Tacna-Puno bus
little abuelita
in her thin grey braids
tied together at the tips
sensible shoes and thick nude hose
pink flowered dress
and bougainvillea-tinted cardigan
with a blue pocketed smock over top
brown lined face
and mostly toothless smile
you chatter on
and instead of according you
great respect as expected
folks mostly ignore you
why?
maybe they are crazy ravings
or maybe they were taught
not to speak to “Indians”
coronavirus: prejudice gone viral
the man sits next to me
and I can’t help but notice
his Asian features
and the surgical mask
concealing his smile
I grimace hello
and he manages nice to meet you
I hear him talking to his friend across the aisle
in what might be Mandarin or Cantonese
although Korean or Japanese are equally possible
all I know is
they are words without resonance for me
with no cognates I can catch
and wring some meaning from
we settle in for ten hours
and his hacking cough makes an entrance
this is the worst-case scenario I think
(except for the mask, I suppose)
and I pass around the hand sanitizer feverishly
fear spreads like phages multiplying
and I inch my right arm away from his left –
it didn’t even start with the sickness, though,
this unbidden Chinese antipathy
at home, planning the trip,
we heard on and on
about their hunger for any creature
ground into powder
resources drained from around the globe
to fuel an empire
when I see the big tour groups
all the women sporting nondescript bobs
their leader invariably clutching a metal stick
with a grubby stuffy on the end
I give them a wide berth
at the Māori cultural program they shuffled along
ignoring the performers’ questions and directions –
because they didn’t understand!
I must actively remind myself now
feeling the slip toward stereotypes and judgement
I’m horrified by my own wave of aversion
how my lens warps
just how easy I am to fool
how quickly I can see
someone else as other
