They couldn’t take us to the ballgames,

couldn’t buy us Cracker Jacks—

I was a poor white immigrant girl,

and you were one of the blacks.

We lived in a tenement

4A and 4B.

“Don’t talk to that black boy,”

my mother said to me.

Your mother warned you,

against the neighboring whites.

“Don’t even look at that white girl.

I don’t want any fights.”

We were six,

keys pinned in our pockets—

no fathers, and our mothers late

cleaning other people’s toilets.

You said Hi to my knees,

I waved low, so you could see.

You never looked into my face,

cause that’s where I was me.

I never talked any words to you—

without saying, we agreed—

two kids in a tenement

best be good for their mommies,

so they’d take us to the ballgames,

buy some Cracker Jacks—

for a poor white immigrant girl,

and you one of the blacks.

The big boys wouldn’t let you play,

in the school ground with the fence.

No one likes immigrant girl

mitt funny clothes und accent,

You asked me if I wanted to

play with a tennis ball

you marked with a red pen

to make it look official.

I brought out the broomstick

my mother kept by the door

to protect ourselves

from murderers and robbers.

Down by old railroad tracks

grass and glass and nails

you kept your eye on the ball

I couldn’t talk so I’d sing

“Take us out to the ballgame,”

like Katie Casey, the fan,”

and add “I’m a white cracker Jane”

to get us both laughing.

Then 4B was empty.

I never saw you again.

But when I think of baseball,

I remember us back then:

We were the ballgame,

along abandoned tracks—

a poor white immigrant girl,

finding home with one of the blacks—

and a white ball turned gold with our touch,

a broomstick and a pen—

a boy looking up to the sky,

a girl learning to sing.

By Susanna Rich

From: United States

Website: http://www.wildnightsproductions.com

Twitter: susannarich

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/susanna.rich/