packed their bags – hid them by the gazebo.
So where was Fastina? She promised to meet him at 10:00.

Fastina screamed Rolando’s name as five enormous white men
watched another rip the buttons off her blouse.

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