Black ass is obvious at 2:00AM on Geddes Avenue. Should I blame N my thighs, sheering denim to skin windows? Or these cornbread- N cultivated hips Clifton passed on to me that seem much broader on back roads N void of streetlights? Either way, I’m wading the pitch black of November 9, 2016. Satisfied frat boys N walking Geddes the opposite way spot the Baartman in my stride and toss this N muffled drunken greeting to skew me:Hey, girl…Hey, girl…Hate won! N and so I wave my most vocal finger, keeping on toward the university bus stop. The joy of those boys—its color, its N god—moves me to a cystic anger, the sort of crying that licks and bends the perforated edge of ancestry. But once I’m home N I plan on steeping oolong, waxing my shins, commencing the second season of Girlfriends, then N dozing off. I’ll wake up Thursday, hush post-election coverage N with fits of Boyz II Men and vacuuming, phone some old undergrad friends that understand all too N well my need to vodka evenings to a curt and drastic end. Then I’ll N doze again. Probably wake and write at the Starbucks on State, a booth by N the lav. A novelist beside me translating war will ask, What’s the word for “patrie” in English?I’ll doze N and wake like this for two whole calendars—sun up then down like a father’s last pushups. Finally a Master in N Public Health, I’ll choose tobacco lobbying in some swollen metro like The N District. In a Foggy Bottom loft nearby a two-story Whole Foods, I’ll sleep alone until open N mic on the ungentrified side of U Street. A beautician born & trained in Orlando N will spit a piece about America’s kitchen, its nappyheaded dream, a recipe of kinks. The mic N will give a shrill feedback. The audience will unravel its blouse of hums. And pillow-talking that night, the two of us N unclothed, our breath a blessèd mess of sours, she’ll recount her hardest client— N five cornrows, sowed on the scalp of her own nephew, found wan and black blue at the foot of a juke box.But whenever we fuck, N tummy to spine, visceral as a handshake, no Omar N Mateens or Michiganders will taunt us. Only buckwheat pillows will frizz N my resilient head, a head that works N all week addicting this nation. En route to Capital Hill, I’ll rehearse persuasion N in my Porsche visor mirror. Congressmen of Carolinian constituencies will be no match N for my deep V necks and code- switching. I’ll put District 7 of Illinois N in a tongue-cancer spin, make sure a bill saving Iowans from secondhand gets trashed N in Ways and Means. And then I’ll elope— some lowkey ceremony zip codes away N to swerve my father’s phobic riffles. At the alter without a coin, wifey N will flip a Svedka cap for newborns to raid one of us with wee-hour vomits and kegels. But N our eventual pact is mutual: Each of us should carry. N Yet five embryo transfers, eager bouts of quinoa, and some Hot Pilates poses later, still N motherhood will fight to fail me. When Erykah Badu says N sisters, put your hands on your wombs, 6% of U.S. women touch a wound. But N I’ll grow proud of my hourglass permanence, watching my wife abandon hers.Nicotine will keep N my ego hectic. I’ll skew Texan policy on cessation meds, watch whole boroughs lose their tongues N to cheap chew. Five calendars, five shitty appraisals(“Courtney lacks gravitas”) N then Kindergarten will be up (weren’t our babies breastfed & N babyfat just yesterday?) For elementary, I’ll prefer the Montessori route since N I wish nothing N for my three sons but pleated chinos and argyle socks. My wife will wish Ta-Nehisi quotes and Anacostia N charter schools, but I’ll kindly remind my all too “down with the black-brown” babygirl that we can’t feed this family N with drawers of fisted fro picks. For my sons, I’ll need N the lavish luxuries my city rearing stripped me of: Prius liftbacks, a leopard tortoise, N unnecessary international travels. For my middle kid’s N bass recital in Rome, I’ll tell himDon’t forget the coda. Try gelato. Toss three nickels N in the Trevi! When my eldest son turns fourteen it’ll be Spain, no reason (I’ll work my wallet off N for these kids to have no reasons.)Is Cascamorras this month? See some flamenco if you can. N N But then will come the winter of 2031: Usain Bolt N will slow to a limp, Eddie Murphy will quit kidding, and my youngest will knife his dreadlocks to the carpet when his high school’s N Thespian Club nicknames him “Whoopi.” With all this masculine melodrama, I’ll ask my wife where in the world N she wants to sleep for a week. Her answer will levitate me:Wherever my nephew couldn’t.So a timeshare villa N in Nairobi it is. We’ll hike slopes for beginners, gorge on tender N slivers of Nyama Choma. The kids will trek an elephant orphanage, track dung throughout N the rental. I’ll try Tusker beer, finger through a city bus seat pocket and find N a pamphlet for Shanty Town Tours I’ll use to wrap up a worn-out wad of Trident.But when news N comes to hotel reception that red meat has finally killed my father, our family will fly N to his chosen kingdom of sleep: N N N New Orleans, the farthest city north in Africa. N N N French Quarter will drag around that same Linus blanket of humidity. Café Du N Monde will flaunt its typical congestion of touristy whites, while Jackson N Square exhales its usual fat taupe fog of sage. If you N cut a hand through the smoke like capoeira, the blessing ends right N there, a Freddie Gray or abortion sort of fracture. By noon, I’ll face N Lake Pontchartrain for recommendations on being a semi-orphaned dyke and N breast-stroking through the mourning. MAC will have dropped a new lipstick, “Hooded Kidz,” and N I’ll swipe it throughout the cemetery tours, feeling indented, taking “act of god” N quite personally. On Bourbon Street, sazerac and rain will hug powdered sugar to streetcar tracks and N a ripe weeping will have lodged in my neck: Did I really N misjudge my father? Could his militancy have won anything—the popular vote, three N tricks in spades, my upmost harm? At Carousel Bar swilling pilsner remedies, I’ll somewhat pray N to be him—his apathy, dick, and all. Pseudo N mortician again, my wife will gel his afro straight as paisley sheets, back N to that vintage conk dapper, that Ellington at the Cotton, that Malcolm before the X. God, N what a father I could’ve been—dapper, erect, fulfilling my end of our pact. N N N After that, half a calendar, N a totaled Porsche (I’ll yawn off at the wheel), some pet tortoise deaths, some N progressive legislation and like teens ridding a pantry of sky high N fructose, some hardheaded lessons: N I. Hysterectomy:This won’t be the first time I consider N that no human on earth was ever asked if they wanted to be N before crowing out a Black woman’s legs. N II. Infidelity:Irish diplomat. Admirer N of my wigs and “articulateness.” To him, I am a wishy-washy lesbian waiting for the right dick N to make me somebody. In a hotel jacuzzi, Percocet- emboldened, he’ll goSista, wet your hair! N Call me Jefferson.But I’ll recommit to my wife, mop biweekly, build a new N Plexiglas terrarium, vacuum on Wednesdays. And while vacuuming the kids’ rooms, I’ll read text messages N about my kids sleeping with white kids.Am I a mirror? N Boys, we’re from Antebellum cotton and Pig Laws. Don’t you act brand new.I’ll retrieve N Newports from knifed slits in Adidas tongues, Camel Blues from cardboard applicators (Where the hell y’all N getting these tampons from?) I’ll be a perpetual Ted Talk N tasked with studded belts and backhands, the palm’s sullied lectures. I’ll fund carpools to track meets, N chartreuse hoodies to lessen our neighborhood’s suspicion, outrageous taper N fades, badminton rackets, SAT fees. In hindsight it seems I’ll raise too many Black boys with breath to protect at once. N N N But I’ll do it so well. And eventually I’ll unpack N N N floor lamps and shower totes at universities I did not attend, each opposite the Mighty Midwest where both sleet and white N fraternities grow an ill-fit logic. Half-grown sons N will return home on Thanksgiving. My eldest will have joined a slam team. Over supper, he’ll N quote his winning piece:…America, take credit: you made the beast who made the bullet. Made her rich and farsighted… N N N My middle boy will have aced his Visual Thinking course N with a statuette of Scylla I made from wicks and bobby pins. It’s supposed to N mean that beauty ignites or N that beauty is about holding still enough to be used. N My youngest son, the poly-sci major, will have written his first term paper: N “The current rise in tobacco sales and, consequently, lung cancer among middle-aged Black men can be linked to the period of political unrest between 2017 and 2021” N N N which will earn him an 80% for imperfect MLA. So I’ll resurrect the St. Martin’s, confronting marginalia I made all those moons and presidents ago. Back N at the table, I’ll make this quick: N In print citations, the author’s last name precedes the first. If N more than one author exists (no phenomenon is birthed on an island) you list the first author “last name / N first name” and any subsequent author takes the standard “first name / last name” ordering. But N if a source is unpublished, say it’s overheard speech crucial to include, that citation might read: N N N Anonymous. “Hey, girl…Hey, girl…Hate Won!” University of Michigan Central Campus Transit Center. 9. Nov. 2016. N N N My son’s new dreadlocks will sweep our tablecloth into a wrinkle. He’ll barely N acknowledge my guidance, but will nod to avoid the nagging. A scattering noise will erupt N from the bookshelf terrarium behind us. Glancing back, we’ll catch our pet tortoise reenacting a whirlpool? Pirouetting? N Chasing her tail? I’ll gesture to the scene:Look! Think N of citation as tracing sources attached to the ass of your own argument.I’ll be too amused by N the image to mention debates of merit between print and online sources. The distinction is historical revolution N vs history,suidae to boar,or scorn against discretion, the familiar choice in N Ann Arbor, where 20 some years ago on that transit ride home I hummed N Boris Gardiner, recited Frost though I clearly needed Hughes, got home and rather N than drinking tea or waxing, counted bumps in the stucco and dozed off N in the middle of prayer. I had spent twelve minutes appealing to a god without hearing, a god I commissioned N to play an available father. But father god’s phone stayed on a N no-vibrate silence. I rang and no good god. No god to undo those ballots in the N godless heartland. And yes, there was a word for patrie in my language.It was fatherland.