ABSTRACT
So you order the three dollar coffee with a practiced ease—grande, non-fat, sugar-free, vanilla latte—and as you pay you catch sight of your reflection in the shiny backdrop of the green wood and glass Starbucks stand. You are reminded of the moment in Derek Walcott’s Midsummer when the poet persona confronts himself in the grimy mirror of a motel room; lost. You do this because you have taken, lately, to finding your home in literature, in language. You are standing in an airport departure lounge and people hive around you. Yet you have never felt so alone. As you pick up the paper cup of coffee at the end of the bar, you recall your reflection and muse that it reminds you of no one you know. Making your way to the gate, you expertly dodge the melee around you, brown leather bag over one shoulder, coffee cup in one hand, the other deftly scrolling through your Blackberry catching up on email. In many ways you have learned to maneuver the physical world with the skill of the blind, your hands juggling more tasks than any Hindu deity should while your mind deconstructs your latest review; the new book you are plotting; ideas of self; identity and race; the fact that you dare not look into the face of your grief at your mother’s recent death, and more. In interviews you joke, in response to questions about your citizenship and abode: airport lounges. Pause. Oh, and airplanes. Navigating the tightly packed waiting area seats, choosing one near enough to hear your boarding call but far enough away from the crowds; the more you have to speak to large groups of people, the more you shy away from them. As you sit you notice that once again you have fallen victim to white fright: that curious phenomenon where people start to subtly check their wallets, hold on tighter to handbags in your presence even though you are better dressed than they are. Even though your hands are full and a mugging, even if you were so inclined, would be impossible to pull off. Not to mention that you are brown, wearing a wrist mala (beads that though Buddhist, resemble Muslim prayer beads) in a Los Angeles airport post 9/11. You throw your bag to your feet, sit, shake your head at the scared whiteys as though to say, shame on you, and then return to your email. The message just popping up onto the screen is from your friend, the editor of an issue of this magazine asking you, in language more polite than you deserve, to please send in your essay which is now months overdue. You take a too large sip from the too hot coffee and swear silently as you feel a layer of your tongue being abraded and thumb a quick response: one line apologizing. You feel terrible. But you are having difficulty writing since your mother got ill in the summer and passed as the first leaves of fall began to form on trees.
