Oh, brother
Feb. 13th, 2008 08:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"I'm black and I'm proud!"
- random youth on the Blue Line, Pentagon City stop, January 19, 2008
It was about midnight, and J. and I were on our way back from a lovely evening out. Our bellies were full and we were only slightly tipsy, and with the frosty cold outside it would have been my preference to simply catch a cab. But J. thought a taxi was too extravagant, and as we left the restaurant we instinctually wandered toward the McPherson Square Metro stop.
All of Metro was moving slowly that night because of extensive track maintenance being performed during operating hours. This fact only furthered my reservations about taking the train home, but I was too punch-drunk and cash-poor to protest convincingly.
My reservations subsided once we finally boarded the train. It was a pleasantly dull ride on the Blue Line until we reached Rosslyn. There boarded five young African-American boys, tough to say but I would guess 13 to 15 years old, all shouting and generally behaving very hyperactively.
To wit: they seemed to be taking turns executing sloppy karate kicks to each other's nuts, while the remaining boys would laugh phlegmatically. When this activity became passe, they began swinging from the ceiling hand rails, now launching double-barreled kicks to each other's heads. I should note that they all seemed to be wearing ponderous Timberland-style boots, so that when they connected with the wall or the floor or one of their comrades, it made a genuinely disquieting *thud*.
Jessica and I, sitting in a seat dangerously close to the action, were naturally concerned that one of these boys, clearly lacking formal karate training, was going to miss his target and hit us instead, or otherwise thrust his opponent into our general area. We searched the faces of other riders for similar misgivings, but found only the kind of disaffected catatonia so common to late-night Metro riders. Even the man sitting directly across from us barely flinched when one of the boys nearly landed on his lap.
At the next stop, with only one stop to go, J. and I shared a look that we both understood to mean "let's move." When the doors opened we moved to the next door down in the next car. As the doors closed again, one of the youths recognized us and must have announced to his friends that we had moved away from them. J. gave a half-apologetic, half-irritated wave, a gesture to which they retorted with a symphony of hoots, hollers and middle-fingers.
The whole sequence sobered me up pretty quickly, and I nervously calculated the odds of further harassment when we got out at the next stop. "When you get out of the train, just go upstairs and keep going, even if I stay behind," I told J.
When the time came and our feet hit the station platform, we quickly shuffled up the escalator. I looked back to see if the boys were leaving the car also, which they weren't. But they were all bunched up at the door, shouting things at us like "you got a problem with me?" and "racist @sshole!" and "I'm black and I'm proud!"
* * *
February is Black History Month, and I recount the story above not to indict black youths or black culture or Black Power. Until the young man mentioned it, I hadn't considered their blackness at all.
I include this story as a premise for the assertion that I am not a racist. I like and dislike (depending on my mood) people of all races equally. In the instance above, the fundamental philosophy at work was the desire not to be kicked in the face. If it had been five white boys screwing around, or five eskimo septaugenarians, we probably would have reacted the same way.
I've always sort of regretted not having a black friend to assuage my guilt and reassure me of my good standing in these kinds of situations. I didn't really grow up around many black folks. I have a few black acquaintances and a black co-worker, but that's not really enough to give me any BET-cred. I have to acknowledge the cynical possibility that my support for Barack Obama for President is partly borne of a desire to have a cool black friend.
But I swear, I'm not racist. What is it called, though, when you hate 14-year olds?
- random youth on the Blue Line, Pentagon City stop, January 19, 2008
It was about midnight, and J. and I were on our way back from a lovely evening out. Our bellies were full and we were only slightly tipsy, and with the frosty cold outside it would have been my preference to simply catch a cab. But J. thought a taxi was too extravagant, and as we left the restaurant we instinctually wandered toward the McPherson Square Metro stop.
All of Metro was moving slowly that night because of extensive track maintenance being performed during operating hours. This fact only furthered my reservations about taking the train home, but I was too punch-drunk and cash-poor to protest convincingly.
My reservations subsided once we finally boarded the train. It was a pleasantly dull ride on the Blue Line until we reached Rosslyn. There boarded five young African-American boys, tough to say but I would guess 13 to 15 years old, all shouting and generally behaving very hyperactively.
To wit: they seemed to be taking turns executing sloppy karate kicks to each other's nuts, while the remaining boys would laugh phlegmatically. When this activity became passe, they began swinging from the ceiling hand rails, now launching double-barreled kicks to each other's heads. I should note that they all seemed to be wearing ponderous Timberland-style boots, so that when they connected with the wall or the floor or one of their comrades, it made a genuinely disquieting *thud*.
Jessica and I, sitting in a seat dangerously close to the action, were naturally concerned that one of these boys, clearly lacking formal karate training, was going to miss his target and hit us instead, or otherwise thrust his opponent into our general area. We searched the faces of other riders for similar misgivings, but found only the kind of disaffected catatonia so common to late-night Metro riders. Even the man sitting directly across from us barely flinched when one of the boys nearly landed on his lap.
At the next stop, with only one stop to go, J. and I shared a look that we both understood to mean "let's move." When the doors opened we moved to the next door down in the next car. As the doors closed again, one of the youths recognized us and must have announced to his friends that we had moved away from them. J. gave a half-apologetic, half-irritated wave, a gesture to which they retorted with a symphony of hoots, hollers and middle-fingers.
The whole sequence sobered me up pretty quickly, and I nervously calculated the odds of further harassment when we got out at the next stop. "When you get out of the train, just go upstairs and keep going, even if I stay behind," I told J.
When the time came and our feet hit the station platform, we quickly shuffled up the escalator. I looked back to see if the boys were leaving the car also, which they weren't. But they were all bunched up at the door, shouting things at us like "you got a problem with me?" and "racist @sshole!" and "I'm black and I'm proud!"
* * *
February is Black History Month, and I recount the story above not to indict black youths or black culture or Black Power. Until the young man mentioned it, I hadn't considered their blackness at all.
I include this story as a premise for the assertion that I am not a racist. I like and dislike (depending on my mood) people of all races equally. In the instance above, the fundamental philosophy at work was the desire not to be kicked in the face. If it had been five white boys screwing around, or five eskimo septaugenarians, we probably would have reacted the same way.
I've always sort of regretted not having a black friend to assuage my guilt and reassure me of my good standing in these kinds of situations. I didn't really grow up around many black folks. I have a few black acquaintances and a black co-worker, but that's not really enough to give me any BET-cred. I have to acknowledge the cynical possibility that my support for Barack Obama for President is partly borne of a desire to have a cool black friend.
But I swear, I'm not racist. What is it called, though, when you hate 14-year olds?
