As you rightly point out, Jayne, there are things that people just don’t want to hear about. You were right to turn to the laments of the bards, the comfort of the shepherd–high away in summer pastures, alone with his flock, the plaintive cries of the lonely should be heard only by … er … the gods, certainly … and not much of anybody else.

There are times when I also turn to versifying.  Although you know me to be shy about sharing my poetry, remember: you started it Sweet-Cheeks.

I was recently in a group of college instructors, eating Fritos at tables, coffee, tea, brown bags aplenty, and of course the lo-o-o-o-ng run for the American Presidency came up (could sex and religion be far behind?) with all its issues.  Now, Americans have issues aplenty: a few States have passed their own redundant laws outlawing being an illegal alien and ain’t it an outrage, them self-same illegals expecting to receive free medical care, free educations, and assisted housing–to name but a few.  Black Americans insist rather vehemently that its all about race–as though shit only happens to persons of color–which turned the talk to the Democrats: Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. 

Now, mind you, girl frens, I love such talk but usually stay out of it. I make mental notes, giggle to myself, munch my Frito-Pie and feel smug.  —-and I know you’re wondering, Jayne, “What the hell does this have to do with crap poetry and all night Tummy Aches?”  I’m getting there.

I overheard a side conversation between two women, each African-American, that went something like this:

Shit, ain’t no decision to be made, here; I’d vote Re-damn-Publican before I’d vote for a White Woman, gnome seine?

You know das right!  The other one said. I quit eavesdropping

I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I’ve been white and female all my life. Big surprise coming: all manner of things have happened to me, many of which I did not bring on myself. If you want to hear them, though, you’ll have to spring for the Margaritas. I don’t work cheap. My question in all this is: How many times must I sit and listen to people (of any stripe) tell me that bad things do NOT happen to white people without getting in-their-goddam-face about it?   This day, I blotted my fair lips, politely folded the paper napkin and brushed non-existant crumbs off the table surface before muttering about getting on to my next class and how nice it is to see all of you.

I didn’t have a class.  I stumbled–after the fashion of writers everywhere–to the corner pub, ordered a whiskey and wrote a poem.

           The Middle-Class White-Woman Blues

When a white woman get the blues,

days sumpthin’ lackin dere.

                    A blond thats moping

                    in a floral Chintz, wing-back chair

                    has a hard time gittin’ her girl frens

                    to come  ‘round and care.

The icemaker won’t work.

The baby has a chill.

The postman tipped his cap

and left the orthodontist’s bill.

                    I got the blues,

                   low down conflicted blues.

                   My life ain’t what it looks like

                  I-want-a-‘nuther-chance blues.

My boy puked on the carpet

(smell won’t go away);

Married Ladies Card Club

meets at two o-clock today.

                    I got the blues,

                   low down inconsistent blues.

                   My life ain’t what it looks like

                    I-want-my-carpet-cleaned blues.

If you tap your foot in two-four time, imagine swirls of cigarette smoke filling the air, a dirty bare wood floor and the tinny sound of old guitar strings, you’ve captured the atmosphere.  It isn’t finished but the pain won’t go away so I imagine I’ll be sitting here, tapping my foot, drinking whiskey until it is.  Stop in and tell me about it, Sistas.

Copyrighted material. Yes, I know, but no–not even to spam your friends–you do not have my permission to copy this and send it around.  Give ‘em a link to Bitter Women ferchristsake.

- 2007 - Chilé Cooper

Similarly Bitter Posts