Tag Archives: privilege

Silenced Song


Norman actually bragged on his body’s ability to create such an incredible level of stench. “I damn near ran everybody outta the bathroom at a bar in Dallas,” he laughed and hooked both thumbs in belt loops to hike up the waist of jeans trapped under his burgeoning girth. “That’s what they get on burrito night!” The man had no shame.

People joked about those generous bodily functions, even when they were canvassing the shoulder of the road for trash along a stretch emblazoned with a highway cleanup sign that read, “Sponsored by the Friends of Norman Blevins.” When the fellas down at the MFA heard about his passing, one commented, “That ornery ol’ cuss had a heart of gold. We all just loved him.” They’d slap him on the shoulder and laugh at his bad jokes. Many people felt the same way and ignored his flaws in favor of his endearing, if not slovenly, charm. He’d help anybody if their dead battery needed a jump or give them a hand with livestock.

Norm’s entrance at the tavern seemed an episode of that old show Cheers, with people calling his name when he walked through the door. He’d holler, “Lemme buy you a beer,” upon seeing a friend. Someone else would show up, so they’d have a few more. Most patrons thought the world of Norman and thought nothing at all of his getting behind the wheel to drive himself home.

They couldn’t believe the tragic newspaper headline announcing the accidental deaths of Norman Blevins and Brian Johnson..

Mrs. Johnson didn’t know Norman. She never met him since they lived in different parts of town, she on the opposite side where mostly black folks lived. The white patrolman who told came to deliver the news of her son’s death didn’t know her either. He’d only been in that neighborhood on past calls. If not for a few boys from there playing high school ball, cops only knew the ones who caused trouble.

Brian was a shy kid who made good grades. He hadn’t arrived home from band practice when his mother opened the door to find a state trooper who asked, “Are you Mrs. Johnson?” She didn’t hear anything else he said after he first uttered those words every parent dreads they might. They felt like a blow to her stomach.

Brian died at the hospital after being hit by a truck on his way home after school. A witness going in the other direction saw Norman Blevins’ truck tires drop off the shoulder and him swerve across the road and over-correct. A black teenager walking on the opposite grass shoulder got struck, thrown into the air, and propelled into the ditch. Much like the discarded bottles thrown out of vehicle windows and strewn along the road. The boy’s trumpet case lay hidden in the tall weeds until his younger brother found it while searching a few days after the funeral.

Norman had been headed back to town, set out for home from a bar he frequented out on the highway. His friends said with the twilight at that time of day he may not have realized he hit anything. The man they knew would never even hurt a fly. Blevins’ friends had the highway department put up a memorial sign within just a few weeks.

It disappeared in a couple days, though. Blades of foxtail later grew up through holes in the metal “Friends of Norman Blevins” signpost that stayed there in the ditch where Brian’s brother threw it in desperate anger and grief. His brother replaced it with a cross made of sticks, wound together with handles torn from Brian’s backpack he would never carry again. The boy meant the marker as a clarion so people might notice his brother’s absence from the world.

Brian didn’t hold a position like Blevins or his friends, but Brian’s brother wanted to show that he’d still been there. He just didn’t have the time to make as big an impression as the man who killed him. Only his teachers and their neighbors knew Brian, but his brother wanted everyone else to remember him, too. Although he would never play his trumpet again, it would still be heard.

*Writing prompt – ornery from Our Write Side

photo: Karen via Flickr

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Filed under country noir, fiction, writing


S30PBadge (1)This is a Studio 30 Plus writing prompt.


Looking out the glazed office window, I can almost sense how cold it is out there.  I hear the gusts of winter wind blowing past, shaking the pane of glass.  If the caulking on the casing holds, I won’t have to feel it.  How miserable a walk to the bus stop would’ve been this morning instead of my slump into heated seats of the Subaru before pulling out of the garage.

Scraping frost off the window’s surface reveals a slew of be-scarved, layered-up, sleepwalkers trudging down the block, submerged in their most weather-proof garb.  All the clothing doesn’t seem enough to block out the chill.  Apparently it does help shelter our empathy, though.

Layers of outerwear seem to stymie our sensitivity – it’s hard to know “want” when we have what we need.  A harsh reality of no shelter is too hard to fathom, and coming in from the cold gets taken for granted.

A glaze comes across my contact lenses, the windows of my eyes, when I imagine someone’s life being spent in these bare conditions.  The bristle of their frozen skin, dampness and musty smell of clothing, the consistency of discomfort.  My relatively scorching position behind the glass feels like a cocoon in comparison.

The forecast is calling for precipitation.  I don’t like driving when the temperature dips.  Road conditions can get treacherous in the blink of an eye, and I hope I fear making it home safely.

The cold creeps in, and utility bills keep going up.  It’s hard to make the paycheck stretch in this economy – these so-called “hard times.”

Gathering my things together to head out the door, I look back through the window to see if the freezing rain has started yet.  It’s just beginning to drizzlde out there.

A man in a flimsy thrift-store trench shuffles past the plate that divides our worlds.  His coat is only a thin layer of nylon that must feel like a paper gown with the damp soaking through.  Head lowered, our eyes don’t meet.

I observe from my place of privilege – my guilty position – with its walls swathed in diplomas, before I close the blinds on another day.


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