By Greg Smith E-mail: smlvoices@aol.com Date: 2 February 1998
The trailhead she had discovered was relatively ignored or unknown to the masses in the city here; few people ever visited it, I knew. And those few visitors to this trail were virtually all upscale residents of the wealthy area that comprises northeast Phoenix and its suburbs.
I only fully noticed her beauty when she stepped out of the old Ford. Her hair was long with soft curls, deeply black. Her eyes were golden, first kin to the well-appreciated, famous Arizona sunsets, it seemed. Her skin of the beautiful bronze produced by an ancient African sun. Her features reminded me of an artist's rendering of an African princess I had recently admired in the downtown museum of art. She was about 25, 5'7", 125# and one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.
And she had not noticed me sitting quietly on the rock just 25 feet from and to the side of her goddess-like presence, allowing me to take in the gorgeousness of beautiful woman in foreground and Arizona nature at its best in background. It was the most breathtaking view I could remember at the time. I looked back over my shoulder towards the distant outline of the buildings of the city of Phoenix; returned my gaze to the natural beauty of an unspoiled vista that was the trailhead for the path which attracted the wealthy, exclusively Anglo area citizens to this point at the top of northeast Phoenix. I looked again to the beauty of bronze womanhood 25 feet from my position, compared it to the paleness of my own shirtless, shorts-wearing Anglo form.
The comparisons were devastating. I yearned to cry out to the woman, "Please don't move! Let me enjoy this instant of observation and appreciation a while longer." I had, of course, seen many black women before down there in the city below and behind me, but only truly recognized the beauty of black womanhood now, at this point in time, under these circumstances. It astounded me that I had been so ignorant all this time. Perhaps the blight of a city tends to make one too casual to the truth that can be found and observed on its sidewalks and streets, I thought.
She only remained standing beside her car for a short time, however.
Moving slowly, she walked to the back of the old Ford station wagon that had brought her to this place, opened its tailgate to allow a tiny dark dog to escape.
The two of them, the bronze woman and the black dog began slowly walking towards the trail's beginning point.
It was than that I noticed why the woman was moving so slowly: She had a pronounced limp, her right leg having apparently suffered injury at some time in her life. A scar was clearly visible above that right knee, indicting surgery of some sort.
The slight limp, however, did not distract from the woman's beauty at all.
I wanted to jump down from my perch on the rock now; attract her attention somehow; explain to her the sensations I had recently been through. Ask her her name; would she allow me to take that trail WITH her, accompany her to dinner somewhere, sometime. But I also wanted to hold on to these moments of wonder for a while. I feared attracting her attention would break the spell somehow.
As she approached the trail's beginning point, a few more steps putting her on that journey to nature and natural unspoiled beauty, a group of five male Anglo area residents, familiar with the park and trail (I had seen them here before) pulled up in their $50,000 yuppie autos, jumped out and began running towards the trail head.
The bronze woman and her little dark dog were quickly overtaken by the pompous, noisy, self-aware-only group of wealthy, uncaring individuals.
Their noisy approach startled the beautiful woman with the slight limp. Her tiny dog reacted to the scene by barking at the men, apparently fearing for his master's safety. Snide remarks directed towards the woman could be heard emanating from the men's mouths. Passing her and brushing her, as if to push her off the trail, two of the men began running backwards, showing off their prowness. I saw, heard what she saw, heard: The nasty remarks, the brushing, the contempt directed at her slowness, her limp, her very tone. "Hey, lady, this ain't no shuffling ghetto street," one of the backward-running punks blared at her. "And you'd better keep that mutt from biting us."
She stopped just short of the trail's first step. The tiny dog, however, seemed to attempt to urge her on, as it ran ahead down the trail for a short way, barking at her to follow. She turned about, though.
I came down from my perch just then, walked over to her.
Tears were forming in her eyes, I saw. Silently we approached each other, she now walking back towards her car, me approaching the trailhead and her. I was within a foot of her now. We both stopped, looked into the eyes of each other. I wanted to say something, to offer her my recent experiences as consolidation, but I was so ashamed of the men's actions I couldn't open my mouth. Instead I held out my hand to catch one of the tears that was falling from her face. The tear fell into my hand. I rubbed the tear unto my own cheek, hoping she would comprehend. She put her arms around me. We hugged. No words were spoken, both of us recovering from shame or fear. I placed my hand on hers. She held tight to it. I noticed how natural the bronze hand wrapped about the pale hand seemed.
Still no words were offered by either party. Her dog sat quietly right next to me.
She brushed back her hair, smiled at me, tears still forming in her eyes. Contact between hands was slowly, carefully, unwelcomingly broken. She resumed the short journey back to her car. I watched, still frozen from shame, as she entered the car, her tiny dog pausing a moment, staring back at me, as if to give me one more chance to break the silence before it too entered the car. I watched as the machine came to life, backed up, headed back down the road towards the city. I saw the tiny black dog peer out the rear window at me as the woman drove away.
My own tears begin again--as then--as I write this article.
I come back to that trailhead often, though, hoping to see that old Ford station wagon return, a bronze beauty disembark, a tiny dark dog jump out of the rear window.
This has not happened, as yet.