Sharpnack Street, Summer 1994
…where no proof of black men’s innocence is yet valid on hot streets
We were in Germantown, three streets further down
Than the streets we would normally go
We’d gone to visit someone, I remember that
But not why I was balancing an unruly stack
Of books in my arms. It was hot that day.
Down the street we saw coming three skinny black teens
15 maybe 16 they might have been. Two could have been brothers.
Pants up, shoes tied, they looked like they had mothers
Who cared; walking straight like they were no trouble
Walking like they didn’t want any trouble,
Walking like they’d rather be invisible
on steamy hot Sharpnack Street.
In a half second I’d catalogued them
The way we all catalog strangers approaching
And turned to say something to my wife
And did not see the uneven pavement
Since this was not a sidewalk whose cracks I’d memorized
And could not stop my stack of books
From cascading to the pavement three feet in front
of the three tall thin boys
And the air got all strange in a flash
And the boys’ faces went tight
And their bodies clicked into military mode
Like an air raid drill, or a toxic spill.
they all three bent forward wordless and tense
(their shoulders said to be quiet)
With quick hands gathered up my fallen books
Like those books were precious artifacts
Like those books were hand grenades with the pins pulled.
And placed the stack back fast and grimly into my arms
Without looking up once, and slipped away almost invisible.
No smile, no softening words, no
“Hey let me get that for you,” no
“Take care now,” no “You’re welcome”
When I tried to thank their backs as they hurried away.
And I wondered, had I done something wrong?
Did those books on the ground spell out some secret code
Of danger not meant for me?
Were those books on the ground an affront to the street?
Was there some psychic young black male force field
That could make books fall from white peoples’ arms at a distance?
Was there blame rising up like heat from the street
That made young blacks collectively responsible
For picking up the books of passersby
They didn’t jostle?
We were in Germantown, just three streets down
From the streets we would normally go
They looked like nice young men, with mothers
Sent forth since then to a life
Of staying three steps ahead of blame
Of quietly enduring shame, of fixing what others
Would break, out into a violent country where no proof
Of black men’s innocence is yet valid on hot streets.
