The Poster
She stared at the poster pinned to her bedroom wall—the powder-blue wall directly across from her bed.
The poster had hung there for years. Its colors had faded, as had her love of rap and hip-hop. But she was still into Mac: his songs, his lyrics, and that good-looking Irish face.
Her parents hated the poster. A blond goy’s face stared down at their daughter as she slept.
“Honey,” they would ask, “why not hang a poster of the Rebbe Schneerson on that wall?”
She laughed to herself, wanting to ask, How many hit songs did the Rebbe have?
But she was a child who respected her parents. She would never mock them.
She remembered buying the poster at Spencer’s. She had spent her allowance and some of the money she earned from working to buy it. And as far as she was concerned, it had been worth every penny.
She had been a teenager obsessed with love, men, music, rappers—and Mac.
She had pushed hard to drive those four red, heart-shaped thumbtacks into the powder-blue wall.
And on those nights, she would lie in bed fantasizing about Mac. She imagined kissing him, receiving his tender, lingering kisses, feeling his hands caress her cheeks. She would close her eyes and breathe heavily, lost in a teenage fantasy in which the handsome rapper belonged only to her.
But today, she pulled out those four heart-shaped red thumbtacks.
She grabbed the poster with both hands and crumpled it into a large ball. Holding it like a basketball, she walked onto the patio and dropped it into the Coleman grill.
She doused it with lighter fluid, struck a match, and watched as the poster burst into flames.
The smell of sulfur rose into her nostrils. Tears formed in her eyes. Black ashes floated past her face. She felt the heat of the flames against her skin.
She watched until there was almost nothing left.
Mac had accused her people of genocide and apartheid in front of 50,000 cheering fans.
She wasn’t going to put up with his bullshit.
She stared into the dying flames.
And for the first time in years, she thought about the poster her parents had wanted her to hang on that powder-blue wall.
The Rebbe Schneerson.
She smiled.
Mom and Dad would be proud.
