Sylvia Wynter's Dream

By Kandice Thompson

That night in the backseat of your car, I pushed my head in between the front seats as if that would make you hear me. You screamed at us, me mostly, in the same language you spurned. My throat worked painfully as I swallowed dry, working up the nerve but conscious of those generational lines. Your teeth flashed white, in sharp relief against your brown skin, bared as if you could tear my thoughts from me.

I grabbed on to the headrest, my fingers digging in hard as if I could force my feelings through the cushion, into your brain. Wah farmer like Ratio ago do wid dat? Dem cyah even read English! you shouted. I could never be like you I thought, so at home in this foreign land of hollow smiles and shifty eyes. It helps the children coming up to learn in them own language I tried to interrupt they already have results, but your tirade swelled against us intellectual dunces, the spittle flying out of your mouth, illuminated by passing headlights as we sat in that parking lot waiting for takeout. I conceded then, to the wisdom of age when I should’ve stood firm against the vitriol that was browbeaten into you, that you will not continue with me.