Reading The Blue Clerk, 110

Reading The Blue Clerk, 110

“Verso 27”

Today I was wondering about the white supremacist neighbour who is about to acquire a child. I wondered what kind of poison that baby would imbibe, how it might grow up to accept a version of a world in which its being normal depends on ejecting others from the status of normal, how it might one day write about the joys of its African childhood, in which it mostly interacted with Black people as servants, and how it will one day return here to start an NGO, if such things still exist, or even as an ambassador. And I wondered if anyone has imagined setting up an organization that saves babies from their white supremacist homes.

I was weeding, though the ground is dry, because the rain that is swelling lakes and causing rivers to break their bounds—bounds? who binds a river?—is not falling here, so the weeds are tightly bound—there’s that word again—to dry earth and they are harder to pull, and it’s easier to leave in more root than I’d like. Not all weeds grow from fragments of root, but enough do that it’s wise to pull out as much root as possible.

He never sounds sad. It is not pity that he is searching for. He sounds energetic and full of life while everyone is in that dark nine-month sleep he escaped. He is full of blood and living. He holds nothing back; his voice is all he has.

And then the other day when I was weeding—it had rained a little, so the weeds were easier to pull, though I only weeded for a few minutes—I was thinking about how white women’s safety is so dangerous for those criminalized by white supremacist fears and pleasures.