Interdisciplinary journal of art, music, culture, science & literature.
Category Archives: BIZE-BOUTTE
Sheryl J. Bize-Boutte was born in Berkeley and raised in Oakland, California. Her autobiographical and fictional short story collections, along with her lyrical poetry, artfully succeed in getting across deeper meanings about the politics of race and economics without breaking out of the narrative.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Madeline screamed as the kids on the Whittier Elementary school playground hurled whatever they could find on the ground at her. Sticks, rocks, dirt, even discarded remnants of lunches were launched toward Madeline as the evil chorus shouted, “Fat Mad!’ Mad, Fat!” “Mad” was short for Madeline and “fat “was because, well, she was bigger than the rest of us and those kids were mean.
Madeline ducked and dodged as best she could, screaming all the while. “My hair is clean!” she cried, as she covered her head with her hands in an attempt to protect her gleaming blond hair from the onslaught of garbage landing on her from head to shoes. That blond hair of hers was her crowning glory. For her, it neutralized her large body type and gave her a modicum of self-esteem. And for Madeline, the big white girl, and me, the skinny high yellow bookworm, self-esteem was often hard to find.
Madeline was not just a white girl standing in the middle of the 1960’s white flight, she was the only white girl left at my school. All of the other white kids and their families who were in the neighborhood when my family and I arrived in 1960 had moved away. On the schoolyard, as in the world, we had become acutely aware of our differences, and the torture that could sometimes result. We had also arrived at an age where how we chose to handle differences would be revealed. As fifth graders we did not process much beyond influences from parents, teachers, friends and television. When those influences combined with where we were at the time, we often just fell into the actions that made us fit in with the others. It felt so good to fit in and so lonely to be an outlier, we were all vulnerable to meanness at one point or another. And those of us who were different, in varying ways, tended to cling to each other, just to get through the times we were forced to leave our sometimes viewed as odd comfort zones and step foot on the scary asphalt yard with the others.
United in the third grade by our differences to the accepted norms, Madeline and I were solid best friends. We were the only friends we had, and on that day, on that schoolyard, it was my duty to come to her defense. Even though I was thinking this, I still waited a tick for the adult yard monitors to intervene, but when I looked over at them, they were pointing and laughing at the attack along with the others. As I scanned the crowd it became clear that the adults who were supposed to protect us were having a good time watching Madeline’s anguish. As more joined the sideshow, those who had already used their physical weapons, added their voices to the verbal insults, while others began to gather just to join in the “fun.” After all, nothing bad could be happening since the adults were participating. No nothing bad. Just the torturing of Madeline.
Hello, my family name is Green and I am the last Collard in town.
Life was good in my rich patch of dirt at the corner of Rice and Roux. Every year I would defy the winter frost and blossom forth from spring into the fall. My leaves broke away from my sturdy spine in clean lines and the pot liquor I produced was always a soft pastel green, affirming my lack of bitterness. I felt unique, included and loved. After all, I was individually planted with a soft glove and closely cared for unlike my cousins who arrived chilled in paper bags festooned with big red letters.
I spent my growing days in the sun hanging out with my friends Turnip and Mustard. And even though we were different varieties, we were all Greens and lived together in familial harmony. All Greens were welcomed to share the soil and flourish along with us.
Then one day, Mustard suddenly disappeared. At first we thought the gophers had gotten to her. But there was no tale- tale hole where she had been, just the smooth dry ground. Turnip and I talked about it and soon realized that we had not been watered in several weeks and were slowly losing our ability to stand. Tiny flowers were beginning to bloom on our leaves, a sure sign we were heading back to seed.
Then the unthinkable happened. Turnip disappeared and I was suddenly alone.
And then I saw them. New sprouts beginning to emerge. I was only able to stay alive from the trickles of water allowed by their stingy runoff. As I slowly wilted, I watched them grow tall and strong. Soon they covered the entire garden.
