Mojave Desert, California

I’m sitting in a cafe somewhere in the Mojave Desert, drinking a cup of coffee, reading the paper, waiting for my car engine to cool off before I get back on my way again. Being in California reminds me of the last time I went to visit family in San Francisco with my mother and my brother, driving up the coast, making a journey of it. That was 1948. The world was different then—a little less accepting, a little more preservative of arbitrary rules. I learned to kept my head down, to preserve myself and not draw attention—like that night at the soda fountain in LA when I sacrificed another woman’s right to dignity for my seat at the counter. I’m turning that memory over in my mind when I hear the door creak open and shut, and my nose scrunches as a less-than-pleasant odor wafts in around whatever just walked through the door.

I raise my head from paper and see a tiny blonde woman standing at the counter. The man working hands her a package, and she carries it over to a table and plops down. Her hair is greasy, her clothes are wrinkled, she has bruises and scrapes and giant patches of dirt all over her skin, and she looks troubled. Well, I suppose at the moment she doesn’t look troubled—she actually seems quite elated to be swapping her duct-taped sandals for the new pair of hiking boots that were in her package, but there’s still a smokiness in her eyes—some sort of trauma swirling around beneath the surface.

Once she’s put on her new shoes, she sits up and gazes into the space in front of her with content exhaustion. Looking at her further, I can tell that there’s more to her than this melancholy smokiness, there’s also impeccable strength. She radiates agency.

I sip my coffee and envy her for a moment. I may have learned to play society, finessing its rules to allow myself a degree of individualism, but I would never have had the courage to drop out of society completely. I never re-wrote the rules.

I can tell that she’s walked miles. And with every mile she’s wiping her slate clean and rebuilding her identity.

She sings softly to herself, I’d rather be a hammer than a nail, yes I would...mmmmm...I surely would…

- Beverly Washington, 1995