DISS-CLAIMER:
Let me begin this recollection by stating that I am not a racist.
Let me begin this recollection by stating that I am not a racist.
I have equal amounts of hatred for everybody.
Actually, scratch that.
I am so unprejudiced that the only people I truly hate are members of my own ethnic group, specifically the ones that love house music and go to GWU- hiyooo!
However, I’m not afraid to admit that the conflicts between black and white, Christian and Jew, or Persian and Reptilian are not only hilarious, but worth pointing out.
And while I do not hate any particular race, religion or creed, I’m not ashamed to say I do have some tendencies. Just like everybody else.
An Example:
I love listening to Gucci Mane warn adversaries about his dexterity with an AK-47.
Nothing beats watching Ron Artest apply pressure in the backcourt while simultaneously welcoming the crowd to suck his dick.
But, if for some reason my car broke down in Gucci Mane or Ron Artest’s hoods, There is no way that AAA would get to me before I filled my boxer-briefs with foul substance.
With that being said, here is a case of tendencies gone wrong, starring my dear old Dad.
In 4th grade, the market price for hot lunch in the cafeteria was about $4.25 Every morning, my mom would hand me a five dollar bill before the chronically depressed bus driver would honk his horn, signaling my time of departure.
The lunchroom transaction would yield me…(let’s see here… carry the one…) about a 75 cent-spillover.
Every day, the extra funds would be employed in one of several fashions:
Maybe I would purchase a snack.
Perhaps I would spin them anxiously before my perpetually disappointing recess dodge ball performances.
Or, my friends and I would engage in savage bouts of “Bloody Knuckles”, the lovely game where one opponent presses his close fist into the cafeteria table, while the other violently slings a quarter at the former’s exposed knuckles. No matter how long you held out, there was never a winner in that fateful game. Ahh…
Anyways, one day I opted out of the traditional options and carried the three quarters with me in my pocket until the day’s end.
If I only knew the repercussions this decision would have…
After determining the coins would be useless to me (I was ten, damnit), I decided to auction them off to the highest bidder on the school bus home.
My peers, Asim Gupta and DaShawn Bouake both wanted the quarters, so I quickly determined the best way to award them.
I swear that this was an entirely innocent and child-like decision.
“Alright guys, DANCE!” I announced.
DaShawn had the better moves, (Indians lack rhythm) so I tossed him the 75 cents and headed off the bus.
The next morning, DaShawn did not embark when we reached his house.
Rather, his dreadlocked mother did.
“Which one is Ev-vahn?” she barked at the young passengers.
“Hi!” I said, waving my hand in the air, like I just didn’t care.
She proceeded to give me the best Larry David stare down a middle-aged African-American woman could. Then she slowly got off the bus with her eyes still fixed upon me.
I found the event slightly strange…. for about a minute. Then I proceeded to continue my conversation with Asim about the superiority of WWF wrestler Stone Cold Steve Austin to his foe, The Rock.
The morning after that, a younger dreadlocked woman stormed onto the bus. She approached me immediately. This time, I was petrified.
“YOU’RE EVAN, RIGHT”
“…Yeah” I quivered.
“DID YOU THROW QUARTERS AT MY LITTLE BROTHER TO MAKE HIM DANCE?”
“ What?? I didn’t mean—“
“YOU’RE DISGUSTING, UGH!”
And with that, she stormed off.
Apparently, I failed to take into account that a black family might perceive A WHITE CHILD ORDERING THEIR SON TO DANCE FOR QUARTERS a tad racist.
I was ashamed and I was scared.
So I told Mommy and Daddy that night at dinner.
“David” my mom said to my father, “You and your son need to go over there right now and apologize and explain Evan meant no such thing!”
“Um…yea…no, no I won’t be doing that,” My Dad muttered.
“What? Why not?!” My mother demanded.
My dad took a deep breath.
“Okay…when we first wanted to move into this neighborhood, I wanted to know about the school taxes, so one morning I knocked on the door of this house a couple streets over…This black guy answered the door…and he was wearing a suit…and I don’t know…I assumed…”
“What happened David?”
“Okay, there isn’t exactly a huge population of black people in Old Westbury, right?”
“Right…”
“So… I don’t know…I asked him… if I could speak to the owner of the house”
“You did what?”
“He said he was the owner of the house, and slammed the door in my face”
“DAVID! Yikes…okay …so maybe Evan should apologize in school”
Well, I never got to apologize to DaShawn and his family because they transferred him to a private school literally the next day. To make matters worse, a few years later, someone had informed me that they moved.
Maybe being a minority in a homogeneous town left them overly sensitive.
Maybe I was a bit too naive about others’ painful memories.
Maybe my dad is an asshole.
Regardless, if we can take one thing from this tale, it is that indirect racism can be really, really, funny.
The End.
