What Everybody Knows Now

Even though the laws have changed

my grandmother still takes us

to the back of the bus when we go downtown

in the rain. It’s easier, my grandmother says,

But we aren’t dirt. We are people

paying the same fare as other people.

When I say this to my grandmother,

she nods, says, Easier to stay where you belong.

I look around and see the ones

who walk straight to the back. See

the ones who take a seat up front, daring

anyone to make them move. And know

this is who I want to be. Not scared

like that. Brave

like that.

Still, my grandmother takes my hand downtown

pulls me right past the restaurants that have to let us sit

wherever we want now. No need in making trouble,

she says. You all go back to New York City but

We walk straight past Woolworth’s

without even looking in the windows

because the one time my grandmother went inside

they made her wait and wait. Acted like

I wasn’t even there. It’s hard not to see the moment—

my grandmother in her Sunday clothes, a hat

with a flower pinned to it

neatly on her head, her patent-leather purse,

perfectly clasped

between her gloved hands—waiting quietly

long past her turn.