I’d like to apologize and explain to the readers of this blog why I post so infrequently.

All of these stories are true. I make an effort, against my comedic instinct, to not exaggerate tales for sensationalist lasciviousness.



These tales happened, and it is all a reflection of all our collective experiences.



Public transportation is the last venue where all classes intermix. Well, at least the subway. The only rich folks on surface street transit are compliant DUI recipients.



Nevertheless, I scribe these tales to you as they occur. My early prodigiousness a reflection of stories collected before this project was initiated.



Like most commuters, LA Kings fans and Hollywood tourists aside, I ride the Redline because it is the most inexpensive and efficient means to go to work. My manual labor job demands it, a necessity to stave off homelessness and little else in California, where back alley kidney transplants are sometimes cheaper than rent.



I rarely forget to grab headphones, ironically subverting my productivity for this project by avoiding discourse with weirdos. My most recent error has released me from my bubble and provided my readers with another amazing prism of human experience.



I boarded and sat a seat away from an older black woman. I say black because I would never presume someone’s continent of origin. Anyway, before I could even shift my buttcheeks for comfort she demanded to know my eye color, and ordered me to take off sunglasses. I’m not offended by the brusk, or even the rude under certain conditions. I obliged and verbally confirmed that my eyes were blue as I looked into hers. They were brown, and her brows were furrowed in furious contemplation.



“I knew it. You a white devil. I told you.”, she sniped to the young black man across the other side of the subway car. This began a long diatribe of resentment and delusion about why my being white made me a terrible person. I know me. I’m not a terrible person because I’m white. It’s much more complicated than that.



Because I happened to have an army surplus shoulder bag across the all black work uniform my catering job requires, she accused me of being a genocidal white soldier that murdered babies.



“You evil. You should kill yourself.”, she argued, the preamble to a very long winded, angry and disturbing diatribe that was a beautiful tapestry of cogent hate and psychiatric woes I am not qualified to diagnose.



At first I sort of categorized her in my mind as another unfortunate pariah living on the street with mental problems. But her vitriol continually spewed upon me, for being white. After a while, after no person on the bus reacted the her unending verbal abuse, and while I chose to not conflate her by attempting to reason with the mad, I became genuinely uncomfortable.

Everything she spewed was an echo of prevalent sentiments amongst various demographics against various demographics. Her screed was part of a script, just like the talking points of equally ignorant and disturbed white nationalist assholes. This hatred was taught to her.



In one moment I was … not hurt, but some strange mix of grief, disappointment and sadness.



I was sad. I was sad for me, for being hated for no good fucking reason. I was sad this was just a sample of what others live. I was sad for people who live hating this way, gnarled by ignorance that diverts them from beauty and creativity. I was sad that this was our world.



I was reminded, and made aware very intimately, how much racial hatred there is in this country. And my taste was a reminder that for others it is a daily experience, or at the very least, a daily perception. It was extremely unsettling and shameful. I continued to say nothing to her. I just watched her and marveled at the racist paranoia.



She was certainly a person that could benefit from psychiatric help, possibly medication, and perhaps less glutens. I dunno. Everything I know about mental health I learned from Doctor Sidney Freedman on M*A*S*H*.



The only words I ever spoke to her were, “Would you like me to go sit on the other side of the car?” Honestly the Rosa Parks irony was lost to me at the time that I spoke it. But in transcribing this I confess appreciation for it through the lens of retrospection.





“You ain’t got to move. I ain’t afraid of you. You sit there, white devil. I know what your about.”, she continued.



I chuckled inwardly that she said “your” instead of “you’re.” Most people can’t pick that up in conversation, but I guess I’m gifted or I’m including needless bloat to not fix a typo.

At that point the assigned pupil of her racial acrimony spoke up. The younger black man, with a baseball cap emblazoned with a hip looking graffiti I did not recognize, confronted her.



“You know what your problem is?”, He asked rhetorically. “You still a slave. You live in slavery times. You trapped in the past.”



His shirt had the same logo as his hat. Gold chains around his neck. Calloused knuckles. Some kind of fucking athletic shoe that might be whatever the fuck. I don’t give a fuck about sneakers. Anyway, I wanted to know everything about this kid. He proceeded to educate me, as well as the angry lady that had been spewing her disapproval of my skin and eye color.



“You think you bad? You ain’t shit, bitch. He ain’t no terrorist.”, he snapped, referring to the white-army-killer diatribe. “I’m a fuckin’ terrorist. I’m a gang banger.”



“You ain’t no gang banger. You a gang faker!”, she parried.



Then followed a strange repetitive debate about whether he said gang banger, gang member or the angry woman’s repetitious replies of “gang faker”.



The young man remained calm, never losing his cool in the pedantic repetition.

“This man has blue eyes and you hate him? Why? You don’t know him. I’d hire this motherfucker before you!”, he declared as he grabbed his shirt with both hands to lift and display the logo that matched his hat. “I own my own line. This is my shirt, my hat, my logo. You ain’t shit. What have you done? What have you built?”, he interrogated.



“At least this motherfucker goin’ to work. He ain’t talkin’ no shit to nobody.”, he defended while I was quietly glad he was unaware of what a shit talking asshole I am capable of being. I also felt a little ashamed I was going to work for someone else instead of following my own compass.



There was substantially more in their back and forth, while I uncharacteristically remained silent, a marveled observer, horrified and then redeemed in my testimony of human nature.



While my heart was warmed by this young, self professed, criminal’s humanist defense I knew he could not reason with crazy. Her kookaboo was the biggest motivator of my own silence. She proved it when she turned from him and spoke to me directly.

“Remember what you asked me? Should you move? I want you to move. Go sit over there.”



“My stop is soon. I’m staying here.”, I spoke calmly, knowing that my stop was soon and that I have a rule of not taking orders from the mentally ill unless they have a badge and a gun.



“Fine. Fine. I make you move, white devil!”, she declared. She poked me in the chest.



I may not debate the mentally ill, but I will draw a line with them. I dropped some bass in my voice and bolted some volume to contrast my silent audience, “Do Not Fucking Touch Me. Talk all the shit you want, do not put your hands on me.”



Being from the thee-A-ter I put on mah best King Lear voice.



She paused. But she took the contract to heart and after a brief pause she moved to the seat right next to mine and began belching in my face.



I turned to look at the young man that had been my advocate. “I think she might have convinced me.”, I said to him. He smiled and replied, “Yeah. I think so.”



I got up and moved to the other end of the car. She continued demagoguing angry babble to the irritation of the other bewildered and annoyed commuters. The young hero continued the debate with futility. I guess he doesn’t have Facebook for that.



I did make a point of earning some smiles by excusing my way down the aisle with, “Excuse me, white devil, coming through.”



But while I was sad for a few minutes I became glad. I became glad that youth is building a better narrative for their children and that racial hatred is something a generation can evaporate.



We just need to speak up for others and channel our inner gang banger clothing entrepreneur.





