I "Heart" Black People

I don’t hate black people. I actually quite enjoy them. I am down, in fact. The guy that did the thing with the peanuts and Bill Cosby with the Pudding Pops and his fun sweaters. Yeah black people! You see before you continue reading, you must understand that I am not a racist. Oh sure all of us can’t help but prescribe to some form of “prejudice”, but I plan to vote for Barak Obama.

When it comes to questions of race, ethnicity, sexuality, etc, I do not care what you look like or who you fuck as long as you are attractive and don’t wear parkas. I am just that kind of open minded guy.

I feel it necessary to make this clarification early on, so when I explain my predicament, you will not jump to some ridiculous, liberal conclusion. You see, because of black people, I can no longer eat Mexican food. It is a sad state of affairs I know. No more enchiladas. No more delicious bean burritos. And why? Because of black people.

I am sure by this point some of my more sensitive readers – How’s that Starbucks latte, by the way? – would like to start a protest on recycled paper but hear me out. When I enjoy Mexican fare, I like to have an authentic experience, and that’s why after a long day of landscaping in the yard or completing a construction project, I pull right up into my local El Chico, El Chaco, El Coochie O, or whatever the hell it’s called, ready for a good time. As a reward for all of my hard work and as a way to really taste the native flavor of my local strip shopping center, I like to compliment my meal with a cool adult beverage. This use to mean a little chat with my old friend Jose Cuervo, but we had to move on from on another after finding myself naked and sticky outside the post office.

Nonetheless, I have switched to beer, and refusing to be a white suburban cliché drinking Corona, there is nothing I love more – except for black people – than a tall glass of Negra Modelo. With a salted rim and a wedge of lime, it is third world perfection in a bottle. The problem, however, is when I go to order it. Our waiter approaches the table, and I insist that he comes to me last, as I am “still deciding.” Sweat builds in all of the awkward crevices of my body as I silently mouth to myself the order: Negra, Negra! Finally it is my turn, and in an uncontrollable fit of panic, I blurt out “I’ll take a Negro Modelo.”

Negro, I know….

I might as well have said I would enjoy a big glass of white supremacy or a bowl of apartheid to dip our chips in. God forbid I have a black waiter, and as this poor soul serves whitey once again, my guilt and fear boil up, as I politely ask for a “Nigger Model on draft, please.”
Do you now understand? Black people, and the years of enslavement and disgrace forced upon them by my ancestors, have destroyed my chances of ever eating a decent tamale again. Despite my love of the Fresh Prince of Bel- Air, when it comes to black people and my words, I can get very nervous.

When you think about it, the power and force a single word can convey is amazing, and often times, we are not even aware of it. Growing up in the South, I can remember at seven years old frolicking home for dinner, slurping down a tall glass of milk, and relaying to my mother the crazy antics of the new neighborhood game, Nigger Knocking. “It’s great”, I said. “Andrew and I sneak up to people’s front doors, ring their door bell, and then run across the street and hide in the bushes and laugh when those niggers come looking out the door.” A charming game really.

After sharing that little gem, my mother about beat my ass until it was black, but at seven, I had no idea what I had said that was so wrong. The fact that the victims of our follies, these supposed silly “niggers”, were an elderly white Jewish couple who loved Laurence Welch and wintered in Baco Raton, just illuminates my ignorance. I had no idea what I was saying.

After cracking her favorite wooden spoon and losing all feeling in her right arm, my mom finally relented on my beating and explained to me the meaning behind my word choice. I felt horrible. I had heard of “racists” before, but I always thought I had too many teeth to be one. God got me back, however, when a little over a month later, while staying at a friend’s house, his mother promised if we were good that night she would make us some delicious “nigger toes” to eat before I went home.

Holy fucking shit. These people are so racist they actually eat black people.

It turns out that “nigger toes” were a kind of homemade candy, a perfect combination of delight and degradation. I did not know this at the time, though, and spent a sleepless night in pure terror, imagining waking to the smell of pancakes, coffee, and simmering human flesh, my friend’s mother garbed in a pink apron, high heels, and a necklace of tiny little black fingers.

Nigger toes, nigger knocking, nigger model! I am a horrible person! Right? Is my verbal vomiting a result of a charred soul, or I am simply using a language more powerful and loaded than I can fully understand?

Take my students for example. After spending only a small amount of time with modern day adolescents, it’s easy to conclude that all of life is divided into two categories: that which is gay and that which is not. Cheating on a test, not doing your homework, eating seasoned French fries, not gay. A boring assignment, a jammed locker, being polite and appreciative, cock sucking homo.

If an anthropologist ever observed a typical American middle school, he or she could not help but deduce that as a society, we are absolutely obsessed with gay sex. After working with 6th graders for only a few short years, because of their language I can now not help but imagine all kinds of inanimate objects doing it doggy style. Broken pencils fucking other broken pencils, rained out recesses going down on other rained out recesses. What kind of world do we live in?

For now, though, I am just going to play it safe. No more “Negro” beer over here. I am going to stick with something safe, like a “leg spreader” or “muff dive” shooter. Something that won’t cause such the controversy.