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Wednesday Afternoon, Melting Pot
By
Paul G. McCurdy
On the train I pass an old Asian man
twitching and eating a sandwich and mumbling to himself.
Crazy. He cackles. I walk on, find my own seat.
An old white man with many parcels boards.
He arranges his things around himself,
unwraps his scarf and places it —
“Are you Chinese?” he interrupts his rite in a big white voice.
The train drones forward. The Chinese man answers;
I cannot hear words or language, only the scratchy breaks
between syllables in the old man’s voice. And then
the white man in exaggerated Cantonese, the vowels
long as that Wall, their joints consonants of forgotten honey.
The Chinese man’s laughter breaks into words,
English, Cantonese, I cannot hear. I
turn toward other things, my things. I look down.
How can I read my book when this is here?
I don’t know what I’m witnessing. The meeting
of two crazies; one hungry, without home, humbled by time,
torn by the conflict of places; one fed and fat, living
loud at the head of his family, grown loud and important
with his living, but broken at unknown bones by white wars.
Their introductions over, they have come together.
The old man, hat off his balding white head,
shows the stranger books. “I study Chinese.”
“You study!” the scratchy voice. “You study!”
“And Russian and Greek,” says the scholar. I look down.
Later, overheard, the man’s loud English:
“Fox. Like a little wolf.” That scratchy voice,
now become student: “No wolf! No wolf!”
“No, a wolf is too big.” In my mind, white
now dandles Chinese on his knee. I look down.
Later, a loud voice, American pauses between the words:
“I don’t like big money Chinese men —
Big money, Fancy cars, Uh-uh.”
Dismissal wave of hand.
“I like poor Chinese men —
Like you.” I look down.
Copyright © 2005 Paul G. McCurdy
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