The Heart of a Woman

Genet had been right at least about one thing. Blacks should be used to play whites. For centuries we had probed their faces, the angles of their bodies, the sounds of their voices and even their odours. Often our survival had depended upon an accurate reading of a white man's chuckle or the distainful wave of a white woman's hand. Whites, on the other hand, always knew that no serious penalty threatened them if they misunderstood blacks. Whites were safely isolated from our concerns. When they chose, they could lift the racial curtain which separated us. They could indulge in sexual escapades, increase our families with mulatto bastards, make fortunes out of our music and eunuchs out of our men, then in seconds they could step away, and return unscarred to their pristine security. The cliche of whites being ignorant of blacks was not only true, but understandable. Oh, but we knew them with the intimacy of a surgeon's scalpel.

I dressed myself in the hated gestures and made the White Queen gaze down in loathing at the rotten stinking stupid blacks who, though innocent, like beasts were loathsome nonetheless.

"I just wanted you to know... I just wanted to say that I've seen the play five times." She waited.
"Five times? We've only been playing four weeks."
"Yes, but a lot of my friends..." - now she was in control of herself again - "a lot of us have seen the play more than once. A woman in my building comes twice a week."
"Why? Why do you come back?"
"Well," - she drew herself up - "well, we support you. I mean, we understand what you are saying."
The blur of noise drifted around us, but we were an isolated inset, a picture of American society. White and black talking at each other.
"How many blacks live in your building?"
"Why, none. But that doesn't mean..."
"How many black friends do you have? I mean, not counting your maid?"
"Oh," she took a couple of steps backward. "You're trying to insult me."
I followed her. "You can accept the insults if I am a character on stage, but not in person, is that it?"
She looked at me with enough hate to shrivel my heart. I put my hand out.
"Don't touch me." Her voice was so sharp it caught the attention of some bystanders. Roscoe appeared abruptly. Still in character, giving a little bow, "Hello, Queen."
The woman turned to leave, but I caught her sleeve. "Would you take me home with you? Would you become my friend?"
She snatched her arm away, and spat out, "You people. You people." And walked away.
Roscoe asked, "And pray, what was that?"
"She's one of our fans. She comes to the theatre and allows us to curse and berate her, and that's her contrbution to our struggle."
Roscoe shook his head slowly. "Oh dear. One of those."
The subject was closed.