Strawberry Letter 24: Chivalrly on Life Support

Agoraphobic, misanthropic, and homicidal--all words to describe my day.  And my personality.  Lucikly for society at large, I'm not a sociopath. Even though I'm a cantankerous curmudgeon, deep down inside I care about people. Fratricide is a horrible crime...and I almost committed it today. I don't have a lot of tolerance for poor manners, disregard for etiquette and most importantly--I prefer men who's mammy's taught them a wee bit of chivalry. Particulary Black men. In Los Angeles.  Yes, go ahead roll your eyes because mummy is about to put some glossy nwords on blast.  Like Aaron McGruder's Uncle Ruckus, I am hurling Molotov cocktails at these wavy haired jigaboos here in LA.




Now before I completely empty the room with my ruminations, I will happily defend most natives of Los Angeles.  Angelinos have been kind to me.  In the 6 years that I've lived here, I've drawn the conclusion that most of the assholes are from other cities.  They escape from Joliet, Pittsburg, Manchester, Red Hook, the outback, Hollywood FL, Paris TX and Fresno in search of gold & sunshine.  Former African child soldiers lay down their AK47s to come over here and sell watches and knock off bags on Venice Beach. Sunken eyed Russian mafioso types open bakeries on Santa Monica Blvd.  Guatemalan nationals that were once doctors escape their shire to come here, and sell oranges on the side of the road. Everybody is avoiding something in search of something.   They wander into Los Angeles proper--and like Peer Gynt, live a life of avoidance.  Don't get the reference? Fine, I'll save you the Google search you lazy ape. Let me think--yes. Okay. So, it's like my man Don Draper from Mad Men.  He's a smart, savvy, good looking white boy who has it all--but not really, because his life isn't his.  He has created a whole new persona--correction he took someone else's life in order to escape the Korean war, thus living a life of avoidance.

So fast foward to this afternoon when I'm driving west on 3rd street.  A black man, good looking, early 30s well dressed in a shiny sedan decides to cut me off.  He merged recklessly into my lane, nearly colliding into my Gigi (my beloved car that is on the transmission donor list).  In all seriousness, he could have caused a nasty wreck.  I blew my horn at him--not even a nasty long blow. Do you know this mothafucka--- this wavy haired flossy, glossy Magilla Gorilla looking nword had the nerve to roll down his window and in slow motion give me the finger.

Me.  Me, the dopest mothafucker on the road.  I'm cute, I don't drive crazily. I listen to fucking Soft Rock, Classic music and NPR when I drive. I listen to fucking Bizet, because if I listen to some hood shit, I might revert back to my hood ways.  So while Heart is blasting in the back ground, this n-word is giving me the finger.

Now, when someone gives you the finger in LA, you can best believe they are a punk pussy bitch pansy. This wave cap wearing mothafucker almost got dealt with. You see, my mama didn't raise no pussy okay?  "Never argue with a nigga. Just wet his back up, and keep on moving."  So I was ready to slam my car into park and use both of my knives.  My injun ancestry was pumping too. I was ready to scalp this punk. Plus I'm on the rag? Yeah, I'll see you at the red light Joe.

30 seconds later, I did. I didn't want to catch a case, so I decided to be cool.  I rolled down my window and asked politely "why was that necessary?"

Wavy haired Magilla Gorilla says "You wouldn't fucking let me over. Fuck you bitch..."

Apparently merging without an indicator, or warning is somehow my fault.  And after he gives me the finger like a fucking 12 year old, I'm supposed to take it.  Now while I'm having this exchange, he's got a sister riding shot gun. And you know what?  This bitch ain't bat an eyelash.  This man sat there and acted a complete ass and all she did was text on her little phone.  After I saw her, I lost all audio.  I was looking at this man, while he shouted out all kinds of hate. I thought about my big brother. My uncles. My boy-friends.  My teachers. Pastors.  Associates.  All these wonderful black men who would never behave that way. I lurves black men, I do. Then I realized, nearly all of them were not residents of Los Angeles. I know there are good young black men in Los Angeles.   I can't even commit to that sentence.

"You know, you are a wonderful example of how black men should behave. I hope Kizzy over there realizes it too. Good day"  I yelled over his yelling. I rolled up my window and prayed against my visceral desire to physically attack him.  I drove off. He drove off.  And then it happened. I gripped my steering wheel and clenched my teeth trying to hold it in.  But my diarrhea lips wouldn't obey my brain, and before I knew it,  I yelled I HATE THESE NIGGAS IN LA to the top of my lungs.  

I have a hard time with that word, no matter how you spell it.  I've been called a nigger as child, and believe me it had nothing to do with hip-hop or pop culture.  I am not proud to use that word.

When I was younger, I always had dreams of living in Hollywood and all the men would look and behave like Billy Dee Williams, Calvin Lockhart, Bernie Casey and I'd have to deal with the occasional bad boy like Dolimite.  But, I didn't mind. Because I thought off of the brothers here would have class and furthermore would protect me from any harm.  I mean we are children of the civil rights era, right?

"...fuck you bitch!"

Somewhere in heaven, Scatman Crothers is weeping.

The logical part of my brain says, he's an idiot. Immature, no doubt a misogynist, and a magnificent son of a whore who didn't believe in Willie Lynch.  But I have to admit, it hurts when it comes from a peer.  This man looked to be my age.  And all I could think was "really? Dude, did you miss the 90s?"

Ya'll remember the 90s? When brothas were upwardly mobile.  Black people was doing their thang in the 90s! We had music, film and tv on lock!  Mae Jemison was flying around in space and shit.  Cleo with her fake ass duped white people into thinking she had "the shining". It was great! It was "sistah this and brotha that." Brotha's were all into Egyptology "Hotep queen!"  We all gave up pork, shed our relaxed hair, listen to neo-soul and munched on chewing sticks.  Any conversation about Illuminati, Talented Tenth, New World Order, Marcus Garvey, Pete Rock & CL Smooth got you laid, ya dig?  It was the age of The Million Man March, and the golden era of Hip Hop.  All was well with western society.  Hell, even white people were on the move.  White girls had Lillith Fair...white people even shared their contribution to utopia with MTV's Daria (still to this day the one of the most fully realized female characters on TV--a fucking cartoon at that).  The 1990s felt like we were headed towards a new world.

Fast forward to 2010.  Everybody is out for self.  In Los Angeles, most of these Negroes wear their sun glasses at night.  One day, these niggas will open their eyes.  They cannot live under the illusion of inclusion too much longer.  Would you call Sojourner Truth a bitch in traffic? How's about Shirley Chisholm? Hell, what about Shirley from What's Happening?

In the age of Gucci Mane, Soulja, and Young Joc Jeezy Weezy Fee Fi Fo Fum I'm terrified for my children. Black people have always been the leader of cool.  And at this rate, all of the world will think it okay to call black women bitches at traffic stops. 

I moved here thinking I'd create a new life. My Peer Gynt avoidance was escaping black people who couldn't see past the church, liquor store, and currency exchange.  But I now see it's the same old shit, just a different toilet.  California is no different.  Dammit, I wish the Drop Squad would deploy here.  Because most of these dudes are punks.  And don't go thinking I hate all black men. White men and Mexicans here are also jerks. And the Armenians.  And the Jews.  And the Ethiopians.  And the Brasilians.  But the Canadians? Terrific.

And as for Mr. Nigga, I hope he catches his tiny tar dick in his pants zipper.  He's lucky that I was alone.  He's even luckier that I didn't get my water retaining on the rag ass out of my car and smash the hood of his shiny sedan with my maxi pad.  And I'da fucked his juicy picaninny side kick.  I'da snatched all of the Remy Indian off that pretty little head.

I was raised by Vera & Che Brooks mothafuckers. I'm unhinged and poor so, don't come for me.  My dossier is full and my finger prints are already in the system.
  
(Switches from Steely Dan's Peg to Mos Def's Mr. Nigga)

Hooray for Hollyhood.

ciao for now kiddies,

x

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