The Telegraph Experience

poem, originally uploaded by camille94019.

She who runs, lives to run another day.

FB and I were strolling down the street when a dummy head caught my eye. It was lying on a table that was in the midst of a peddler's display that being dismantled. The light was pouring over the head in a very nice way.

I knelt down to take a picture, but before I hit the button, a woman started screaming at me. I turned away and continued walking. It was clear from what she was saying that this was not a good time for an calm rational discussion about history, race and when its appropriate to photograph.

YOU WHITE BITCH!
WHAT ARE YOU FUCKING DOING?
YOU ARE JUST LIKE THE FUCKING WHITE PEOPLE KILLING THE INDIANS AND STEALING THEIR LAND! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU! BITCH ! WHITE BITCH! HOW DARE YOU TAKE A PICTURE?

I had walked (sprinted? ran?) about a half block before I realized that I had lost FB. We were both quite shaken. He caught up with me momentarily. He apologized. I certianly didn't hold anything against him. We hadn't discussed the course of action when confronted by crazy street people. We continued walking (I wanted to put as much distance between me and the harpie as possible).

As we walked, a man with a typewriter asked me if I wanted a poem. Eager to have a nice conversation with a stranger, I said yes. He asked me what I wanted a poem about. I told him the story of what had just happened. He began to compose. I asked him if I could take his picture. He agreed. I used the rest of the roll on him. We bonded over our shared used-typewriter-purchasing experiences. I told him nothing beat the Bargain Barn. I nearly gave him my number. He told me that this was going to be his summer job. We had a lovely time. I gave him a dollar.