Brushstrokes
Kohahvah Zauditu-Salassie The policeman opens the cell gate, and the striped faces you saw as you walked the long corridor come into a sharper focus. A white man, wearing an Armani suit, face shadowed by stubble, looks up as you enter. He stares for a while before resting his elbows on his thighs to cradle his forehead in his hands. You try to stop looking at faces and sit on one of the six benches bolted to the concrete floor. You choose a seat at the far corner of the jail cell, away from the iron bars. If someone wants to fight you, he won’t bang your head against the metal. The thick air reeks of sweat, funk and oily maleness. The pimply-faced teenager gets up and moves to another bench on the other side of the room when you sit down. You decide against looking at the wall after you see a man, with sagging pants, turn his eyes into slits to sustain a leer. The gate clinks open, and a man stumbles in. He looks like he is drunk. After surveying the room, he does not sit. He threads his hands through the metal bars. A man who looks as if he weighs nearly three hundred pounds is sitting on the toilet. There is a toothpick in his mouth that he rolls from side to side with his tongue. You try to block out the sounds of him grunting as he bears down. There is no door. No privacy is afforded to the man as he handles his business, as your grandmother calls it. You try to stop looking.
The stench fills the air. “Damn nigger, you stink,” the man with the tattooed neck calls out. “Don’t have me come off this toilet and kick your monkey-ass, bitch.” The tattooed man does not answer back. This is how the hold of the ship must have been during the Middle Passage—defecation, perspiration, regurgitation, humiliation, urination, resignation, deprivation and other atrocities connected to the transatlantic trade. You learned about it in your Black Studies class at Clark Atlanta University. You’d gone to Atlanta to study English. You wanted to be a writer, but you dropped out of school. This isn’t your first time in jail, but you promise yourself that it will be your last. You find some carved words, a diversion that directs your gaze downwards. Miguel, RaeKwan, Pooh Bear and Phillip are near where your right hand grips the bench. “Motherfucker”, “cock”, “bitch” and “fuck the police” are etched in a circle. Your grandmother, Big Ma, always said that cussing was a sign of low intelligence. Two men are talking about you. “Look at that nigger.” A phlegm-filled voice rattles. “Yes, indeed. I needs me a blow job from this pretty motherfucker.” 73