We like the houses here. We circle the lake turning into dark cleavages, dense-packed gleamings. We could live here, we say. We're smiling, but thinking of the houses at the last resort: The real estate agent looked surprised when she saw Bruce's face; then flipped quickly through the glossy pictures— I'm sure you won't like this one; I can tell it's not your kind. Our house in Essex Fells took a year to sell and sold to a black family. A friend explained, once a house is owned by black people, they're the only ones they'll show it to. Do we want to live some place with a view overlooking the politics? When we pass an exit named "Negro Mountain," Bruce smiles and jerks the wheel as if we almost missed our turn. Why must everything we want come by stealth? Why is every road in this bright country furnished with its history of hatred? Yet we keep smiling, driven by a desire beyond the logic of if we can afford it, and whether we would love or hate it if we did buy. Copyright © 2017 Toi Derricotte. Used with permission of the author. |
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