Representation, c. recently

in

by Lequinn Pettway

How strange it is to walk into a museum—past

the old white walls and colorless columns, past

the unnaturally pale statues and light, plain-faced subjects, past 

those other sections from other places and times, past 

all of that and finding some sliver of me most present

In the bathroom mirror (A pretty Black girl washing her hands, c. 2024)

—so strange, half because I’d never set foot in a place like that

until college, half because (kinda funny) that puckered-face

pale person sitting prettily (in ways I wish I could be, noble enough to have never 

worried about money, I bet, with pretty dresses to match) 

looks like, if she could speak, she would absolutely call me 

something Nasty. 


But I don’t think you’re supposed to laugh in museums, 

and I don’t want anyone to look at me weirdly

and think me any more strange in there than I think myself to be.


Sometimes less strange and more horrific—nausea creeping

and tears too—to have to face the only likeness of my face

amongst luxury, beauty, and virtue in

Slavery, caricature and cruelty. I look away and try to hurt less

from how history really did my ancestors dirty—Art Replicates

Reality, Ugliness and All, c. long ago - now, by many hands. 


But I don’t think you’re supposed to cry in museums, 

and I really don’t want anyone to look at me weirdly 

and think me any more out-of-place here than all the “art” around me

tells me I am. 


Sometimes even less strange, and more fun: surprise

blossoming into warmth, something less like Black and Suffering, c. forever,

by Everyone Ever (a series from the past, endless), and more like

a pretty poem, a memory, a phone call, something that would make my mom happy:

“Hey, Ma: today, I went to the museum to see something new, 

and I saw some pictures in there that reminded me 

a lot of the ones you took before you had me. The nostalgia was so strong I could’ve stared at it forever, trying to feel that warm sunshine and soft color and 

Black people finally smiling in a golden frame. And the artist has the same name 

as one of your friends from back in the day.” 

Good representation growing like good hair; finally, we’re winning something, I think,

and it’s good for sure, even if it’s not quite what I want to see, even if

it’s still constrained by white walls and white criticism a plenty, even if

I still want more and better, until that “good art” has more people like me 

in it, until the most satisfying things I can see

aren’t just on my Instagram explore page or my Twitter feed.