Canadian Racist?
We used to gather. I used to attend these gatherings. Outside the gathering, I’m taking a few breaths. Deep breaths. This is my routine, preparation for who I will be once I step inside. And then I step. No one stares. No one breaks conversation. I grab a drink and scan the room for a familiar set of eyes. All of these eyes are colourful.
We’re gathered but I’ve retreated to the corner of the room. Voices are still around me till someone approaches the microphone. The room becomes hush. I finally notice a familiar set of eyes and they wave. Maybe I should go stand beside them. Maybe they’ll stand beside me.
I take another sip and the eyes are gone.
The readings have started. One after the other reciting beautiful scenes I don’t recognize. I wonder if they will describe my reading in the same way. I wonder how much I’ll sweat when I get on stage.
My name is called and I slide through the crowd. I’m reading a new piece this evening, the same piece that caused some confusion in my novel-writing class the night before in a room that was similar to this one.
They didn’t understand the excerpt and asked me to make changes. I told them the people I’m writing about would understand. The remainder of the class was spent explaining.
