I Should have Known

I really can’t remember whether or notIt was just an afterthought –If memory was reliable as film,Why then, how we could begin to makeSense of the slippery self.

But I do so remember one FridayAfternoon’s final double period.One hour and ten minutes became seventyBloated minutes –My seasoned fifth formers had mugged the timeAnd made him a poor wretched cripple -The bell was surely rung by the hand of God.

The last little group to leave were black girls.I called them back, and with some hesitationAsked them what they thought of Billy’s fatherAnd the word ‘nigger’ being used so easily.‘Well sir’, Sarah, a quiet, thoughtful girl:‘It’s very hurtful.’‘I . . . er . . .’ My mind, rather than my pulseWas racing for once . . .‘Well he’s only relating what Billy’sGrandma says, and she’s, well, just a sillyOld woman, and . . .’‘Yes, sir, I know. But it’s very hurtful.’

It was only then that I felt her pain -But the word took its timeTo work on my shame –How easy though to explain it away:I should have known.