Before I was Stephen I was Steve. Even earlier: Stevie. A baby, a boy, an abnegation_ I was A pigeon who declared himself endangered.
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Before I was Stephen I was Steve. Even earlier: Stevie. A baby, a boy, an abnegation_ I was A pigeon who declared himself endangered.
Greensboro, Thirty-three years they held me from your too-short days, your portions still rare in creation— the gravel snap, the smell of bacon, the country roads winding the hillsides heavy with leaf smell. Here I am, shuffling fool, left the car door open To read with fingers the crumpled mask of a hickory. This Braille of messages only a captive can read: You are free! In the night, the silence is deep and old, empty of the cough and grouse of the prison pod. And I keep the window open where the neighborhood dogs call one to the other. In mudrooms or carports or patios at the end of leashes, they strain against the pull of night. And I am with them, I feel their need. Morning is the lush voyage from bedroom to breakfast, eggs and grits, the cold, dewed grass at dawn, the unaccountable explorer’s freedom to amble down to the road and stop to talk to a woman. We are driving downtown now. To its in-between-ness, to the old overlaid by new, like the Jefferson Standard topped by the Jefferson Pilot, How freedom is restlessness, and restlessness is change— Everything rendered different, not better, and down on the streets, the storefronts, I do not know them; their marquees offer services I cannot picture. Then we pass the Woolworth’s, a hydrant, an elm I remember, and the years are on me like fever— The earthly sense of being from a place and then the nearness of that place. The push and pull of it, moving inside my body, nearly broken by waiting, but not altogether broken, It’s vestal cells still alive and now altogether open— They breathe the soap and grit and fry cook odors of this Southern city. I bring in worlds of it. It marks me— The midday traffic mutters (amiably) on Martin Luther King, A crew cutted toddler stumble steps behind his gram, Fatty freshets of barbeque waft from a storefront, A woman in cornrows hips against the bus stop. I hear country, gospel, hip-hop— snatches from shops and cars, glinting, hopeful of the many, so many trails of freedom. Are all these gifts yours, Greensboro? Is this your homecoming? Or is this profligate Earth, again, returning to its child some portion of what was denied him? An earthly paradise? Well, no. There are still prisons out here, war, illness, fear, injustice. But here, now, in these days, these few days of expanding, there is only us, Greensboro, the sober blue dome of your sky, your trees in first leaf, azaleas flushed with spring, and here— The motley aisles of a grocery store, where a man like me can live this electric, this angelic feeling of standing in line with a Coke and a bag of chips that he picked out for himself and will buy with his damned own money.