| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Maggie Shurtleff: is a wife and a mother of three wild boys. Her work has appeared in print, and on line. You can find her recent work in the following magazines--Open Wide Magazine: AD Winans Tribute, Erosha..literary journal of the erotic, Salome Magazine, Thieves Jargon, Thunder Sandwich, Underground Voices, ... and many other fine literary zines. Her work will also appear in upcoming issues of Blast Magazine, and Adagio Verse Quarterly, as well Edifice Wrecked. You may contact her at maggieshurtleff@msn.com |
 |
 |
| © 2006 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
| Home |
| Submit |
| To fall in love with a bigot |
| by Maggie Shurtleff |
| Yes, I have done so. Now, and in the past. I guess it’s that eternal masochist in me brought into me by genes of supposed inferiority. The pieces of American Indian, Jew, Irish and Italian ancestors now swallowed by the whiteness of me; so white I am now.
Yet these three kids, born to me- swim in yarmulkes, boast mohawks and moccasins, wear shamrocks and ziti as comfortably as they wear their own pale skin. And this is how amortization of my soul is complete. I have fallen in love with bigots my whole life… the black girl down the street, to be my best friend for years- who always introduced me as “this is my white homey!”, the teacher who held me in her arms while I cried on her shoulder lying, as she informed me “it is not your fault your mother married a nigger!”, her lap I never sat again. the off and on again, sex-capades; into the hands of caramel men and women, who loved the whiteness of me, that tenderness; that somehow provided hope; kissed and tore at my flesh as if they were stroking god and in turn their deep wounds would somehow heal, the first fair-skinned, blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy that I fell for, rejoiced in knowing I came from such a background- but of course, I’d easily fit in with his upstanding Fairfield white cracker home; mean while, all the while, the fantasy, the nastiness of those genes, filled his pants hard, knowing I must be a savage, right? He’d be free to do whatever, right?- the first Jewish man, I loved, loved so much, felt so comfortable upon me, it was too smooth. I didn’t see his denial until I brought my mixed little sister over, and the prospect of me, giving him, unfiltered children made him pro-choice instantly upon my positive pee test, and a convenient appointment was set the next week. And all those nights, figuring out just who, who the hell I be, drove me into the arms of writers, poets, imagists, so much so, I recently wrote— “… sounds of Hemingway, Plath and Pound. How could I deny such voice?...” * Hemingway with his stale idea of bankers Plath's disdain for mother-in-law Pound, oh Pound, friend to Mussolini and like— but it was their painted words that heated me into each ..not their politics or scorn Ernest brought me along on journeys far away dreams pulled me into his crotch. Sylvia, how I love her as myself, so desperate, hollow, upon her tit I was weaned. And Ezra, images that rode off tongue flicked me--shutter awake. And all the others, the others, those writers’ that would shape me further into Madness- the gods, men, women, ghosts- who spoke and lived freely— and me being caught in some sort of net; invisible lacing that somehow bled through to the surface of my skin and cried out— “We are still here-We will not be denied-We will not go gently….” Yes, I have a history of falling in love with bigots, why should the love of words be any different? And then, then, I guess I wanted to save the world, the tinted world, to be more exact—I became martyr, sacrifice, guilt- all of it in me honestly— I married a redneck, long haired, ex-marine- who bathed in confederate policy and I shoved diversity down his throat, gave him all the dirty pussy he could eat, and when the flavors of all my past hooked him—I bore his three children, made them Jews, celebrated harvest, wore green, baked pasta and gravy, and shoved his superiority into a quiet dusty place in the attic of our blended future. I am not a bigot, I don’t think I am anyway, but I’m sure someone reading this- thinking they know me, thinking they’ve seen my kind, will disagree. And like all those who I’ve fondled, and like all those who’ve tasted me; will be stuck in square of mind, labeled and placed to the side as just that… an example; referred to a larger spectrum, titled—bigots. |
 |
| June 2006 |
| 64 |