I was in the park with a boyfriend and I bought us popsicles. I handed him watermelon and he said, “watermelon? is that because I’m black?” The thought had not crossed my mind, and I replied, “no, I wasn’t even thinking that.” He responded smartly with, “now you are.” He had to question my intention behind the quenchable nature of watermelon because he lives in the United States. He immediately made me still... “now” I was thinking about it obsessively. How did this racist association start? I had to look it up:
A year later, I saw Roger Miller's episode for the first time, and pondered on his performance in a watermelon pat in an early-20th-century monopoly suit. I wondered if that stereotype was being paraded. What sparked the poem’s inception was that performance coupled with the opening number where penguins on the Mayflower sing, “Alabamy Bound.” The penguin is obviously both black and white, and has been used symbolically in American literature. It’s ironic the penguins are headed thataway, because Alabama was actually the last state to amend its anti-miscegenation law— and it was the year 2000, no less.
America was founded by a racist white supremacy, and for whatever reason, people are unwilling to accept that truth and admit it. It almost seems like the same type of White fear before the Civil War over the paranoia of a rebellion. The social construct of race currently signifies a world of difference between us, yet there are no substantial genetic differences between races. We all have red blood cells, but our sick world axis is bent on separation. No one asked to be born into shame, or any thing for that matter. I dig the modernist writers, and it’s frustrating to all hell that my country won’t change. I know, right, why don't I change? It starts with me, I know, but it's difficult to change when so much pains me—like my country not valuing education. This land has no dirty secrets, it's all facts, yet there is no sense of dishonor by the people in charge. Wisdom must be spread amongst us with acceptance from TPTB and at least one of the six corporations that control all media... The day I see a wise man on TV! I’ll shut the damn thing off. Don’t be silly.
Do you notice the red fire bucket that appears in this episode? No? Well you’re a chicken! Everyone’s turning into chickens, you know? It's a pandemic. As I was making finishing touches on this poem I searched the internet for Arthur Miller and noticed that he passed away on February 10th, the same day I was thinking of him and searching for him— randomly.
Most interestingly, a watermelon is not a melon, but a berry.
You can read this poem within SURFACES: