Free Open Mic by Mitali Perkins

ever seen
    so many old people before.
    Daddy says they ain’t that old —
    they just look it.
    Ex-Communists
    who lost their way of life
    when the Wall came down.
    You’d think they’d be happy,
    but the older ones aren’t.
    They like making your life
    miserable
    ’cause they can’t have it their way
    anymore.
    Daddy says,
Just kill ’em
    with kindness.
    But they never smile
    or give
us
the time of day.
    Daddy looks around for a place
    to park our butts.
    The train is jam-packed —
    no place to go.
    But he smiles,
    winks at me,
    and nods toward
    two older women,
    all uptight with little glasses
    and what they think passes
    for style: beige pants, beige jackets,
    colorful scarves,
    and poofy colored hair.
    To me, it seems
    they all dress the same,
    like they in the same old people’s club
    or something.
    There is one empty seat
    between them.
    Or at least
    Daddy thinks there is.
    It’s more like a small gap,
    but it’ll do.
    “Honey, it’s
on,
” he says,
    pointing to their row.
    “Not funny, Papi,” Mom says,
    frowning.
    I look at the old ladies,
    especially the one
    with a bright-red mop of Lola hair
    who holds a small dog
    as sour as she is.
    I laugh. “Good luck with
that.
”
    Daddy shrugs. “I didn’t invent the rules.
    I just play the game.”
    “Some role model,” Oscar pipes in,
    taking Mom’s side.
    “Mama’s boy,” I say.
    “Daddy’s
girl,
” he says, all cutesy
    ’cause he knows I hate that.
    Daddy puts his hands
    on our heads.
    “Y’all missed
    the freedom-bus protests,
    so you have no idea,” he says.
    Mom clears her throat.
    “Papi, you were two years old back then,”
    she says, blowing his cover.
    Daddy gives her a look and shrugs.
    “Just sayin’. Now, let your man
    go to work.”
    He adjusts his tie,
    smooths down his goatee,
    and heads toward the two old ladies,
    all smiles and southern charm.
    He tips his invisible hat
    and says in his best Alabama-German,
    “How y’all doin’,
fraw-lines
?”
    then motions to the empty spot.
    They grimace,
    like they just swallowed
    something bad.
    “
Dan-ka,
ma’ams,” he says politely,
    not waiting for an answer.
    He wiggles between them,
    clears his throat,
    and waits
    for the next move. . . .
    I try to make eye contact
    to see if I can make him
    laugh.
    But he doesn’t.
    He has on
    his most saintly face,
    like he just got baptized
    by the pope.
    The ladies are
    squirming on either side of him.
    Even the dog
    is jumpy.
    It’s like Daddy has a disease
    or something.
    They’re looking around,
    trying not to be too obvious
    about their discomfort,
    but he can’t help but rub shoulders
    with them.
    My guess is they watch
    American TV and think
    if you sit next to a black man,
    it’s only a matter of time
    before he robs you.
    Even if he’s wearing a suit,
    he could still be one of those
    Malcolm X brothers.
    Ach, mein Gott!
    It’s like watching popcorn
    pop —
    sooner or later
    they’re gonna blow.
    I look at my watch.
    Thirty seconds.
    Mom catches my eye,
    frowning at our game.
    I ignore her like I don’t know
    what she’s on about.
    It used to bother me
    when we first arrived in Berlin.
    I mean us getting on the subway.
    I know these folks
    can’t quite figure us out.
    Daddy’s dark skinned;
    Mom’s light tan.
    Oscar looks like a white boy.
    But me, I look like an overcooked
    mini Jennifer Lopez with nappy hair.
    Back home, we ain’t no big thing.
    But here, they don’t know
    what
to think.
    I think Daddy made up
    this game,
    to show us not to sweat it —
    it’s all a big joke.
    We’re doing
    social experiments is all.
    “See, America’s an immigrant country,”
    he told us when we first got here.
    “We’re used to rubbing shoulders
    with all kinds.
    But here,
    they
never
had immigrants
    until recently.
    They’re just
now
learning. . . .”
    Not so well,
    as far as I can see.
    When the Germans brought the Turks
    over to do all the manual labor jobs
    fifty years ago,
    they probably didn’t think
    Berlin