Since I went to see how the drunks on Ash Street were doing (January 31, 2021), there has been a new development.
Smell has a lot to do with many things. When I would get off the train at 51st or 43rd, walk down the street or cross large patches of empty lots, sometimes the smell of violence permeated everything. For the most part, I knew on those days teaching would be difficult. When the odors were clean, I knew my day would be easier. This is also the way with racism.
The racist owner of the establishment on Ash Street across from my home let out an odor so strong, there were days it took my breath away. Her racism painted the street, her bar, the people she hired, just about everything. A few weeks ago, I walked out and the smell was gone. How was that possible?
A number of roofers were out working on her building. A lot of lumber and other supplies were near my fence. I found a large break in a few of its fence panels. Though I hated making contact with the owner and her stench, I went into her place and asked for the foremen of the constriction job. The man I met told me he and two of his buddies were the new owners. Yes, he told me, the break in your fence is most likely our fault. Don’t worry about it.
Two hours later, my fence was repaired, the clean clear smell of spring—even though we were a month into fall—filled every breath I took. Yes, everything will be better now. After these few weeks the smell of racism is gone. The racist still lives across the street, but alone it appears her stench no longer has power.
I’m going to eat there.
Hallelujah!
| Copyright © 2022 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s volumes of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else and How Do We Create Love?, were published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018 & 2019, respectively. |
What a compelling analogy, an actual physical feeling that something has changed when you have no objective evidence whatsoever. Or the physical feeling of the hatred when it was there. Some of us are gifted this way. Not me, but Cindy can tell a dirt bag in 2 seconds. She once saw a rasta man on an island full of rastas, walking across a bridge at least 100 yards away, I think more, heading toward where our car was parked, out of sight from the beach. She said, "I don't like that man." Me and my buddy headed that way when we heard heavy thumps as the guy tried to break the windows with rocks. He was gone when we got there, but she knew it. You KNEW this person was evil, your spirit sensed it. I now have some inkling of how you function in what, if you describe it correctly, is an extremely dysfunctional reality. That sense can save your life, don't ignore it. Good luck my friend.
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