Driving
north today, I saw
a wise man in the back of a red Ford truck.
a wise man in the back of a red Ford truck.
Propped
against the spare tire,
the wise man was wearing a purple fez,
and a gold star protruded from his chest on a wire.
I didn’t see the other wise men
or the Baby Jesus in his little cradle,
but I noticed that the figure had a swarthy face
and was clearly Balthazar, the blackamoor wise man,
King of Egypt and Tarshish,
bringing resin of the thorny commiphora tree—
Myrrh—to the Holy Child.
the wise man was wearing a purple fez,
and a gold star protruded from his chest on a wire.
I didn’t see the other wise men
or the Baby Jesus in his little cradle,
but I noticed that the figure had a swarthy face
and was clearly Balthazar, the blackamoor wise man,
King of Egypt and Tarshish,
bringing resin of the thorny commiphora tree—
Myrrh—to the Holy Child.
I thought
of the American olden time,
time of lawn jockeys and Little Black Sambo stands,
and in my white sentimentality still farther back
to the old minstrel show days,
when with tambourines and bones
blacks and whites blacked up alike
and danced to Jump Jim Crow—tune now proscribed
even under the innocuous name, Jump Jim Joe.
We don’t dare bring those memories back,
or even acknowledge them as part of our true heritage.
time of lawn jockeys and Little Black Sambo stands,
and in my white sentimentality still farther back
to the old minstrel show days,
when with tambourines and bones
blacks and whites blacked up alike
and danced to Jump Jim Crow—tune now proscribed
even under the innocuous name, Jump Jim Joe.
We don’t dare bring those memories back,
or even acknowledge them as part of our true heritage.
For my
sake, though, suppose the driver—
the other wise man in the truck—
simply carries the statue with him as a mascot.
Suppose he laughs at, abhors, and identifies with—all three—
this figure of a devout Balthazar,
sanctioned by centuries of racist iconography:
an African bearing witness
to the miracle of the birth of God.
the other wise man in the truck—
simply carries the statue with him as a mascot.
Suppose he laughs at, abhors, and identifies with—all three—
this figure of a devout Balthazar,
sanctioned by centuries of racist iconography:
an African bearing witness
to the miracle of the birth of God.
Wanting to
see the driver’s face (not that it would answer
anything), I changed lanes
and passed the truck.
anything), I changed lanes
and passed the truck.
Yep, a black man.
This poem
was on an early page in this blog, but I took it down and revised it after I
saw Henry Louis Gates's article about Balthazar, which is easy to find online in The Root. I noticed today that people have
searched for this poem ("Bathazar funny Christmas poem"), so I’m restoring it in revised form.
