Fried Chicken

Subtle Racism

i reached.
i reached,
looking.
looking
for the love
i thought i had;
digging.
digging
through layer
upon layer of your smile
to find
nothing.
nothing
but darkness--
and deep dark bloodied buried cross
that
continues
to
burn.


Alieux Casey


I felt inspired to write this poem about 25 years ago, after I got home from a friend's house for dinner. The previous years when I would call his house his mother would answer the phone, and during that time she and I had become friendly over the phone and she asked her son to invite me over for dinner one of these days.
As he and I walked up the path from their driveway where we parked the car, she and her husband looked out the window. They both looked at me, then themselves, then back at me again, as if little men from Neptune had landed on their property. I wouldn't say I'm any good at reading lips, but I saw her lips press together to form the words OH MY GOD, He's Black! As we approached the door I asked my friend why he didn't tell his parents I was black, and he said that was a stupid question as it shouldn't matter. He was right. It shouldn't matter. But when he turned the doorknob, his mother opened the door. She had the look of someone who was disappointed but wanted to pretend to be happy. The words that came out of her mouth set the direction of the evening;
"It's a good thing I made fried chicken!"