on the cape

Having grown up in Boston, I understand that there is a long-running joke that only five black people are allowed on Cape Cod at a time. Walking the main, back, and side streets of Provincetown, the creative part of me thinks about what is in-town and is called "art".  Another part of me thinks about what is on the beach and is called "beauty".  I have never longed to be part of the circuit.  And I have been making peace, for some time now, with the fact that the circuit has never longed for me to be a part of it. 

I think about Zora Neale Hurston, carving out her world with an oyster knife.  Being too busy to care what their world is doing.  The last time I was here, I read Tennessee Williams and Amistead Maupin.  Having always felt connected to their style of writing, and to my own grapplings with the history they were allowed, I wonder what a sense of community like that would do for the men who look like me?

I would go ask the other four black people on the Cape this weekend, but I'm trying to be on vacation.