by Tracie Hall

michael was always my favorite jackson
i did not defect
not even during that jermaine period
when other girls fled
in search of a more likely candidate
for their pubescent daydreams
and though jermaineís voice was deeper
and window-paned blue jeans more effectively filled
i remained true to a sequined-gloved specter
whose skin was smoother and waist smaller than mine
could ever hope to be

see, i have this thing for soft men
ónot necessarily effeminate
but spider-web delicate
butterfly-fragile men

and this is where the problem begins:

i grew up in a boxer-shorts kinda house
last standing patriarchy in watts
maleness perfumed the air
grandfather was ogun/shaft/ossie davis
rolled in one tootsie
slept with five, six shotguns leaned against the side of his bed
and one .38 under his pillow
           in case ìniggas start actiní crazyî
my grandmother too was more yang then yin
gumbopot incarnation of harriet tubman, gertrude stein,
and the goddess kali
wore lethal concoctions of ben gay and icy hot-like aphrodisiacs
had a gait like the tin man on a rainy day
fastened wigs like prussian pickelhaubes to her balding scalp
pulled on low like armor and cocked slightly to the side
hid the obeah fetish bag tied to her neck
under wide-collared sunday dresses
and swayed serenely in time
to every hymn played on the ìhour of prayer
radio gospel singalongî

she was a big woman
not squeezy/curvy/mama thornton/hattie mcdaniel big
but john henry/swing axe/drive mules big
wide shoulders/slim hips/hard calves big
would disappear for hours into the backyard
strewn with the piles of junk my grandfather
collected from other folksí piles of junk
stacking hulks of old iron like doilies
without breaking a sweat

all the women in my family were big
even the small women were big on the inside
my mother and her sister
diminutive models of my grandmother
used to trade war stories about men whose asses
theyíd kicked figuratively and literally
such women were as ferocious as ill-fed piranhas
but equally glamorous
dangerous beauties whose blood-red lipstick never left a trace
on the white cigarettes that perpetually teetered
from the corner of their mouths
and there i was:

      unapologetically black
      a decade after it was in vogue
      deeply chocolate with few saving graces
      no freckled cinnamon cheeks like lisa taylor
      no impossibly long auburn ponytail like cherisse monteigh
      (comptonís own black pocahontas)
      no superfine pam grier shape like cookie and debrina
      whose chest measurements were at least double that of
            their waists
      just nat king cole dark (without the velvet)
      no neck/moon face
miniature version of mama on ìgood timesî

but back to the problem:

I grew up lusting after pretty boys with wispy torsos
and long eyelashes
milk-breath brothas whoíd breast-fed well past necessity
feather-lifting niggas whose hardest task
had been deciding between butter and margarine
whose mothers still ironed their trousers
and scrubbed the stains from their underwear

i guess i liked the contrast
the delicacy of slim arched fingers against my strong hands
the sheen of skin unexposed to the elements against my ashy belly
white white teeth and eyes
and hearts and minds
brothas who had seen no heard no spake no evil
who had not walked along but levitated above ghetto streets

and it wasnít just me
it was them too
porcelain-spined boys seemed to orbit me
sean green second grade:
creole boy/creole curls/creole green eyes
brought me edges of the carefully iced vanilla cake
his creole grandmother made for dinner every sunday
would smile from ear to ear watching me eat his dessert
my stuffed round belly rising contentedly like an inner city buddha
as i tilted the milk carton washing down the errant crumbs
with the last few gulps

and there was eugene:
sunday school poster boy
who wrote me nasty letters in the fourth grade
and gave me his 8x10 photo on picture day
we were going to get married
he had shown me his dick at recess
behind the girlsí bathroom
and iíd been impressed
by its softness texture and seemingly infinite possibilities
heíd promised it and much more to me
including an unlimited supply of origami
and surreal drawings of mack trucks
iíd agreed breathlessly to inhale
but it had ended before easter break
the paper cranes lost their crispness
and the trucks were rendered in an increasingly slack and lazy hand
i had wrestled lawrence the classroom bully
under the barren avocado tree at lunchtime and won
eugene decided i was too much man for him

it happened again with the puppies
litter of a bitch my uncle had given us
i had named her handióshort for handicapped
sheíd been the runt
shortlegged with a cyst that protruded
unnervingly from her already bulbous eyes
she was as lusty as she was homely
and showed up nearly every summer
belly sagging

with the second litter
my mother caved in to my demands to keep a pup
robin, my best friend, two years younger but infinitely wiser
insisted that i choose the star of the troupe
a robustly chubby golden thing
who was always the first to respond when i called
whoíd learned early to roll over onto his back for a belly tickle
but i resisted such an obvious choice
picking instead the skinniest and most unlikely among them
who had at six weeks old already acquired the hardened glare
of a long-time prisoner
the one who would not eat in front of humans
who ran for shelter everytime i approached
i thought i could reform him
mistook his distance for coyness
thought he was cute in a hostile way
wanted him to let me touch him, wanted him to love me
he ran away the first time i left the gate unlatched
dashed down the alley like a hostage freed
into a vacuum of darkness
i ignored robinís knowing eyes
when i told her heíd come back in a few days
he never did

it became a pattern for me
always choosing the phantom men
the shadows
the ones who could not open
could not be close
the ones whose eyes darted during conversation
around the room, ultimately toward the door
i thought it sexy
their mute distraction
that it was the best of both worlds
to be with someone and still be alone

it went on like this for quite some time
miming my way through displays of affection, feeling nothing
the train would have gone right on chugging
had it not been for lunch hour
me, trapped in a slow line at a fast-food drive thru
with a leaden-voiced vaudeville singer crooning on the midday jazz novelty
show
ìyouíre nobody till somebody loves youî
it stuck
all over, in my ears, my throat like gum
i tried to shake it off
to drive fast
to shift gears
tried other stations
but kept hearing the refrain
...youíre nobody till somebody loves you...
i asked my health plan for a mental health referral
they gave me a man
i braced at first and then saw the point

i felt ill that day
alone in a room with a solitary chair
waiting for the light
signaling that it was O.K. to come in
i walked as quietly as i could through a wide doorway
shiny wooden parquet floor
african artifacts everywhere
he was short and somewhat slight
maple-colored tiny afro
throwback to bobby seale before the trial
he leaned back, far back, in the chair
hands folded behind his head
one leg crossed casually over the other

i sat down on the couch he nodded toward
the leather was cool to my hands
i felt myself sweating, felt the wetness trickling down my thighs
i reached for kleenex to mop my hands
he smiled and asked ìare you nervous?î
i laughed in response
he asked about my father
i gave an annotated report
glossing over the fact that we talked maybe once a year
in good times
once every three years otherwise
omitting his mocking cheshire grin
that he was tall and good looking
as charismatic as a snake charmer
with foghorn leghornís barrel chest and baritone

i did not tell him that i loathed
the leer that men gave women
that i had seen my father give my mother that look often
before and after he hit her
and the times he turned up curbside honking the horn
of his newest thunderbird or lincoln or town car
his gaze roaming over her body like lasers
that i hated him for who he was and her for not seeing it

i did not tell him that i had never masturbated
had never seen my own vagina
only made love in the dark
had experienced my only real orgasm in seventh grade
by stopping my pee midstream
i did not tell him of the time that i snuck a pair
of my grandfatherís underwear
and wore them under a long dress to church
tied with a sash around my seven-year-old chest
that my mother had recoiled when she undressed me for my bath
how that day was the beginning of our separation

i did not tell him of the recurring dream
iíd had through elementary school:
a mustached muscled wizard tried to smother me
with the very blanket i slept under
this wizard had the face and stature of my father
and i fought him desperately each night
only to lose again and again

i did not tell him that i chose weak men over strong
because i knew they couldnít hurt me
and that strength was all i had left

instead
observing his white pad and eyeglasses
luminescent, omniscient under the lampís soft glare
i clutched the shredded tissue in my hand
rested my gaze on his adamís apple
and said softly
michael was always my favorite jackson

Tracie Hall lives in Seattle. E-mail: thall@spl.org