I have been interviewing my grandmother for about three weeks now, and the project is progressing in a different way than i thought would. some things interesting, others monotonous and repetitive, bur all grandma. There are things that she doesnt remember so well, and other things that are as vivid as if i had been there with her. tomorrow we go on our feild trip, to her hometown, where she spent must of her childhood. Should be interesting, hopefully she will come up with some gems. She insists that her life was boring and inconsequential, and that no one would want to listen to her or her dumb stories or how ignorant she was of the real world. i insist that her story is insteresting and that i dont care who thinks its interesting, because i do, which is why i am doing it, unfortunatley for me, i started too late in my lazy summer, and i am not sure when i will continue our discussions, but i do look forward to it. On particular interesting gem came from her first trip to Memphis, where her older brother lived. As i was looking through some old pictures of grammies trips to florida and memphis, family reunions and gatherings. One stuck out, one from the trip to memphis, a picture of african-americans swimming in a pool. this was not remarkable at first, beyond the point that it was an odd picture. upon asking, she said that there had been separate pools ans restaurants and busses and restrooms......i instantly knew what it was. 1949. memphis, tenn. segregation. further inspection revealed that there were only african-americans in the pool, which was surrounded by a chain linked fence and topped with barb wire, similar to a prison yard. it was powerful. this is when grammy tells me how appalled, and horribly fascinated, it was to see separate laces for separate faces, when they were all people. coming from upstate new york, in an admittedly shuttered town, she had never known bias, or prejudice. she did have some contact with all kinds of people while working in the ice cream store and the grocery. they had always been customers, people, never black or white. she told me she didnt know what a lesbian was until she was nearly fifty, at which point my grandfather called her a fool, she callled it her ignorance and sheltered that came from her small town upbnringing. i called it a better time, but it is hard to compare then and now. perhaps thats why i started this trip, to glimpse some kind of parallel between then and now.

They come and visit me in the night. One here, and there, then one followed by another in rapid succession, alternating between the left and right. They keep me company at night, when i stare at the blank wall, or at the yard light through the crusty curtain and cracked window. I am reminded of a poem i learned in second grade, aptly titled 'keep a poem in your pocket'. few things stay in my mind, but this one small verse i can recall. Keep a Poem in your pocket and and a picture in your head, and youll never get lonely at night when your in bed. The little poem will sing to you and the little poem will bring to you at night when your in bed. So keep a picture in pocket and a poem in your head and youll never be lonley at night when your in bed. i think thats the jist. The point? My picture is the flashes of light that cross my vision at night, when im alone, in bed. There is no poem.

The night friends came to me long ago, before i knew what they were. Scared, frightened, reliving my last surgery, i refused to accept that my eyes are flawed, imperfect. One does not know how important the most simple of sights can be until they are changed, molded, mutated. The world changes.

Cracked. My summer began as a cracked mirror, reflecting the imperfect world in my imperfect eye. afraid, i withdrew, refused to work for money, instead became the house boy, doing laundry, dishes, vacuuming. True, it was not hard work and occupied little of my time, but thats what i did.