Places 30: A New School

Morning Recess on my first day in Eighth Grade in a New School
in a changing neighborhood in Chicago, Illinois in 1952

A big blond tough,
her skirt pulled taut
to muscled thighs,
her skintight tee-shirt stretched
to fit big curves inside,
approached me with an open grin.
She roughly demanded,
I follow her,
so the two of us stepped  away,
quite apart from the crowd
on my very first day.

Wanting to belong,
wanting to be friends,
I thought our talk began okay.
I felt awkward and alone,
not part of all the school-yard play.

We walked together
to the chain link fence
when suddenly her smile changed.
Pushing too close to the wire,
coming too close to my face,
flipping straight and stringy
long blond hair—
it flicked before my face.
I felt its wind.
Uncertainly, I waited;
quiet, I waited for her to begin.
She tossed her head again,
cupped her hand to hide her mouth,
and whispered in my ear,
for me alone to hear,

“Are you a Jew?”

A funny fear raced through my heart.
Looking down to dusty gravel,
I twisted my feet
and blushed with unexpected heat.
Pride turned to dread.
I turned my head.

She had a gold false tooth,
and I had no choice.

Staring through the fence,
at unknown bricks across the street,
feeling weak, again I heard her say,
in an urgent coaxing way,

“Tell me?!”
—and harder then,

“If not— ”
then I’d be “One of them.”

I told the truth,
“At my old school
Jewish children were my friends.”

I was alone a lot that year.
Ethnic lines were close
and closed—
Tight, like tee-shirts and money.
They needed to be.
War memories were still alive.
Nightmare sorrows hadn’t died.
Survivors lived on every side,
nerves alert to judge, to hide.