BEING CALLED

Elizabeth looks at Lionel in his small tank and asks, “Do you think Lionel knows he’s a fish?”
I ask, “How do you know you’re a person?” Pondering, she answers, “That’s a good question.”
She’s 7 years old.
I tell her: He is alive. We call him fish. We say we are people because
Someone told us we are
Lionel knows he is hungry, he eats. He moves, we call it swimming.
Lionel is a Beta…instinctively aggressive. Best alone because Betas fight.
When instinct alerts Danger! He takes cover behind his plants
The tank on a kitchen counter, a world. Lionel sees us, comes to the edge
He knows the barrier of his bowl
Aware

At some point we too are
Aware
We are hungry and fed…or not. We are aware we are not alone
But, maybe we are. We are called something and told
It is our name
Sometimes we are called something that is not
How do we know who we are?
How do we know danger? Is there instinct?
Is there cover?

From the beginning we are held, or not..kissed or not..
Loved or not. We are safe or, in danger
What does instinct tell us?
We are punished and forgiven..or punished and not forgiven
Or punished and punished and punished
Instinct offers no cover.
Punishment is called “being taught a lesson.”
We are expected to forgive The Power over us.
We are expected to accept our powerlessness.
We are blamed and always told to say, “I’m sorry”
Whether we feel sorry or not

We bear witness, yet are told not to believe our eyes, our ears
Our bodies, our instincts.
We are confused.
We are told what is true or not. We are confused to hear
Our feelings are wrong…told to trust. Instinct asks, “Who?”

When was the first time someone called you out of your name?
A man used to come by sometimes. I was told he was my father.
I don’t remember what I called him. I remember what he called me
Out of my name: “Well, if it isn’t miss Grace Kelly!”
Instinct is available to the very young. I was confused.
In my four year old head I wonder, “Why doesn’t he like me?”
Aware

Who has the power to tell you who you are?
White people right away want to change your name.
A nickname, claiming intimacy without permission
Reminiscent of ownership.
My son’s name is two syllables. They want to make it one.
Quick and easy. Learning a name is not like learning a language.
Is he not worth the effort of two syllables?
You say your name. They shorten it. Cut. Cut. Cut.
Another way to diminish.

I read there’s a store where the staff is given a code for a Black shopper
“Nick”
Is that short for nigger, but not meant to be, obvious?
I want to go there wearing a shirt on which I have written
NICK ALERT! On the front and NICK-ER on the back
Some call me difficult
How many times have I been called out of my name?

I buy a pair of pants on sale by a favorite designer. Red is my favorite color.
I go to work, happy in my new pants. A white male co-worker offers
Unsolicited commentary: “Those pants are ridiculous.”
I say, “That’s why I didn’t buy you any.”
In that place I am often called unfriendly.
Who has the power, who tries to call us out of our names?

I have a big Afro. A white man sitting next to me in a meeting at work
Touches my hair. Instinctively I recoil. Where does he think my body ends
And his right begins? Where is my edge?
The next day from a safe distance from a stairwell above, he calls down
To me “The look you gave me yesterday could have fried an egg!”
He hasn’t learned that even if you don’t feel sorry, you say so.
That’s good. I say, without feeling sorry, “I’m not a pet.”
I am seen as edgy. Yes, I have edges.

In housing court I dispute a charge of non-payment. I know I paid.
The lawyer for the landlords tells me repeatedly he has a Printout.
I have my cancelled checks. He refuses to look at them, insisting
On the importance of The Printout.
I say the printout is wrong, there’s a mistake. He says, “That’s impossible!”
I say a person entered that information wrong. He hands me The Printout
As he walks away saying over his shoulder, “You seem intelligent. Look at it!”

I write to the Judge, the Management, every fucking body to inform them
Mr. Cohen was not in court to evaluate my intelligence or to commend me
On my ability to string words into a sentence.
My intelligence and my instinct join forces, register Awareness of Offense.
Danger. I am not confused, but perhaps confusing. I have exposed myself
For someone to call me out of my name

Now: another Arrogant, Evil. Angry, Black Bitch.
Whatever. You can think what you want, call me what you want…
I don’t have to answer to it. Or you.

At work I am on line to buy a cup of tea. My cut Afro is now a cap of curls.
A white woman behind me touches my hair. I know her, but not like that.
Startled, I turn to ask her if she had learned that that was to be done for luck,
As in “rub a nigger’s head for luck.” She is embarrassed. It was I suppose,
A “friendly gesture”? I have made her uncomfortable.
What am I called for “making” a person uncomfortable? “Unfriendly”?
Why? When am I responsible for those feelings?
Who is responsible, ever responsible for my feelings?
I am called “touchy” when someone else has done the touching

Maybe I’m a Beta
I have swum and keep swimming to the barrier of the bowl
I ram it with words and my face of fury
Every time I hit it, it leaks a little more
I swim against it with my instinct of Self Preservation
Awareness
To name myself
Over and Over

In some spiritual traditions it is said that the world as we perceive it
Manifests in form and holds together through agreement
The naming of things
What is the Agreement?

I have decided to disagree