I am White
I am sent to Dr. Kim, the dermatologist, to check out various moles, warts and old-man flaps and I agree because one night last month I woke in a bed of blood,
not explained by a kick in the kidneys or a MacBethian wound; this was quite a mystery.
Dr. Kim examined me from scraggly hair on the top down to corn on big toe, scraped something from shoulder and packaged it for the forensic lab and grated something from the top, requested by Denise the barber (she was afraid she’d clip it right off).
And then Dr. Kim counseled me as follows:
First, the bleeding, most likely a hematoma,
harmless but messy. Don’t worry about it.
Second, she’ll let me know
what the lab says about the samples.
Third, she says I’m pretty fair and should wear something on my bald head.
I said, I’m not fair, I’m swarthy. She said, no, you’re fair, you have blue eyes.
She said, Look, I’m dark, I’m an Asian, you’re light. See? I am in shock.
I forget, sometimes, that I am white. Rather, because I am of the age before Jews
were considered white, I do not think of myself as white. But cancer doesn’t lie
and the lab says, Squamous, you damned fool, you are white! Wear a damned hat!