I’ll be the first to admit, I’m a racist. I think we all are.
To an extent.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not the “I won’t buy my
cigarettes from the deli because the owner is one of them dirty Paki-s” type of
racist. That sort of unabashed hatred is dangerous and morally wrong. I’m more
like the “something about a group of Asian tourists simultaneously giving the
peace sign while being photographed is always funny” breed of bigot.
I don’t apologize for my prejudice; I think stereotypes are partially
based on truth, I get nervous about the fact that we’re going to lose so many
silly-sounding accents because of increased assimilation, and if an apartment
listing boasts a location with a “vibrant Yemeni community”, that’s not a
particularly strong selling point to me.
So I’ve made peace with my
intolerance. We’re doing just fine. However, the following anecdote is about a
friend whose racial misgivings are a bit more subconscious.
It was a brisk February eve in on the east side of
Manhattan. After imbibing some spirits, Adam, “Brad” and I left a pregame to
head elsewhere. Faced with the dearth of nearby subways and available taxicabs,
we opted to take the MTA bus to our destination. It was a seemingly innocuous
decision. People ride the bus all the time. We were by all accounts, people.
Unfortunately, that choice has forced me to see one of my
closest companions differently ever since….
I’ll be frank. A city bus at 11:45 on a Saturday night isn’t
exactly frequented by milquetoast WASPs coming home from spin class. But that’s
cool. As I said previous, I tend embrace our differences. So us three noticeably inebriated white
guys got on a bus full of black people. Big deal.
Until…
Brad: So
whadidya do last night?
Me: I went to
that new restaurant on 34th. I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich;
Elliot went with the grilled cheese.
Brad: PEANUT
BUTTER AND JELLY AND GRILLED CHEESE?! REAL MATURE! WHADIDYA HAVE FOR
APPETIZERS…CHICKEN NIGGERS?!?!
The silence was deafening.
Tension and
disgust filled the air like nerve gas.
Brad’s mouth was agape and his eyes expanded like droplets
of blood in water.
Adam morphed into liquid goo and melted deep into his seat.
I swear I saw fury in the bus driver’s eyes from his
rearview mirror.
I did my best to rectify the situation. I immediately soothed
the uneasy crowed with my expert improvisational skills.
Me: UM…UM..NO, BRAD, THEY DID NOT…. HAVE THE CHICKEN FINGERS, THAT YOU SPEAK OF!!!
FURTHERMORE-
Adam: RUN!
The bus doors opened and we tumbled down the steps onto the
street before any major fallout occurred. The bus pulled away. We stood in
silence for what seemed like an eternity until we regained our senses.
Brad tried to explain his gross misconduct.
Apparently, he wanted to ask me if they served either
chicken “fingers” or chicken “nuggets”. While attempting to send the words from
his frontal lobe to his vocal chords, they got lost in transit, infused with
Jameson whiskey, and forcibly merged, yielding the unfortunate result. He swore
over and over that he was innocent of any kind of bigotry-related culpability.
Adam and I took his defense at face value and we continued
our trek. We even joked about the experience later on.
Yet, somehow I could not rid myself of the likelihood that
the preponderance of African-American riders surrounding us prompted his vulgar
speech. I liken it to Austin Powers and the Mole in Goldmember. But of course, this was no laughing matter.
Could simple close contact elicit such hateful thoughts from
my otherwise loving and mild-tempered companion? Was it possible that such
noxious sentiments could lay dormant and suddenly be awakened by a few shots of
Jame-o and an awkward moment? Who
the fuck doesn’t know the difference between a chicken nugget and a chicken
finger?
Whatever the case, it was clear that Brad wasn’t ready to
confess ANY forms of racism to us that night. Unacceptable as they may have
been, we could have helped. We could have dug deeper, explored his fears in
order to rid himself of his racist inklings. I mean hey, acknowledgement of
flaws is the first step to remedy.
Now, Brad and I speak in superficial tones. Any conversation
remotely related to race; be it a discussion of last night’s Knick game or the
recitation of a Rick Ross lyric, is met with apprehension and uneasiness. If
only he could come clean.
For the record, every time we walk by a McDonald’s, I can’t
help but snicker. They may have brought back the McRib, but I don’t think that
product will ever make it to the menu.
END.
