This Heat

The sun burned into my back as I pedaled the last block home. In the full-scorn of afternoon, I cursed the blistering light. It held fast, oppressive and unresponsive. Was there a curse on this country or was it just against me? Indoors called with the cool sweeping smell of shelter. I should stay inside; hide my day away, wait out the sun and the heat, curse it all in private. I should waste the hours with technology and comfort. Why sweat and swear in scorch and scorn? It made no difference to the sun if I burned or not. It kept aflame. My pain, discomfort were meaningless. In infinite glowing strides, it baked the concrete beyond my door.

But if I'm honest, it isn't the sun that gets to me.

Adama knocked on my door in the slow leaking of the evening. It had cooled but I had granted the inside control over my mood. It had absorbed me and stepping outside was a cramp in my thigh.

Adama remained cruelly cool in the last rays of warmth rising from my porch. He was here to practice his English. A terminal student, Adama is driven. His wall collapsed but his studies continued. Books are scarce but groups are not. He formed more of them. At 8 pm when food is ready in steaming bowls, he searches out the next study session. When he comes here there are no easy proverbs to spew. Ideas have to be formed and worthwhile. Our spoken English is chaotic and opinionated. I enjoy it as much as he does, despite our vast differences.

Adama, I'm tired and I want to hide. Can't you see it? I'm tired of being yelled at, destroyed as a human being in public. Can you not see the sun that's beating down on tired shoulders? Can you not see what you call respect is tainted with race? I am not a spectacle. I am not a rich fool. I'm a person trying, sweating. But what changes? It is cool and quiet in my house. Why should I leave to hear 'Nasara, Nasara' shining from the mouths of children? Why should my hands be burnt by white-priced vegetable oil when I only want to eat in peace? Adama, it is not respect. It is a slow burning. What a fool I am being by being honest. But I'm tired and burned up.

I know he sees. With the rising of the moon, a light is shinning on ideas reflected in his speech. There is something wrong here, a tree that is broken, no longer shading tired souls. We see it.

Thomas, it is education. What job do I have after all this work? What life will I have? What does it mean if I return from school only to plant my fields and die in its future cycle? You speak of race and I speak of opportunity? You have it. Do you not see some superiority in that? Is race not a part of that? Do you think we do not choke from smoke of fires burning? But we need work and news. We need to know that we have something.

We cannot say all of this. It is ludicrous even to us. We spew forth in tired frustration, speaking to each other in hopes that it holds off the fatigue.

Oh Adama, you are a kid and yet it is up to you. Change breaks when you break. Education has given you a voice. A voice against oblivion is not a waste. It is your responsibility to speak.

Oh teacher, it is not easy here. You see that. Thomas, we are changing. We will find our way. From what is shown to us, we will piece together a future. You will not have a future with us but your words have a future with me.

It is overwhelming, this heat.