Rose Curley Personal Essay 09-23-13 1st Draft Afraid of the Dark I stand on the corner somewhere near

North Avenue and Martin Luther King Drive, waiting for the city bus. No one walks in Milwaukee. The sun overhead is giving even light to this forgotten neighborhood. The desaturated paint on the duplexes crowding the streets, paired with the smell of cooking garbage left in the alleys, makes me feel like theres no where to go to get away from this July. Theres a whole lot of nothing behind me: half a block of torn up grass, broken glass and gravel. The only proof this spot is a bus stop is a pole in the ground. The street in front of me is extra wide, four lanes, two-way. Any remaining clouds from last weeks chain of thunderstorms have disappeared and the dry heat makes me feel thin, light-headed from the fumes of tar boiling over asphalt. Even though I can't see them, I know there are people here. I imagine them hiding in houses: on the other side of their window fans, sitting on couches and mattresses in underwear, unmoving. Somehow I know this, even though I've never seen it. Somehow, I convince myself that I know this. There's something rustling behind me. Instinctually I turn, but midway I remember such a startled reaction to anything around here lets them know you dont belong, you don't know where you are. I cower slightly, I feel my smallness, my weakness. I see its only a rodent causing the commotion, knocking around litter. I force a strong, steady breath in and out and resume my calculated nonchalance. Maybe this lasts for a moment before I feel eyes on me. Maybe they think I was making the noise. It seems the only safe way to look is up. Directly overhead, the sun hurts my eyes but I am grateful for the reassurance; at night I can only know

Curley - 2 some people aren't as easy to see in the dark. A woman yells and I can tell its coming from inside a house up the street. A door slams after her and I inch awake with the realization that Ive been standing with my eyes closed. The untouched tips of ofce buildings on the downtown horizon wiggle into the sky. I draw my focus closer to see the mark of the King Cobras; the painted snake on the brick wall outside the boarded up auto shop across the street reminds me that eyes closed in this part of town is a foolish decision. The notorious gang is one of the few I recognize. Their reputation has them heard and felt and feared but never seen. In my peripheral vision I see a wide brown car, low to the ground, approaching. It rolls through slowly, just in case. The bass keeps the wheels in tempo as the sound radiates through open windows, rattling the loose latch on the trunk. When it goes by itll be nearly impossible to avoid eye contact with its passengers. Hands at my sides, I see myself standing here alone, ready for another trial. The connection between "black" and "dangerous" was one I made at a young age. By the time I reached high school, I became aware of this fear I'd been harboring toward my own race. It was a battle I had to ght on my own, one experience at a time. So I told myself: it's okay that you still have to try. It's not your fault. And some day, if you keep trying, you won't have to try not to be

racist anymore. One afternoon, on the "more dangerous" side of my neighborhood, I found myself walking toward a group of black men hanging out on a stoop. I fought the urge to cross the street.

Curley - 3 Don't be racist, don't be scared. I wouldn't be scared if they were white. What would I do if they were white? I'd probably look up and say, "Hey, how are ya?" The famous Wisconsin greeting. This is ridiculous, the whole thing is just stupid. I must be fucking stupid. But until I knew what to do, I had to try in the ways I knew how. When I passed them I looked up: my gaze met directly with one young man's eyes. hesitation. What you think you some kine uh GANG-stuh? My focus turned immediately to the cracks in the sidewalk. God dammit. GOD DAMN IT. I kept going, making sure I wasn't quickening my pace. Their eyes on my back, I heard no jokes or talk or laughter and thankfully, no footsteps. Before I could open my mouth, he spoke without

Don't look back, I thought, and wondered if these young men knew that these thoughts and fears I had for them were the same I had for the Milwaukee police. Don't look back at them.

The big brown car has passed during my time concentrating on the ground. I've found a crack that I'm particularly fond of that runs between my feet and I inched over just so it'd be right down the middle. This quiet distraction is interrupted by a hasty hand tapping me on the shoulder. Scuse me, a voice demands. I turn slowly. The man looks weak but energetic, like he's young and old at the same time. His eye and cheeks are tired. His skin is dark and shiny. He's shaking like he's cold. I keep my muscles tight. He offers me a ticket identical to the one in

Curley - 4 my pocket, in exchange for fare. If this ticket could buy me a bottle of water from the corner store Id make the trade and walk the forty blocks home, too. I tell him all I have is this ticket but he doesnt seem to understand. Maybe he doesnt believe me. I pat my pocket to prove I can't make the sound of spare change. I show him the ticket and say Im sorry. The man walks off and I hear him continue to chant his spiel to invisible pedestrians. I lean into the street to look down the way the bus should be driving up to take me home. I wish I couldnt see for so many blocks. I'd rather not be so sure the bus is nowhere near arrival.