Mr. Z by M. Carl Holman
Taught early that his mother’s skin was the sign of error,
He dressed and spoke the perfect part of honor;
Won scholarships, attended the best schools,
Disclaimed kinship with jazz and spirituals;
Chose prudent, raceless views of each situation,
Or when he could not cleanly skirt dissension,
Faced up to the dilemma, firmly seized
Whatever ground was Anglo-Saxonized.
In diet to, his practice was exemplary;
Of pork in its profane forms he was wary;
Expert in vintage wines, sauces, and salads,
His palate shrank from cornbread, yams, and collards.
He was careful whom he chose to kiss:
His bride had somewhere lost her Jewishness,
But kep her blue eyes; an Episcopalian
Prelate proclaimed them matched chameleon.
Choosing the right addresses, here, abroad,
They shunned those places where they might be barred;
Even less anxious to be asked to dine
Where hosts catered to kosher accent or exotic skin.
And so he climbed, unclogged by ethnic weights,
An airborne plant, flourishing without roots.
Not one false note was struck–until he died:
His subtly grieving window could have flayed
The obit writers, ringing crude changes on a clumsy phrase:
“One of the most distinguished members of his race”
