I am wearing the kind of practical skirt suit every
female social worker wears as she makes her rounds—gray, polyester, loose. My
hair is pomaded to my skull, combed as straight as it will go. There is no
color on my face, save for the purplish-gray bags under my eyes. If my binder
feels extra heavy today, it’s because I’m making calls in Sandtown, a pitiful
punch line in The
Wire. My caseload is practically the whole zip code.
My co-worker, a new girl from the uppity part of
Towson, joked that I should wear sneakers so I could run. I think back to the
days when I ran drugs through these projects in my first pair of Jordans. Back
when I was responsible for whatever ripped out weave was blowing across the
sidewalk like a tumbleweed. My old posse would never recognize me now, with my
bleached skin and nude pantyhose.
When I approach Presbury, I shiver. Did Freddie Gray’s
ghost just run through me?
“Hey, white lady!” a dark-skinned boy of about 14 or
15 yells at my high yellow tail. I keep walking toward Gilmor Homes, wondering
if I’ll ever be black again.
Christine Stoddard
Teaching to Transgress
bell hooks