"Brown" has a little explanation that goes with it.
Whenever you do ballroom dancing,
you do competitions, or showcases in the place
where you're dancing with a group of people
in the audience, there is a woman who always shows up--
we call her "the dress lady."
She's the one who brings all those wonderful ball
gowns for sale, yards and yards and yards and yards of ball
gown.
"Brown."
"Why you look good in every color!
The dress lady gurgled, just before I stepped
onto the parquet for a waltz.
I demurred, we were in a country club, after all.
And she, fresh from Fort Lauderdale--
do people actually live there--
with five duffle bags' worth of ball gowns,
enough tulle and fringe and pearls to float a small
cotillion, was only trying to earn a living.
For once, I was not the only Black person
in the room, two others, both male.
I thought of Sambo, I thought a few other things
too, unmentionable here.
Don't get me wrong, I've always loved my skin,
the way it glows against citron and fuchsia,
the difficult hues.
But the difference I cause whenever
I walk into a polite space is why I prefer grand entrances,
especially with a Waltz, that European, constipated swoon.
[LAUGHTER]
The dress, in question, was red."