Bluebirdbluebirdthrumywindow

 

 

denn die einen sind im Dunkeln
(some there are who live in darkness)
und die andern sind im Licht
(while the others live in light)
und man sichet die im Lichte
(we see those who live in daylight)
die im Dunkeln sieht man nicht
(those in darkness out of sight)

--BERTOLT BRECHT

 

And the Supreme Court said housing and welfare are not fundamental rights.

 

The right to vote, marry and procreate are the only fundamental rights.

 

Question: What rights are considered fundamental?

 

Answer: Only those rights essential to our concept of ordered liberty.

 

Question: What do you mean? Make it plain, girl. Make it plain.

 

Answer: In other words, a democratic society without these rights would not be considered civilized. If you don't have 'em, you ain't civilized.

 

Isn't it lovely to be civilized?

 

You've seen her. You know you have. She sits on cardboard at Broad and Columbia in front of Zavelle's. Four coats layer her body. Towels are wrapped with a rope around her feet to keep them warm. A plastic bag full of her belongings stands in formation next to her. She's anywhere between 40 and 70 years-old. A grey Black woman of North Philadelphia. Sitting sharply. Watching the whirl of people pass by, she sits through winter, spring, summer, fall and law students keeping time to memory.

 

You've seen her. You know you have. The old woman walking her ulcerated legs down Market street; the old harridan mumbling pieces of a dead dream as she examines garbage can after garbage can.

"Hey there, girlie. Can you spare me a quarter? I ain't eaten in four days. C'mon now, honey. Just one little quarter."

 

So you give her a quarter and keep on walking to your apartment. So you hand her the money that relieves you of her past present and future. Onward Christian country marching off as to war, with your cross behind you, going as before.

 

 

She was turning the corner of the rest room at Pennsylvania Station as I came out of the stall. It was 10:59 p.m., and I was waiting for the 11:59 p.m. to Philadelphia. She entered the bathroom, walking her swollen black feet, dragging her polkadot feet in blue house slippers. Her cape surrounded her like a shroud. She grunted herself down underneath one of the hand dryers.

I watched her out of the corner of my eyes as I washed and dried my hands. What did she remind me of? This cracked body full of ghosts. This beached black whale. This multilayered body gathering dust.

 

Whose mother are you? Whose daughter were you for so many years? What grandchild is standing still in your eyes? What is your name, old black woman of bathrooms and streets?

 

She opened her dirty sheet of belongings and brought out an old plastic bowl. She looked up and signaled to me.

 

"Hey you. There. Yeah. You. Miss. Could you put some water in this here bowl for me please? It's kinda hard for me to climb back up once I sits down here for the night."

 

I took the bowl and filled it with water. There was no hot water, only cold. I handed it to her, and she turned the bowl up to her mouth and drank some of the water. Then she began the slow act of taking off her slippers and socks. The socks numbered six. They were all old and dirty. But her feet. A leper's feet. Cracked. Ulcerated. Peeling with dirt and age.

 

She baptized one foot and then the other with water. Yes. Wash the "souls" of your feet, my sister. Baptize them in bathroom water. We're all holy here.

 

You've seen her. You know you have. Sitting in the lower chambers of the garage. Guarding the entering and exiting cars. Old black goddess of our American civilization at its peak.

 

She sits still as a Siamese. Two shopping bags surround her like constant lovers. She sits on two blankets. A heavy quilt is wrapped around her body.

 

"Good morning, sister." I scream against the quiet. Her eyes. Closed. Open into narrow slits. Yellow sleep oozes out of her eyes. Then a smile of near-recognition. A smile of gratitude perhaps. Here I am, her smile announces, in the upper sanctum of Manhattan. A black Siamese for these modern monuments. Let those who would worship at my shrine come now or forever hold their peace. Hee. Hee. Hee.

 

She leans toward me and says, "Glorious morning, ain't it" You has something for yo' ole sister today? For yo' old mother?"

 

The blue and white morning stretches her wings across the dying city. I lean forward and give her five dollars. The money disappears under her blanket as she smiles a lightning smile. Her eyes open and for the first time I see the brown in her eyes. Brown-eyed woman. She looks me in the eye and says, "Don't never go to sleep on the world, girl. Whiles you sleeping the world scrambles on. Keep yo' eyes open all the time."

 

Then she closes her eyes and settles back into a sinister stillness. I stand waiting for more. After all, we have smiled at each other for years. I have placed five dollars regularly into her hand. I wait. She does not move, and finally I walk on down the street. What were you waiting for girl? What more could she possibly say to you that you don't already know? Didn't you already know who and what she was from her voice, from her clothes? Hadn't you seen her for years on the streets and in the doorways of America? Didn't you recognize her?

 

I walk the long block to my apartment. It will be a long day. I feel exhausted already. Is it the New York air? My legs become uncoordinated. Is it the rhythm of the city that tires me so this morning? I must find a chair, or curb, a doorway to rest on. My legs are going every which way but up.

 

I find a doorway on Broadway. I lean. Close my eyes to catch my morning breath. Close my mouth to silence the screams moving upward like vomit.

 

She was once somebody's mama. I ain't playing the dozens. She was once someone's child toddling through the playgrounds of America in tune to bluebirdbluebird thru my window, bluebirdbluebird thru my window.

 

Where do the bluebirds go when they're all used up?

 

 

This poem also makes a "case for tenderness" as Ross Gay has been known to do. At first, I was going to compare Sanchez's Elegy to Ross Gay, because I was already familiar with that poem and Ross Gay wrote occasionally about race relations in the city, and always wrote about violence and misunderstandings in the city. However, after reading this poem, I was struck by the tenderness it had in common with Gay, and also by the harshness, but not for harshness' sake. The harshness revealed here is definitely that of the woman, as she is physically harsh and her life is harsh, but it is even more so the harshness of the city and of the country, of her fellow citizens. They are supposed to love each other in the community and she is an example of their failure. This is something Ross Gay would want poetry to expose. This is ethical poetry. Sanchez makes more specific and blatant attacks against our "Onward Christian country marching off to war", where Ross Gay sticks more to an emotional appeal in the poems discussed. Sanchez has emotional appeal as well, but her anger is more palpable. She is not hoping for an idealized version of the real, as Gay is. She is writing to get that woman off the street as soon as possible, and let those in charge and those bearing witness know what harm they are causing.

 

The contrast between our country's claim to civilization and the following description of the "grey Black woman of North Philadelphia are a direct hit to the intelligence of our lawmakers. Housing isn't a human right, but voting is? She has no voice. 

 

Sanchez includes physical mapping more than Gay, but I don't think not knowing those specific locations makes the poem less effective. Knowing the city of Philadelphia and North Philadelphia in general is enough to understand the poem. Her poem is more about the political and emotional, similarly to Gay.

 

The description of the woman is similar in its vividity and tone to the description of the dog in Bringing the Shovel Down and Again. The woman has "ulcerated legs", is an "old harridan mumbling pieces of a dead dream", has a "multilayered body gathering dust". The dog is a "ratty and sad and groveling dog", has "one glaucous eye nearly glued shut" and a "toothless mouth". 

 

People walk by the woman all the time, "through winter, spring, summer, fall", and passerby that could be you "give her a quarter and keep on walking to your apartment. So you hand her the money that relieves you of her past present and future." In ignoring the woman and asserting that we are a civilized, Christian nation, "you" are killing her. Listening to the American rhetoric of capitalism and the pull yourself up by your bootstraps and the what is meant to be will be leads to that woman sitting on the corner in the cold, dying, as passerby believe she is there for a reason, there is a reason it was not them, because they are civilized. In the same way, the boy listening to fearful rhetoric from the neighborhood kids inspires fear of the dog and plans to kill him, because he is a threat, because he is not civilized. Both poets are making a point here: listening to others and not listening to your own conscience will lead to harm within the community.

 

Seeing is just as important as listening, as in both poems, the "uncivilized" threat is humanized once the narrator really sees them. Once the boy looks at the dog and sees the state he is in, he doesn't kill him. Once the narrator speaks with the woman in the bathroom, she realizes that this woman is not a threat, but rather a victim, "Whose mother are you? Whose daughter were you for so many years? What grandchild is standing still in your eyes? What is your name, old black woman of bathrooms and streets?"

 

At this point, Sanchez veers off with a more pointed critcism of the American Christians who are hypocrites. The woman has "a leper's feet", a specific word choice that reminds one of the fact that Jesus cleansed the lepers. He did not avoid them. The woman "baptized one foot and then the other with water. Yes. Wash the "souls" of your feet, my sister. Baptize them in bathroom water. We're all holy here." This line serves to show how unholy and far from its roots American Christianity has come, if it allows a woman to wash her feet in bathroom water, when she is clearly in need of the kind care Jesus would have given her, without judgment or expectation of payment. Ross Gay had not made such pointed criticisms in the poems we discussed. There was no clear enemy in his poems. There were parts of ourselves that were the enemy. Sanchez has a clear enemy and it is American religious and capitalist rhetoric. 

 

The woman later asks Sanchez if she has something for her ole "sister", her old "mother", and when the woman is given money and acknowledged, the narrator notices she is a "Brown-eyed woman." The narrator feels called to some kind of action each time she gives her money, but she sees the futility in attacking this problem this way, because "Didn't you already know who and what she was from her voice, from her clothes? Hadn't you seen her for years on the streets and in the doorways of America? Didn't you recognize her?" There are so many homeless people like her in Philadelphia, as well as in the rest of the country. What is the point in asking her story, when you already know what it is? This is old news, and Sanchez is showing us how violent and stupid and fearful it is of us to continue to ignore it.

 

The woman was once someone's child, "toddling through the playgrounds of America in tune to bluebirdbluebird thru my window, bluebirdbluebird thru my window." Sanchez writes to reintegrate this woman into the community and into humanity. She was once the same as us. Sanchez reminds us that she still is, that this could be any of us, "Where do the bluebirds go when they're all used up?" We are all bluebirds, and we all could find ourselves locked out of the community, with nowhere to go. This is especially a problem in the city, as it seems that the narrator cannot even find a place to rest from the "rhythm of the city that tires me so". We all, as human beings, need a place to rest. Sanchez has made her case for this woman, which ties into Ross Gay's more abstract case: we all need to be loving and understanding of others in the community. We need to see for ourselves, not listen to others. We need to conquer our fears and not be violent.