My Mother the Nigger

I WAS SIXTEEN.

I was washing dishes on a Saturday afternoon in my parent's house.

My mom was sitting there at the kitchen table smoking and clicking her dentures.

I didn't see her much.

She went to work at the factory before I got home from school and came home after I went to sleep.

I didn't mind not seeing her though.

She was a wretched narcissist who did nothing but tell horror stories of her mother the benny addict and her father beating her.

And how she was bourgeoisie even though her house was a ranch with two tiny cells for bedrooms.

I was washing dishes and some water splashed on my shirt.

Mother: You get your shirt wet while washing dishes you’ll marry a nigger, that’s what grandma always said.

Monco: You know when I grow up I plan on marrying a black person.

Mother: No you are not; I will not stand for any of my sons marrying a nigger.

Monco: That’s what I’m going to do, marry a nigger mom; I’m going to marry as many niggers as possible and have like thirty nigger children and bring them to your white trash family reunion.

Mother: You are such a fucking asshole; you would never do that to me.

Monco: Mom, you’re a goddamn nigger.

Mother: No, I’m fucking not you piece of shit!

Monco: Mom, we are all niggers to The Man.

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