Natasha Tretheway (b. 1966) The lies I could tell, when I was growing up’ light-bright’ near white, high-yellow, red-boned, in a black place, were just white lies. I could easily tell the white folks that we lived up town, not in the pink and green shanty-fied shotgun section along the tracks. I could act like my homemade dresses came straight out the window of Mason Blanche. I could even keep quiet, quiet as kept, like the time a white girl said (squeezing my hand), now we have three of us in the class. But I paid for it everytime mama found out. She put her hands on me then washed out my mouth with ivory soap. This is to purify, she said and cleanse your lying tongue. Believing her I swallowed suds thinking they’d work from the inside out. --

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