Sand Nigger

　　by Lawrence Joseph

　　 In the house in Detroit

　　 in a room of shadows

　　 when grandma reads her Arabic newspaper

　　 it is difficult for me to follow her

　　 word by word from right to left

　　 and I do not understand

　　 why she smiles about the Jews

　　 who won't do business in Beirut

　　 "because the Lebanese

　　 are more Jew than Jew，"

　　 or whether to believe her

　　 that if I pray

　　 to the holy card of Our Lady of Lebanon

　　 I will share the miracle.

　　 Lebanon is everywhere

　　 in the house： in the kitchen

　　 of steaming pots， leg of lamb

　　 in the oven， plates of kousa，

　　 hushwee rolled in cabbage，

　　 dishes of olives， tomatoes， onions，

　　 roasted chicken， and sweets；

　　 at the card table in the sunroom

　　 where grandpa teaches me

　　 to wish the dice across the backgammon board

　　 to the number I want；

　　 Lebanon of mountains and sea，

　　 of pine and almond trees，

　　 of cedars in the service

　　 of Solomon， Lebanon

　　 of Babylonians， Phoenicians， Arabs， Turks

　　 and Byzantines， of the one-eyed

　　 monk， saint Maron，

　　 in whose rite I am baptized；

　　 Lebanon of my mother

　　 warning my father not to let

　　 the children hear，

　　 of my brother who hears

　　 and from whose silence

　　 I know there is something

　　 I will never know； Lebanon

　　 of grandpa giving me my first coin

　　 secretly， secretly

　　 holding my face in his hands，

　　 kissing me and promising me

　　 the whole world.

　　 My father's vocal chords bleed；

　　 he shouts too much

　　 at his brother， his partner，

　　 in the grocery store that fails.

　　 I hide money in my drawer， I have

　　 the talent to make myself heard.

　　 I am admonished to learn，

　　 never to dirty my hands

　　 with sawdust and meat.

　　 At dinner， a cousin

　　 describes his niece's head

　　 severed with bullets， in Beirut，

　　 in civil war. "More than

　　 an eye for an eye，" he demands，

　　 breaks down， and cries.

　　 My uncle tells me to recognize

　　 my duty， to use my mind，

　　 to bargain， to succeed.

　　 He turns the diamond ring

　　 on his finger， asks if

　　 I know what asbestosis is，

　　 "the lungs become like this，"

　　 he says， holding up a fist；

　　 he is proud to practice

　　 law which "distributes

　　 money to compensate flesh."

　　 outside the house my practice

　　 is not to respond to remarks

　　 about my nose or the color of my skin.

　　 "Sand nigger，" I'm called，

　　 and the name fits： I am

　　 the light-skinned nigger

　　 with black eyes and the look

　　 difficult to figure--a look

　　 of indifference， a look to kill--

　　 a Levantine nigger

　　 in the city on the strait

　　 between the great lakes Erie and St. Clair

　　 which has a reputation

　　 for violence， an enthusiastically

　　 bad-tempered sand nigger

　　 who waves his hands， nice enough

　　 to pass， Lebanese enough

　　 to be against his brother，

　　 with his brother against his cousin，

　　 with cousin and brother

　　 against the stranger.