Sylvia Wynter's Dream

On Saturday I wash white skirts, white blouse, white slip, white draws… Soap them up sud sud, blue cake soap in white water, trying to dull blood stains, clear deodorant remains, wash away the unseen tears they contain. 

On Sunday I get dressed for church, sit in the front pew for hours, banned from talking to kids my age by my “keeping up appearances mom”, listening to the preacher scream at us sinners, his spit hitting the microphone makes the PA systems punch. 

• Come on people of God worship Him!
  
  I stand in silence and let the rest of them all sing. For in the state that I am, adamant silence is my hymn. 

• It’s offering time everybody! Give your best offering!
  
  I watch my mother put her envelope in, knowing I have no shoes or draws to go to school tomorrow in. 

• It’s prayer time everybody! Stand and close your eyes! 
  
  I have no more words of begging to offer to your God. He said, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you,” another Sunday, another lie.

• Repent of your sins, come lay them at the altar!
  
  I watch it fill up with crying people at the call, and glare at an empty spot, willing myself to move toward it. My pride is too bolstered to falter. 

Monday to Friday I sit on the ground in school at lunch time and watch my friends eat. Chicken patty, pasta salad, deli sandwiches all around the table. One has bread and butter – it’s month end – groceries and money are tight. She sees I have nothing today again, and she offers me piece. 

“Wah piece a bread an butter?” We break bread. At least her parents have jobs and get paid. And at least there are groceries that have now run out. I look back at my books, my SBAs due before the weekend, no money to print them either. I turn to look out the window. It’s raining already and it will be raining when school over. It not just my belly, but my shoes they beg bread too. There are just too many rivers to walk over.