Math Teacher   Who is this stranger from across the sea? He has no tribe, no sons, no cattle — how can we respect such a man? What can we   learn from such a man? What can be his power? Does he think his chalk’s not a sjambok, or that he’s no fat, beer-swilling Boer? Now   he smiles — we fear his smiles. We fear his talk, his laughter so unlike our own, his skin called white but not white — no, white is a flock   of egrets bearing news from heaven, thin elegant necks, plumes for the king — not pink like this umlumbi ghost, who broils in   the sun, looks like cooked impala tongue, stinks like milk too long in the calabash. We mistrust a man who tells us how to think.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont June 2010   (Appeared in The Salon, Autumn 2011)