Dunbar's "We Wear the Mask", p.1043

“We wear the mask!”

Look at that exclamation hovering at the end there. It almost beckons us to celebrate. I kind of want to dance. I didn’t always want to dance. In the first stanza, I wanted to hang my head in


shame? In the second stanza, I wanted to do a sad, slow waltz—all by myself. In the third stanza, I felt the urge to yank my arms free of whatever imaginary binding held them, held them fast as they held my hands, which held to the page.

Was it really imaginary?

Then that last line. I wanted to jump up and dance, maybe clap my hands like a birthday idiot, some sort of notifying grin gracing my face.

“We wear the mask!”

The mask is glorious?

I always thought it was shameful to wear a mask. “Just be yourself” is all I ever heard as a child. “Go find out who you are”, ironically, didn’t come until my teenage years much later. Someone should really fix that. Anyways, I’m off the point.

Masks are people’s protection, I’ve been told. You needn’t protect yourself, I’ve been told. Hiding yourself behind a veil is lying, to the world and to yourself.

Be proud of who you are . . .

I call bullshit.

People say that (just be you,) but they mean be who you’re supposed to be, how you’re expected to be. Behave in an appropriate manner (unless no one’s looking ... that’s what Jesus is for.)

But if they happen to glance your way, you’d better hope your disguise is handy.

Who the heck is “they”? And what gives them the right to tell me how to pretend to behave?

Me. I give them the right. If I don’t hide my fear, my anger, my shame, my desire, my suffering, my desperation, my narcissism, my etc. etc. etc. etc. et cetera, they’ll say something. And that something might “hurt” me, and then I have even more to hide. If I’m not presented in the way I’m told to present myself, murmurs will float just past my ears, just close enough so I know they’re there, and just so soft that I can only assume what they mean.

“Be yourself, be proud!” society cries, while under it all they are constantly whispering, “Where’s your mask? Have you no shame???” They are tugging my arms, holding them fast behind my back.

“Our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile.”

How can I take off my mask if my hands are behind me, pressed between the sweaty, accusatory palms of my fellow facaders?

I can’t is a strong statement.

But why not celebrate, on the outside of all of it? Here is my mask, and it’s smiling. Here is my capering guise, you who dares to call me friend.

Is it acceptable? Does it make you happy?

Is that your mask smiling back at me?

What big teeth you have . . .