Traitor

What did that girl on the playground mean
when she hissed you ain't black at me,

pigtails bouncing, her hands
on her bony hips? She sucked her teeth,

stared at me with such contempt
that I wanted to hide in my mother's

skirts, wanted to scurry to my house's
hall closet, safe among the great

dark coats. You talk funny , she said,
all proper , as if pronunciation

was a sin, a scandal, a strike
against the race only a traitor

would perform, an Uncle Tom sellout.
Somehow I'd let her down by not

slurring, I'd failed her by not
letting language laze on its own,

its sound unhurried. I'd said
isn't rather than ain't ,

called my mother mom instead
of momma , pronounced th distinctly

so no one would confuse them
with dem , those with dose .

Your momma talk that funny?
the girl demanded, her face

in my face now, her nose
inches from mine, her eyes

lit by something near hate,
but more ferocious, a kind

of disgust mixed with pity,
disdain. We're from Canada ,

I said, and the girl's eyes
went wide, as if I'd said

cantaloupe , or harpoon ,
or some nonsense word like

abracadabra . There must not be
no black folks in Canada then ,

she sneered, leaning in further,
pushing on my chest with one

bony finger, pinning me there
like a bug to a fly screen,

pressing me so hard that
my lower lip started to tremble

on its own, a sign of weakness
she laughed a mocking, heavy

laugh at, telling me go on and cry,
white girl, cry till your momma

can hear , pushing me so I toppled
onto my back, ripping the pants

my mother warned me not to rip.
She stood over me, laughing

like she'd just seen the world's
best clown, laughing though I

was just as dark as she,
my hair in the same

nappy plaits, my skin
the same rough brown.