Racism  I'm in a home that I live in talking with a man. It's early morning. One very big, strong man in his mid-twenties comes home from a night of drinking alcohol and partying. He's still drunk; it's around 6:00am. I'm afraid of this ominous drunken man. I try to be as quiet and politely friendly as I can. Other people are moving: both coming home from a night of partying and waking up from sleeping on the floor. An acquaintance of mine named Gordie is there. He lets out a loud yelp as he gets something to eat. There is a family there: a mother, daughter in her early twenties or late teens, a baby boy, and maybe others. They're all dark-skinned. I talk to them, commenting on how cute the baby is. Then I'm not sure it's a boy, but am relieved when I realize that it is. My sister Heather is there and says something to me about the dishwater. I realize I've left the water funning in the sink: I've been washing dishes. I rush back to the sink feeling guilty for wasting all the water. The sinks are nearly drained. I pick up many lids from tin soup-like cans that have been washed and laid out to dry. I collect them and put them all in a tiny soup-like can, squeezing it so that all the lids fit in. I'm back talking with the family. I have cuts on my hands that I think must be from the tin can lids. The cuts bleed or leak a clear liquid. I talk with the daughter. We are and have been at my home in Oak Valley. We talk about racism. There is a scuffle occurring in the street involving the police, sheriff, and a black man. I apologize to her, saying it happens quite a bit. She sarcastically replies that she knows it does. I say no, and try to explain how "white" Wilmerton actually is. She asks me about being a hypocrite. I feel put on the spot. I tell her I try to give all the strangers I meet a fair shake. I have an uneasy feeling, as if I'm not telling the truth.