by Marilyn Nelson

    Which reminds me of another knock-on-wood

    memory. I was cycling with a male friend，

    through a small midwestern town. We came to a 4-way

    stop and stopped， chatting. As we started again，

    a rusty¹ old pick-up truck， ignoring the stop sign，

    hurricaned past scant² inches from our front wheels.

    My partner called， "Hey， that was a 4-way stop！"

    The truck driver， stringy blond hair a long fringe

    under his brand-name beer cap， looked back and yelled，

    "You fucking niggers！"

    And sped off.

    My friend and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

    We remounted our bikes and headed out of town.

    We were pedaling through a clear blue afternoon

    between two fields of almost-ripened wheat

    bordered by cornflowers and Queen Anne's lace

    when we heard an unmuffled motor， a honk-honking.

    We stopped， closed ranks， made fists.

    It was the same truck. It pulled over.

    A tall， very much in shape young white guy slid out：

    greasy³ jeans， homemade finger tattoos⁴， probably

    a Marine⁵ Corps⁶ boot-camp footlockerful

    of martial⁷ arts techniques.

    "What did you say back there！" he shouted.

    My friend said， "I said it was a 4-way stop.

    You went through it."

    "And what did I say？" the white guy asked.

    "You said： 'You fucking niggers.'"

    The afternoon froze.

    "Well，" said the white guy，

    shoving his hands into his pockets

    and pushing dirt around with the pointed⁸ toe of his boot，

    "I just want to say I'm sorry."

    He climbed back into his truck and drove away

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