Dear Editor,
My letting fall upon the counter in disgust, a package of 10 Peppermint tea bags, which in a few weeks, jumped from $1 to $1.75, even with some gook having dripped upon the packet, warranted my being threatened with violent eviction from On The Run on East Bay St. and Fowler St.
The manager, Miller, thought it unacceptable that I let drop upon the counter, this filthy packet of tea bags but thought it acceptable, appropriate for me to be thrown out disrespectfully after having returned money to me, thrown to me, thrown at me, for another item I did desire to purchase.
Thought it appropriate to evict me with his security assistant, who had been busy, with gloves on, preparing and serving up sandwiches and whatever else in the deli. Thought it acceptable, appropriate to throw my manuscripts and me outside if I didn’t vacate as readily - as quickly as he wished.
I am left to wonder about his sense of value – sense of worth: a customer with a large family and many friends who frequent this establishment, weighed against a soiled packet of tea bags – the price upon which leapt from $1 to $1.75 within a few weeks. All I’d done was to let it fall upon the counter from the bullet-proof glass I’d held it up to for scanning.
I write because I’m mystified by this response – by this reaction. I was humiliated. I am deeply offended. I am confused by this manager’s implication of impropriety on my part and yet on his own part, it was not unacceptable that my money was flung back to me – not inappropriate that I be picked up and thrown out. He threatened to do as much. Not inappropriate that my writing, my work, most precious to me, be flung outside. This he threatened also with his security officer removing his plastic gloves to assist in evicting who strives always to be the embodiment of peace.
The only sword I ever have or ever carry, besides prayer, is my pen which, oftentimes, these same persons managing this establishment, relieve me of, oftentimes in the middle of inspiration – in the middle of writing – needing to sign when some delivery or other is made in the middle of the night.
“Something is rotten in Denmark!” said Hamlet. I say the same of this establishment and what is rotten is not I who was threatened, asked offensively to leave, as if this deli were the White House and I some rodent. Something in there is rotten still and needs investigating by the appropriate authority.
I thought they loved, appreciated and respected me. I’d not patronize them as I do, as I have were I aware it was otherwise. I bring poetry down by taking it there. I thought with my presence and with my art, I raised them up to poetry. I know now it is not respected nor appreciated.
To find appropriate, all-night spots to hang out at – to create in, I suppose I must return to Paris of be off again to Montreal or Stockholm or Oslo – back to New York or Budapest. I write about Bahamians. I wanted to be home. I thought I was. There are elements among us though from elsewhere, wanting to dictate to who is native.
Who I thought were our guests, suggest that who is Bahamian is here or there or elsewhere in this land only if they say we are welcome. Who are our guests have turned the table and can decide upon a whim that I, that we are unwanted.
I might as well be elsewhere. Home is not home – is not mine – is not ours. I throw my hands up. I rest my case.
Obediah Michael Smith
4:58 a.m. May 27, 2006
