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      March 16, 2022Mary MeadowsWhite Privilege Skydives with Black Guy in Appalachia

      While escaping Hillbilly Days in Eastern Kentucky
      I learn “tandem jump,” and, years later, “Shibboleth”

      We sit at the fold-out tables in a gray room at the airport
      on the hill, where the coal mine barons store their private jets
      and fly to places that aren’t “locked”
      between
             mountains.
      And they       tell us to watch a video about the buckles
      on our suits, how to pop our ears while falling
      and lift our legs high enough
                    so our butts
      sandpaper the ground.
                           Don’t land       on your feet,
      but if you do, try to walk it out. It’s best
      to ass-
             bump it.
      And this       salty blond surfer-looking dude
      chews a toothpick, then eyes us down—
      (like he’s picking a puppy
             at the pound).
      And he        slaps the table with the palm of his hand;
      Why the heck—(he smirks)—
      why the heck would someone who’s sane
                    jump
                  out
      of a perfectly good 
                        airplane?
      And when we               look at each other—Dude
      screams back,               ’Cause,               you fools,
      you left the dang door 
                           open!
      And we laugh, and he laughs
                    from his gut,
                              then assigns me to this thin
      black
             guy,
                     and I’m not sure
                               he’s strong enough to hold me up.
      I’ve gained a few pounds
                    and this jumpsuit’s too tight.
      So I        try to breathe and smile
      at the same time.
      And with his hands, he tugs
      buckles on my back
                    and near that
      sacred
                    between my legs.
      And there’s Aunt               Betty, again,
      and her finger tick tocks       in front of me,
      like we’re swimming at the Breaks and she says I can’t
      swing out
             on that rope.
                    And I realize I’m twenty-five
      and I’ve never been this close to a black person before,
      and I think back to grade school and high school
      and—No.        There were none.
      In college,       they were the ones
      on               ball teams,
      but they weren’t
                    in my classes.
      Then, I bend over to tie my shoe, and there’s Amy
      who was        half my age       when she lived next door to my sister
      in that trailer park when I was in the fifth
             or sixth grade.
      So, now, I’m at a picnic table—book open—and, we just learned
      in school how old Abe
                            freed
                    those
                slaves.
      And I know
             something
          mean
      happened to them,
      but they never               really              explained it.
      And I know they have this other
                                  skin, I think,
                    from this other
      place,               and I know they were beaten and sold,
      but I don’t know
       
      What.
       
      That.
       
      Means.
      And Amy is so cute with her hair
      back              like that,       and that sunny smile
      and little butterfly
                    earrings.
      But she       wants to play, and she’s jumping
      on my back and she pulls me
             from my seat.
      And I’m on the ground and she screams,
             jumping up and down above me.
      I stand up and sit back down,
      and she’s        pecking my shoulders,
      tugging
             my shirt.
      And I just want to do a good job on this test
      I’m studying for, so I’m writing all the dates of things
             that happened.
      And she won’t stop tug-
                           hugging my neck.
      Her finger slips and she scratches
                    my skin.       —And it just
      blurts
             out.
       
      What? Do you 
      think I’m a slave,
                    or something?
      And her face
             —its light—
      melts like
             sun bows to night
      on the west side
      of the mountain.
       
      And when I see my shoes on the floor in this room,
      I remember I never saw her after that because she
                                         moved
                                  away.
      And—for a second—I’m that stringy-headed cow,
      again, who’s smacked in the head like a dog
      while being told You’re mangy.
                              You
                    filthy
             thing.
      And I swallow the muck
             and look up—              And that guy
      who touched me              tells me I’m Good to go, Girl,
      then points to the door where the plane waits
      to take
             us up.
      And I feel it resist              that thrust
      from the earth.               Then I feel the lift
      that starts in my stomach,        then belches in waves
      to my brain.
                    And after a while, he tethers me
             to his body
      and I am a key               on a ring
      attached to a wire line              that stretches
      across the tops of our heads.
                    And I look around for the others,
      but they’re not there, and I        don’t want to go,
      but I feel his legs behind my thighs,
                                  push-walking my left,
      then my right,              to the door—wide open—
      where wind is cussing
                    and I want to say, No
      wait!
             But it throws a fist       at me, and he says,
      Are you ready? And I want to say Hell        yeah!
      or something even better,
                           but all I can muster is Okay
      No!
             Wait!
      And then this hurricane
                    shoves me—and the plane and time
      and everything is        gone,
      and it’s just cold sky and different shades of green
      and their open ’chutes—
       
                           Plucked petals.
      Poured.
                           From a cup.
       
      And I’m looking through a glass at a painting—Oh my
      God!—And then I’m a rock that dives off the edge
      of some        waterfall,
      watching everything that splattered
                           before
                        I came.
      And I keep saying Ohmy       God! And I keep telling myself, This is
             it!
      And I wonder what God would say of my jumping
      like this.
             Would I be
                    the fool
      or the wiser?
             And a man in a yellow suit with a camera buzzes out
      in front of me. Gives me a thumbs up; stretches his mouth wide,
      with
            fingers,
      into a smile.
                    But I can’t—
                           can’t move my arms or legs
      because the wind is fierce
      and it feels like I’m falling, and that push
      is the hand that holds me up—And I don’t want to
                    break
                     it.
      He smiles and spreads his arms like wings
      and I try to do that, and then I perk up my thumbs.
             But I can’t feel my wrists
      anymore and I don’t know
      if I’m              breathing.
      Then, there’s this yank, and, now,
      I know
             I’m alive,
      and I look down,
             and the painting has leaves and trees
                                         with long brown
      trunks;
             and I see a road where ants drive toy cars
      and move sand                            on sidewalks.
      And this guy on my back is steering in circles,
             and I am
                    the hawk.
      I lower my beak to watch rabbits, and they dunk
      under bushes,
                    so,
                        I am
             the moth.
      And they get bigger and closer, and I become
             a thunderstorm
      that screams              in the distance,
      then sneaks up and pounds
                           on the porch—
      until I can’t feel God anymore, but I really want to
      because I’m near the base of this drop
      and I’m sure it’s full of rocks
      and I know I’m gonna hit—
       
      And the trees that were once
      smaller than me
             stretch until they tower
      over grass;
             and I can’t stop watching them reach
      for        what I came from,
                           until I bump my rump
             and shake my head and blink
      my eyes.
             And this       guy on my back,
      who’s, now,              by my side;
      reaches over and throws me a high five,
                                         so I
      breathe
             and put my feet on the ground
      to stand up—
             And something
                            in me
                                          is wailing—
       
                           So I
             step back to smile—       And,
             for a second,              it’s like
             we’re alone,              making love,
             and we speak              with our eyes—
             So I wrap him up       like he’s part
             of my                      breathing.
       
      And when the           others       come,
      I step back and fold up his eyes
      and I stuff them down—
                           Down,
                                  in my pocket,
                                         where
                                               Sweet.
                                                Beautiful.
                                                         Amy.
                                                            Cries.
       
      And he        and I—         we
      hold out our hands to show them how not
      nervous        we are—       And I—
       
             I
             Am!
       
      And I look, again, at this        Black Guy by my side
      and I—
       
             —dammit!
       
      I am the ant.
       
             That fell.
       
      From a leaf.

      from #74 – Winter 2021

      Mary Meadows

      “I can’t go back and change what I said to ‘Amy’ when we were kids, but I hope it brings her solace to know that there’s a part of me that’s hated myself ever since. I think of her sometimes and I worry that this memory haunts her like it haunts me. I hope it doesn’t. I hope she was too young to remember it. And, if not, I hope it was the only time in her life that she ever had to deal with something like that. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I wish I could go back and fix it, but I can’t.”