"I
was unique in that I was a kind of black that white people could
accept. I was their daydream. I had the worst kind of
acceptance because it was never for how great I was or what I
contributed. It was because of the way I looked." —Lena Horne

***

One evening last week I took Scout to the playground so she could climb on the monkey bars while I shot hoops. (What's worse: that, or pushing her on the swing while reading Harper's? What can I say? Playgrounds are dull.)

As I'm shooting around by myself, a gaggle of little kids runs up and asks if they can play too.

"All right," I bellow, pretending I'm the hero of some cool urban movie whose plot will reveal itself soon. "Everyone against me!"

I don't block their shots and take impossible shots myself, so the score is close. But they're all ball hogs and pretty soon they're fighting amongst themselves.

A light-skinned African-American kid turns to a dark-skinned African-American kid and says, "Pass the ball … Black."

The kid looks wounded.

I stop the game and ask them their ages.

"Eight," they say at the same time.

"Then show a better example for these younger boys," I say sternly, pointing to a four- and five year-old who are playing with us.

They take me seriously, to my surprise, and the rest of the game goes smoothly.

Later, I tell this story to my wife, who teaches in an elementary school in an all-black neighborhood on the West Side. She shrugs, like a paramedic you're trying to impress with a story about a heart attack.

 

Part of the fun of Facebook is seeing your friends and acquaintances bleating out their random pleasures, temporary enthusiasms and spontaneous pains, all in the same town square, all day long.

The other part is noticing patterns.

For instance, it started to dawn on me that Buffy Van Huis, a mild-mannered graphic designer who I used to work with, has a peculiar relationship with her world.

Here are some of the ways Buffy answered Facebook's incessant query, "What's on your mind?"—in April alone.

Plenty of stalls available, yet she still chooses the one right next to me to unleash her fury. And by fury, I mean rotted corpse.

What do you say when you catch your neighbor pissing in the alley? Sorry about your plumbing. I'll let him figure out exactly what I meant.

Do you know what's awesome about being in a place filled with tons of kids on a field trip? No seriously, I'm asking you.

Whew! This lady puts the B-O in hobo.

Today is the day I am murdered by the bat-shit crazy lady that is sitting 2in. away from my head, breathing on my hair…just a hunch.

Yes, you two in the woods, I see you've taken the phrase Hump Day quite literally. Maybe next time, not by a train stop.

Being the winner at finding the shit-filled stall in the bathroom never gets old. I have major talent here. Recognize.

No, I don't mind that I can always hear *everything* that goes on at my neighbor's house from 3 houses away. Makes me feel like part of the family.

Fact: If I re-heated my food in a used coffin, it would STILL have less funk than the microwave at work.

Commuter haiku: Fucking train delays / smells like hot dogs, feet and shame / send help…and room spray.

Sweet sound of karma! Asshole using speakerphone on my train until voice on other end asks, how's that fungus problem?

Don't mind me. I'm sure its perfectly acceptable for you to spit your fingernails out. Right here. On the train. And in that lady's hair.

In getting permission to compile her posts into this little poem and post it, I told Buffy I feel I know her better now than when we worked together. She seemed to agree.

"Mild-mannered," she wrote. "Now that's a good one."