Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 30, 2016

Questions to a White Dad from His Black Daughter

Every dad, everywhere, is bombarded by questions by their young children.  Sometimes the questions are things overlooked by adults like why don’t we fly or why don’t we breathe water?  Are you the smartest man in the world?  Are you the strongest man in the world?  What were you doing in the bedroom when you pulled the covers up on you and momma, really fast?
At a commercial break on a kid’s show, this dad checked the weather, baseball scores and then put on cable news.  The screen flashed a sound bite from Hillary, her vice presidential candidate Tim Kaine and then Donald Trump.  Images of the murderers of a priest in a church in France flashed and then a Black Lives Matter protest.  The daughter got bored with the soup du jour of the political world.
daughter- daddy?
dad- hmm?
daughter- can we watch the Power Puff Girls again?
dad- of course…  I just get scared when you watch commercials.  I find myself going to Toys R Us too often then.
daughter- do you watch anything else except this stuff about Hillary and Donald Trump?
dad- you know I watch baseball and hockey…  I also watch shows on Cartoon Network with you.
daughter- do you like Teen TItans?
dad- they make me laugh.  Do you like politics?
daughter- nope.  Momma says that only an idiot would vote for Donald Trump.  Are you going to vote for him?
dad- if I vote for Trump, are you going to call me an idiot?
daughter- nope.
dad- if momma votes for Hillary, I wouldn’t call her blind.
daughter- blonde?
dad- yes…
daughter- how can momma be blonde?  She’s a black woman.  Black women don’t have blonde hair.
dad- I think there are black women that dye their hair blonde.
daughter- momma wouldn’t do that… daddy?
dad- yes…
daughter- what’s it like to be a man?
dad- wow…  that’s a tough question.  It’s like being a serious boy.  I still feel like a boy but I know I’m not anymore.
daughter- I would say you act like a boy still.
dad- thank you…
daughter- do you like being white?
dad- oh boy…  You got some deep questions today…  I like being who I am and being a man who is white is okay with me.  I like who I am.  I wish I was more handsome and taller.
daughter- the kids at school said that I’m black because I’m tanner than the white kids.
dad- your dad is white and your mom is black.  That makes you both.  People can say whatever they want but you will always be both.  You are one of the prettiest girls in the world.  I’ve seen a lot of girls so I know what I’m talking about.
daughter- some kids at school are mean.
dad- yes they are.  If you were to tell someone who happens to be white that they are ugly, fat or stupid, they’re feelings would be hurt.  You don’t need to say anything though.  You point the ones out to me when I drop you off at school and I can say it for you.  I’ll say, “Hey chubby-ob-avitch!  How many freckles do you have and do you have them on your ass.
daughter- you can’t say ass.
dad- I can say it to anyone who acts like one
daughter- how did I get blue eyes?
dad- someone in my family and your mother’s, had to have had blue eyes.  My parents were both right handed but I came out left handed.  Someone in my mom and dad’s family had to be left handed.
daughter- daddy?
dad- yes…
daughter- do black lives matter to you?
dad- this is like an interview today…  What happened to asking me questions like why a dog’s tail wags?  All lives matter to me.
daughter- I heard ladies at the hair salon say that if any white people say that all lives matter, then they’re racist…  What’s a racist?
dad- um…  a racist is someone who judges others based on the color of their skin, religion or where they are from…  Like all black people are like this or all white people are like that.
daughter- are you racist?
dad- I like to think that I’m not but someone might think that I am.  I can always say that I was once married to a black woman and my daughter is part black…  I could say like a lot of other white people who because I have a black friend, I couldn’t possibly be racist.  Do you get what I’m saying?
daughter- I think so…
dad- if I saw someone drowning or burning in a building, I wouldn’t be more likely to save someone because they were white.  Any life matters.  I wouldn’t want to die in water or by fire and would hope that my life matters to someone if they could help me.
daughter- did you know there used to be slaves and they were black?
dad- yes, I learned about that too.  It was wrong and sad and white people who didn’t agree with slavery, went to war with other white people who did want slavery.  It was a really bad war where lot’s of people died.  Even President Lincoln was killed over not wanting slavery.
daughter- if you could be an animal, which animal would you be?
dad- now that’s the sort of question I’m used to…  Today I would be a hippo.  I would go in the pool and cool off all day, then get up and eat, fart and go to sleep.
daughter- you fart a lot now.
dad- You do too.  You must get it from me.
The daughter got quiet and watched the television but she wasn’t really watching.  She was deep in thought.  She held one of her stuffed animals from the latest Disney movie in her hands and looked out of the window.  The father turned down the television volume and added one last thing.
dad- do you know what I wish?
daughter- what?
dad- I wish you could stay the same age you are now so that I always could keep you safe and know where you are.  I would never let boys try to kiss you and never let anyone try to give you drugs…  I know it isn’t possible to wish for that and have it come true so my wish is that you grow up happy and stay healthy and have a good job one day and find someone who makes you happy if that’s what you want and you come to see me now and then when I’m old.
daughter- you’re already old.
dad- yup… So don’t forget to visit your old man when you grow up.
daughter- I would never forget about you.
dad-  ok good.  Now we understand each other and the world completely.
daughter- yup…
The daughter curled up in the crook of her father’s arm and went back to watching her show.  The dad thought about being tired, what he had to get done during the course of the day, what bills he had to pay and things he needed to get done that day while his daughter reloaded.
daughter- daddy?
dad- yes, baby…
daughter- who are terrorists and where do you find them?
dad- Wow, wow, wow…I think we need to eat first before we answer anymore questions.  Would that be alright with you?
daughter- yes…  Well I am pretty hungry.  I’ll have more questions for you later.
dad- Yes…  More questions…  Of course…  Always.

June 1, 2016

Timebombs

It isn’t possible to send out E-vites before expiring and passing on to heaven, another life or nothing, depending on what you believe.  There are no parties with tears and hugs before getting on to a helicopter and waving goodbye to everyone the way President Nixon did when he resigned.  No smile, wave and peace symbols flashed with your fingers before passing on.  It happens suddenly or it drags on.  It happens peacefully or we agonize and panic.  There really is no good way out.  We really are time bombs and don’t know when it is that we go off.
Andrew Millar received the news that he was going to die from cancerous polyps in his intestine, throughout his colon and into his blood stream.  He felt as he always felt but upon finding blood in his shit quite often, he decided to visit the doctor who sent him for tests.  In the same time in the same town, there was a man name Andrew Miller who was also worried about blood in the stool, saw his doctor and was sent in for testing.  The oncologist that was reading the results of Millar and Miller, mixed the two up.  The doctor told Millar that he should wrap up anything he needed to get done in the next six weeks when actually he just had anal fissures and nothing more and told Miller that he was absolutely fine when in reality, he had about six weeks to live.  It was an honest mistake brought on by the distraction that the FDA and FBI were about to bust the onocologist for prescribing unsanctioned, cheap Canadian drugs that were not approved so that he could make more money than if he purchased the cancer drugs through approved sources in the United States.  Who doesn’t want to save money?
Now Millar was a Jazz guitarist that never quite cracked the fame ceiling and was able to sustain himself just on playing music.  Millar had to teach guitar to young men who wanted to learn Led Zepplin riffs, play Glen Miller ( no pun intended ) songs at nursing homes and Kool and the Gang songs at weddings.  To really pay the bills, Millar was a substitute teacher in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles County.  Millar usually brought his guitar to try to calm the high school age kids.  He would ask them to name songs and he would play them and as time went on, kids no longer listened to much music that required guitar.  They would throw out Ariana Grande, Justin Beiber or other syrupy, bubble gum stuff that really didn’t have guitar in it.  The youngsters were not impressed with his talent.  He was just a dumpy old man who looked like he hated the world.  Millar wore frayed jeans with a collared shirt untucked so as to not accentuate his second trimester belly fat.  He had a receding hair-line and he hated that life seemed to be changing for the worse for people like him- white, male, under employed, baby boomers.  Jazz was his sanctuary.  He would show up for Jazz jams around the city where a couple or two would listen to really great musicians play out of a bible of memorized standards.  It really was the same shit over and over.  It seems that all the Jazz that anyone ever played, was created during a 15 year period which ended with the Bossa Nova fling in the 1960’s.  Other than that, Millar really did not like his life.  Being a substitute teacher is what he loathed the most in life.
Upon receiving the news that he was going to die soon.  Millar was getting ready to sell everything on Craig’s List that he could get rid of and move to Amsterdam until he died.  He was going to smoke hash when the cancer really took hold, fuck prostitutes without protection and play Jazz is some really cool clubs in a very seemingly cool country.  The phone rang early on a Monday morning.
“Listen…  I’m going to die very soon…  You know what I’m saying?  In six weeks or less, it’s taps for me.  I don’t need the sixty bucks a day after taxes just to put up with little fucks who think they have it all figured out.”
“Just this one last time…  I’m absolutely in dire straits right now.  I have illness, births, deaths and not enough people to watch these rooms…  What can I do to sweeten the deal?”
A bottle of Woodford Reserve Bourbon and the day’s pay.  Millar walked into the room to find the students sitting on top of desks, shouting, talking on cell phones and one young black man was dancing in front of a mirror.  The students were part of a “special” class where they were all just incident away from possibly becoming part of true special education environment.  Millar, moved the desks into a circle and then told the students to sit where ever they want.  Millar stood in the middle.  The students quieted down.  They were intrigued by the seating arrangement.  Millar looked down and supported his chin with his thumb and index finger.  He looked both troubled and deep in thought.  A female finally asked him what was going on.
“No bullshit busy work today.  Your regular teacher is dying or giving birth or just blowing this off because she is frazzled.  I have no idea why and it doesn’t matter to me.  I have my own cross to burn today…  I want you each to look at me and tell me one thing that comes to mind about me.  We will go clockwise…  You sir…  You’re first.”
“Old, fat, sloppy, angry, tired, lazy, white, poor, ugly, stupid, racist…”
“Very good…  You’re getting the game.  So let’s back up and guess what I was like as a ninth grader like all of you.  I was a nineth back in 1982!  Before cellphones, graphic porn, PCs, laptops and a slew of other things that have managed to baby sit all of you today…  Sir…  Start again.”
“Nerdy, skinny, small, scared, pasty, introverted, nose picker, masturbator, momma’s boy…”
“Well…  It’s as if you were all right there with me back in 1982…  Okay, now it’s my turn.”
Millar rolled up his sleeves, took out a small bottle of Woodford Reserve from his pocket, took a swig, wiped his mouth like a pirate, exhaled loudly, clapped his hands and then rubbed them together.
“You there…  Art chick.  Tall and blonde, nice brand new body on you.  You may have gone lesbian for shock value or will by the time you enter into a college.  Once the shock of lesbian wares off, you’ll have a black guy.  Not the safe Uncle Tom types that take up ice hockey and if you close your eyes, you’d swear you were talking to a nerdy white guy…  You know what I’m talking about homey, dontcha?”
Millar pointed to the young black man with braids, sitting with his legs spread and his arms crossed, wondering where this was going.  And wondering more- why?
“The oreo type that uses words like awesome after everything.  Maybe calls guys bro or dude.  He likes skiing and salsa dancing with his really white girlfriend.  They’ll take a cooking class together and Lamaze someday when they decide to spawn little zebras…  No not that type of safe black man.  I’m talking about the guy who washes his car daily, with special rims and a special stereo system that sounds like bombs falling on London with the deep bass.  His white gym shoes are a cherrished possession.  Maybe was in a gang or is in a gang.  Lives a rough and tumble life in south central LA but gets bused all the way out to Woodland Hills just so he gets to see where really white whites hide away from the real world.  Tattoos, malt liquor, weed and speaks in mumbling, unintelligible half sentences and could never look the young white art chick’s dad in the eye and say, “pleased to meet you”.  Not pleased to meet you actually…  Dude…  What else do we have here?  Ah yes…  You there.”
A muscular white guy with his team football jersey on who was squinting and picking at his nails.  He was intrigued.
“You young man…  The proverbial boy next door.  You won’t probably make it to division I or II football.  You’re too slow, too white and not meaty enough.  You need to put on about 100 lbs and six inches just so you can stand on a line and bash your helmet into another equally grotesquely large man until someday voices in your head tell you to kill yourself.  No, you won’t go pro but you could wind up a bouncer for a really chic dance club near Hollywood.  You’ll marry some petite shrew, divorce, see your kids two weekends a month, sell cars or real estate and learn that you’re not a salesman…  You’ll have an epiphany at the age of like 28 that you should go back to school to become a PE teacher and get a gig as a…  ready for this?  A high school football coach!  My advice- don’t wait until you cannot sell cars or homes.  Go to college and become a PE teacher right away…  What else have we here?  Ah you…”
A chubby Mexican boy wearing shiny black shoes, dress pants, a plain white T-shirt and a blue flannel shirt buttoned only at the top.  Millar walked by and put his hand on his shoulder before going to the chalk  board and wrote a word in large letters.
ASSIMILATE
“Vato…  What is this word in Spanish?  Someday when I’m long gone and white people go the way of the Dodo Bird, it will be a moot word.  A word not necessary anymore.  Y’see…  Old white fucks like me go home and watch old television reruns and wonder where that America went.  Half the shit in this city is written in Spanish.  The Germans, Dutch, French, Italians all learned English.  The Koreans, Polish and Russians have all muddled along but not the Mexicans.  We need to write polite versions of be smart and don’t run on a wet floor in Spanish.  Why not Dutch or German?  Because they Came here and learned the language and became part of America.  Who created Donald Trump?…  Excuse the expression…  You people by not assimilating.  ASSIMILATE…  The word of the day.  Not because you’re rapists and murderers or taking jobs beneath all other Americans…  None of that shit.  For every white or black or Asian children born, there are three Latinos, Hispanics…  Primarily Mexicans being born.  Blacks don’t realize yet that at 12% of the population, they are the minorities.  Not the Latinos…  And that tag makes me laugh.  What exactly is Latin about Mayans who were conquered by Spaniards and forced to learn a European language…  So you, gordo…  You got a charp Chevy Chort…  Maybe a 1964 Impala lowered to about three inches off the ground.  You hang out in your barrio and try to kill others who are not from your barrio, right, essay…  Who have I left out?  Oh yes…  The Asian.”
A smallish Filipino boy sat with his arms folded and was in awe of what was being spewed by the substitute teacher.
“So you speak like you’re black and love the hip-hop culture.  You drive around in a little noisy Honda all souped up to race around with other smaller Asian lads on weekends.  You have a Spanish surname, sound like you’re black and will wind up going to college to become a nurse.  You’ll marry another Asian and get together with only other Asians and will live happily as can be.  That is provided you don’t get a divorce and decide to return to Manila, dress like a broad and sing bad Madonna covers in lounges as a career…  If you do, things are all set up for you here now.  You can piss wherever you want.  You got a cock but feel like there’s a woman trying to get out of you…  Fucking piss anywhere you want.  In fact, I’d claim to be LBG or T just to get a civil servant job.  That new group will be in the front row for any sort of new affirmative action…  Well I could go on and on really.  I hope that I have reached you all in some small way and let you know how we older people see you.  Know that the best years of your life are right now and that when you have to fend for yourself, it will suck.  Can’t wait to be 21 so you can drink?  You’ll need a drink to deal with life in America…  The greatest, strongest, smartest, most witty nation in the world and that is only our opinion of ourselves… where everyone aspires to be just like us except people like this young lady here with the head scarf.  Maybe she will find the love of her life in a camp in Syria, strap a bomb to her chest and take out the French or holiday workers in San Bernardino.  You say that is racist and unfair?  How many Hindus or Buddhists are beheading westerners in the name of their religion?  So unfair to think that way…  I know, I know.  They come here to wear blue jeans and drink Starbucks just like the rest of us.  Maybe they’re just trying to keep us from being more miserable and fucking things up more than we already are.  Picture this as a commencement speech from an angry old man that is dying.  I’m dying and will be dead long before all of you provided you don’t keep your heads up your asses.  Stereotypes aside- you are what makes America what it is.  Love it or go fuck yourself…  I think the bell will ring soon.  Whatever you do, just try to be happy.  Life is short and one day you get to be my age and look at the youth and want to just slap them into reality.  I hope I’ve done that today…  Either way, you won’t forget me for a while…  Class dismissed.”
Millar got home and saw the number 2 blinking on his answering machine that he purchased back in 1988 that was linked to his landline telephone.  Millar had a suspicion about one of the calls and he was right.  It was the school principal and he sounded like he was going to have a heart attack or stroke.
“What the fuck did you do today?  You are not getting paid for today. You are not getting any Scotch. You are not coming back to this school.  You will probably get sued and wind up on the news.  I guess if there is any saving grace to any of this shit is that you didn’t show up with a gun and just kill us all.  You may have killed my job and any chance of becoming a superintendent someday and for that I have to say fuck you, you fucking dick.  You twisted fuck.”
Millar poured himself a drink turned on the computer and checked email.  There was a bunch of junk from the Mayo Clinic, invites to play gigs for twenty dollars here or there and then one from one of the students.  Millar read it and then re-read it.  He turned off his computer and then turned it back on and re-read it one more time.
“Dear Mr. Millar,
I won’t let you know who I am.  I don’t want to be categorized further.  I just want to let you know that maybe we were wrong about you and maybe you were wrong about us.  You are right that we won’t soon forget you.  I cliqued on the link to your music page and you are a great guitarist.  I’m not a Jazz fan but liked what you play.  We all would have liked to hear you play instead of try to stereotype us.  Whatever…  It’s done now.  Just thought you should know that just because you’ve lived longer, it doesn’t mean you have it all figured out and you certainly don’t have all the answers.  That’s all.
 Millar forgot to play the second message on his answering machine.  He went back and hit play several times.
“Mr. Millar, I would like a call back from you but in the interim, I have some good news for you.  You are not going to die in six weeks from cancer.  You results were mixed up with another man with a very similar name to you.  You are absolutely fine and should live a long and happy life.  Call me if you wish to discuss this further.  Please let me know that you received this message.”
Message received.  All of them.

July 7, 2014

Saying Goodbye to Father

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 7:00 am
Tags: , , , , ,

Delice, named after the Freshman school teacher that helped her mother accept the fact that she was going to become a mother at the age of 15, arrived at the hospital to see her father who was dying. She arrived wearing dowdy Amish clothing with her eldest daughter who was cross eyed and full of acne. Denise, the daughter of Delice, strummed an autoharp while her mother alternated between receiting bible verses and singing hymnals in German and English.

Delice was raised in a broken home as they were called in the seventies. She smoked pot, had sex, wore Van Shoes, Ocean Pacific clothing and had a thing for surfer boys in Los Angeles where she was raised by her mother.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

Delice moved from Los Angeles to the no-mans land in Michigan south of Detroit and north of the Ohio border. It was while working at an interstate 75 road stop that she met a young Amish man who was on his way from Michigan to Pennsylvania with family. The thought came to Delice that maybe a simple life without drugs and random sex, might be a good life. She told the young man who stopped to urinate at the rest stop and marveled at the gawdiness of the Sunoco gas station, that she had a dream about marrying an Amish man who looked exactly like him. The young man was visually taken in by the shapely and pretty young woman and so he took her with him. As time went on, Delice became more and more Amish. Maybe too Amish for most Amish.

Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, How great Thou art.
Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, How great Thou art!

Now Delice had a brother who was raised in southern California, became a Punk Rock kid who moved out of his mother’s home at age fifteen and joined his sister in nowhere Michigan with their dad. Mathew Luke or Luke Mathew as he was sometimes called, lived with his father, a former Vietnam Veteran for a lot of his life. Delice’s short time with her father prior to becoming Amish, left her with different memories of life with father.

Luke Mathew’s wife, a buxom black woman who owned several hair braiding salons in and around Detroit, sat next to her husband and texted a suitor who loved her pretty smile, large ass and breasts. Dominica loved the attention but had yet to act on her urges to be with other men who were less cavemanesque than her husband. Mathew Luke’s and Dominca’s twin sons played Mindcraft on hand held computers. They really didn’t know their grandfather nor did they like him. He was old and angry looking and really white. They were kind of white but not really.

Picture this: It is a hospital room with a patient and six other people. Two are Amish, one is a white man with no hair, tattoos, scars and a sleeveless shirt to show off his arms, his buxom wife who happens to be black and their twin boys who care most for their hand held electronics. And then the patient.

Mathew Luke waited for his sister to finish praying, singing and crying over a man she never really knew. After a thirty minute prayer that was more like a eulogy, Luke Matthew was given the chance to say a few words to his dad who was left unable to speak due to a stroke.

“Pop…you were a mean motherfucker. As a kid, my friends and all thought you looked like Charles Manson. You were a drunk, a mean drunk that shot at people who owed you money, made racist comments my whole life including calling my two boys, “the little brown ones”. Your fixation with young Asian girls is warped, your hygiene is poor as is your attitude. You should have died in that house fire ten years ago when you were burned over 65% of your body. I was told then that you would die and I knew you wouldn’t. I told them that any man who could drink and smoke for a week straight without eating and sleeping, could suddenly stop the self abuse, eat a yogurt and then jog ten miles, could not die so easily by a mere burn. Most people would have died from the pain but you lived off of the pain of life. It keeps you going. Sure you can hear me and you love the idea that your daughter who has joined a Germanic cult has come to sing songs and recite bible verses that need to go through a translator. It ain’t a bad thing. I look here today at my two boys who cannot hear me right now because they are engrossed in some mindless bullshit that I don’t understand on computers. They will stand over me one day hopefully and say something kind. So I will say something kind too. You are a strong man with a will to go on despite the fact that you have abused your liver for over forty years. On the other hand you are a racist and an angry loner. You were given the gift of a high metabolism and great stamina to have a physique of a thirty year old man while in your sixties. You helped me at times of self doubt to not be a pussy. You made me fight other boys that I was afraid to fight or face you. I was always willing to fight others than have to face you. When I thought I was impotent because I couldn’t maintain an errection due to nerves as a teen, you told me to relax and have the girl, “pop it in her mouth the way your mom once did for me”. So in closing, I don’t think you are on the way out. I think you’ll bounce back as you have so many other times before…”

Wade, their father motioned with a slightly operational right hand for a pad of paper and a pen. Wade scribbled something barely legible. It was short and to the point. It astounded Delice but not Mathew Luke. This is what it said:

FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING PUNK ASS BITCH.

August 27, 2013

Separate and Equal

“So wait a minute? You telling me that my friend is not allowed in here?”
The manager wore a thin suit with a thin tie. His hair was combed back with a grease based hair trainer and he was nervously chewing his gum, with his arms folded.
“Hey Mack… It may not feel like it to you but this is the south and the powers that are around here look the other way to what we have here so long as we don’t rock boats. You follow me?”
“Tens of thousands of Negroes are teaming around this town to get civil rights, voting rights, jobs and so forth and you won’t a let a Negro have a beer at your bar? This is crazy. You got a bar full of queers hiding the fact that they’re queer and they all hate that they gotta live double lives but there’s no fraternal bond here, eh?”
The upscale bar frequented by well to-do white men, was a nice place that had live Jazz most nights and a cigar room for men to pick out cigars, have a cognac and get to meet other professional men. You know… The musicians, the patrons, the bartender and all the male waiters all stopped dead in their tracks and watched in shock and astonishment the fact that a black man had entered the discrete bar and sat down at the bar as if he were white. Men whispered to one another. Was this another Woolworth lunch counter gimmick? A black man asks to be served just because he’s in a white establishment. Gay or not.
The bartender wouldn’t approach Clarence or Tom. Everyone in the bar was aware of the large gathering of blacks in town and the speech by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The wealthy, white, gay patrons had their own crosses to burn. Most were indifferent to the plight of blacks but didn’t necessarily feel solidarity with them over discrimination.
“Listen, if it means so much to you to have a drink with your friend, get a room and a six pack and work it out yourself. This is a business and I wanna stay in business… You follow me? So if there are those willing to look the other way on something’s but not others, I gotta respect that and as the owner of this place, you have to live with what I tell you. So hit the bricks. If you two can do this in Milwaukee or Minnesota, god bless you. End of conversation. Now get going.”
Clarence and Tom walked out of the bar and into a black Ford sedan. Tom lit a cigarette as Clarence drove. Clarence hit the pre-set buttons on their government issued automobile to a black radio station that was playing doo-whop. Tom thought to himself and then laughed.
“I dunno if we were believable as a mixed queer couple. Maybe the queers got some kind of hand signal or code words that they use with each other to identify other queers like the Masons or Elk. All I know is that for whatever reason J. Edgar is very concerned that queer joints don’t start allowing blacks in them. I can’t figure out the work detail sometimes. We got a million out of town people that are probably all communist and we’re going into a god damn gay bar to make sure black fags are not drinking with white ones… Pull over to that diner. I love their hamburgers.”
It was a diner in an all white part of town that blacks just knew that they weren’t allowed into. No signs just the unwritten look of disapproval let any blacks know that being served at the white restaurant, frequented by whites for whites, was not worth forcing the issue.
“I’m only gonna be twenty minutes or so. You wanna wait here and I’ll bring you out a burger, Clarence?”
“Naw… No need. There is a place better than this one where I can set my black ass down comfortably and eat like a human… I’ll see you in an hour. We can go in after that and write the report about tonight’s findings.”
“Ok … See you soon.”

July 23, 2013

Never Tear Us Apart

“My old man dies and doesn’t leave me his antique cars, his house, his summer house, his condo in Florida, his restaurants but he leaves me a fucking horse?”
“Yes… A horse. The horse is housed at the Hazel Park track and is a harness racer. Your father saw to it that all the expenses for the horse are taken care of. There is a note that goes along with this if you would like me to go ahead and read it.” Said the Attorney.
“Sure… Read the fucking note.”
Nicholas,
I had always hoped that you would have had my ambition to succeed and persevere. You had extraordinary talent for ice hockey and were content living in my basement to play beer pong and X-Box. The fact that I owned several Coney Island restaurants and you were content being counter help for minimum wage instead of helping me run things, sent up a red flag years ago. I have left the chain of restaurants to your sister as well as my homes and cars. You can have that beat up old home in Detroit that you now live in with your friend and I too leave you my horse. I was given this horse as a gift and I am giving it to you as a gift. I envision you and your bust-out buddy, sitting in the stands at Hazel Park betting your pittance against your own horse. It is yours to do with as you wish. Your mother always came to your rescue whenever I tried to push you along and you never amounted to much. I love you, Nicholas but could not in good conscience give all that I created to you just to have it melt away. Have fun with the horse.

Dad

“My dad was always a tight waded motherfucker… So when can I see my horse?”
Nick finished playing morning pick up hockey with Anthony at the Hazel Park rink in suburban Detroit and showed up at the stable where their horse was housed. In the stable was a small black man in a Speedo bathing suit and a pair of Timberland boots that was singing and doing Tai Chi moves. He had long hair and was ripped, as he was petite. Josiah sang the INXS song, Two Worlds Colliding. Josiah was unaware of the two large white men watching him as he closed his eyes and sang until tears came to his eyes.

Don’t ask me
What you know is true

Don’t have to tell you
I love your precious heart

I
I was standing,
you were there

Two worlds collided
And they could never tear us apart


We could live
For a thousand years
But if I hurt you
I’d make wine from your tears


I told you
That we could fly
’cause we all have wings
But some of us don’t know why


I
I was standing
You were there,
Two worlds collided
And they could never ever tear us apart.
“Fucking great… I inherited a broken down horse with a gay Sammy Davis Jr. horse jockey.”
The smallish black man stepped up to the two white men without fear. He spoke like the Geico gecko which surprised the men even more.”
“Take me for a fucking poofter will ya? I’ve shagged more female white and dark meat in me loife than Colonel fucking Sanders could shake a stick at, mate. Fuck with me and you’ll be feeding the fucking trees. Now then… Who the fuck are you?”
Josiah’s great-great-great grandfather had been taken on ship from England and dumped in Australia. Josiah’s ancestor was a former slave that was imprisoned and had found aboriginal people and mated with them. Josiah wanted to be a singer and actor and was working his way to Hollywood from Sydney, Australia and was stuck in a quagmire, which was Detroit. Josiah was talking with two career recreational, non-paid ice hockey players who never quite made it and they never made it because they lacked drive and dedication. They coasted throughout their twenties and at the cusp of thirty years of age, they were about to become inspired by a Prince look-a-like who was determined to win harness races, earn enough money and move to California to be discovered.
Josiah took the hands of Anthony and Nick and looked them intently in their eyes and began to sing again.
“You were standing… I was there… Two worlds colliding and they could never tear us apart… We were fucking brought together by a hoi-er being for the purpose of making it, mates. Let’s not fuck this up, eh?”
Nick and Anthony laughed hardy laughs and took their jockey to a Detroit Tigers game and then to the casino. They got trashed and then formed a triumvirate. Within a year, their horse won enough money for Nick and Anthony to buy a low-level minor league hockey franchise for $30,000 in the Michigan League. On Friday and Saturday nights, you can find them playing for their own team at a rink in Suburban Detroit. Patrons pay $5.00 to see fights and a little hockey. Working at a coffee shop in West Hollywood, California is a singing, small black man with a strong Australian accent, passionately desperate to realize his dreams so much so that he inspires all those that he touches to try harder and keep hope truly alive. Two worlds colliding.

April 18, 2013

The Dark of Heartness

Imagine an actor as handsome as James Dean, as respected among his peers as Orson Wells who had previously won Oscars and had them sitting on the mantle of his fireplace in his mansion, on his island that was purchased from the CEO of Blockbuster Video. Picture throngs of adolescent girls, teens, twenty something’s, cougars and senior citizens secretly and not so secretly hoping that they could be with a man who encompassed everything a man should be if a woman could construct such a man.
Many men had decided that Prescott Hall had to be gay. No man can have a perfect face, a perfect voice, a perfect body; say the most perfect things to the feminine ear during interviews with Oprah. No man cared to be held up against the benchmark of masculine perfection.
As is often the case with humans who get everything and anything they could have ever dreamed of, Prescott turned to recreational drugs to escape the reality of perfection. Something had caused the man to snap. Prescott’s agent, two large body guards and a psychiatrist found Prescott in a secluded retreat run by born again Buddhist’s in the mountains of Los Angeles, overlooking the ocean. Prescott was surrounded by unclothed morbidly obese women in a large suite that was large enough to house a small wedding party. The grotesquely large women talked, laughed, swam and ate while Prescott washed his face in bowl underneath a mosquito net. Prescott was given an injection, put in a straight-jacket and held in a Beverly Hills hotel until the day of the Oscars. Prescott won his third Oscar and gave a speech after accepting the award that would have made Charlie Sheen cheer. The Oscar was for Prescott’s portrayal of an ordinary man whose mundane existence as an office worker, misunderstood husband that is coming to grips with aging and inevitable death. The role in itself altered the disposition and mind of the most sought after actor. When Prescott took the stage, he held up the trophy and looked down for a moment. His reflective aviator sunglasses prevented anyone from seeing Prescott’s blue eyes that were bleary and swollen from lack of sleep and over indulgence. His white linen suit looked as if he had slept in it and his dishwater blond hair looked oily which all went well with his ten day old scruffy beard. Prescott said nothing for a moment and then began speaking slowly and quietly.
“I was born in Toledo, Ohio … About two hundred miles from the Ohio River… I went down it once as a kid. When you take into account the numbers of people in the world, how is it that I am the most fortunate? Was it predestine, a predetermination by my father’s Methodist god of the Missouri Synod? Or was it just the luck of the draw? To study for this role, I had to wake up in a house in a subdivision that looked like all the other homes in the subdivision. I had toast and coffee with a make believe wife and make believe children. I was on the other side looking in. So many of you are watching me tonight when ice is melting and water is rising, you’re losing your job, you’re losing your home while gaining weight, getting diabetes and high blood pressure eating shit food. We were meant to hunt and gather… How many of you are hunting at Taco Bell for late night, fourth meal bullshit? You can’t perform sexually cause you might stroke out on a little blue pill… Fuck it; let’s go see a movie… Maybe you’re that one kid who joined the Army from down the street who is now watching my movie in a tent in Afghanistan and one of those people that you’re trying to win the hearts and minds of, has decided to strap a bomb on to his chest to kill you for trying to win over his heart and mind and provide a soccer team for girls and the right for women to walk side by side with men in a market place, right? Meanwhile the United States of Benetton pretend to sort out racial tension despite the fact that they voted for a man who is kind of white and kind of black. I am now enlightened defend your son’s right to marry another man. Wait a minute! My son is the fag? Hmmm, let me think about this some more… What’s that smell? Do you smell that? Smells like freedom, it must be killed. Why does nobody give a shit that a gallon of gas cost more than the tube of asslube it would take to make shoving so much shit up our asses, more easier? You have two choices in which to vote- and that is one more than the Communists had… Republicans are the answer… No wait Democrats are the answer… Now Republicans again. So you get fat, tired and bored and go watch a movie. You wanna know who I’m sleeping with? Want to know what I eat? Do I fart and does my shit stink? With so much starvation, war, greed and depletion of resources, with crazy fucks pointing nuclear weapons at innocent people in Samoa and children dying on the streets of cities like Chicago with guns and people want to know what I’m doing. I’m playing the ordinary man.
… Yes the ordinary man. I went back to Ohio to be the regular guy, the faceless man. I looked for that Gardenia plantation or whatever I thought it was when I was a boy and it was gone. I couldn’t remember exactly where it was and so I followed the river and never found it. It was a little piece of heaven from when I was a boy and it is now gone… From what I read, I hear that my methods are unsound and that I’ve gone insane. Who among you claims to be soldiers or assassins? You’re nothing but desk jockeys on computers at the café running errands like trained ponies. Popcorn value packs at the theater and you are watching me, watching you, watching me portraying you. Ordinary man indeed. A man who is used to acting in one way never changes; he must come to ruin when the times, in changing, no longer are in harmony with his ways… Of course I’m paraphrasing. Somebody else wrote that, somebody else wrote everything I ever said. The vulgar crowd always is taken by appearances, and the world consists chiefly of the vulgar… In any event, I’d like to thank you all for making me what you have wanted me to be… I mean this sincerely with true heart felt passion when I say what I am about to say to you all next…”
Millions of people who tuned in waited for something profound and way-out to end a ranting speech . Prescott scanned the room of quiet, pretty people who smiled nervously wondering what Prescott would say next.
“Have a nice day…”

January 29, 2013

40 Square Miles and a Mule or Bring the Amish to Detroit

Picture picking up the city of Miami with South Beach, Bayside and its art deco buildings that lazily never change and placing it within the city limits of Detroit’s vacant land.  You would still have space to place the island of Manhattan and San Francisco squarely within the city limits of Detroit too but then again, why would anyone want to do such a thing to vibrant, thriving cities?

City planners had a brainstorm; find the natives who once inhabited the land prior to the French explorers and allow them to open more casinos.  It seemed like a good idea but it came up against a lot of opposition from the established casinos that already existed in downtown Detroit.  One person on the panel to find ways of selling and using vacant land presented an off the cuff, spontaneous solution that found roots quickly.  This is what was said among several men and a bottle of Scotch.

“Forty motherfucking square miles and ain’t nobody want shit to do with it…  What we should do is sell it to farmers and give em vouchers to buy horses or mules or whatever the fuck they need to plow shit…  Then these people set up farmer’s markets and sell vegetables to people within the city.  Ain’t no Arabs selling no damn broccoli at party stores…  They ain’t no other way we going to git somebody to buy up these vacant lots.”

As crazy as the idea sounded, plans were put into motion to find Amish communities and sell them cheap land, provide areas to sell their products and give them vouchers to buy horses or mules to help till the land.  As the saying goes; everything sells eventually.

Cadillac Adams had been in and out of prison for years for small time dealing, theft and robbery.  At the age of twenty-seven, Cadillac found himself back in his grandmother’s home, which was one of two homes that remained on a street that once had thirty homes.  Cadillac learned how to play a trumpet in jail as part of a program to give inmates positive hobbies.  Cadillac’s former cellmate was good at painting and was selling his paintings on Monroe, only feet away from where Cadillac played the themes from the Flintstones, The Munsters and Sammy Davis Jr.’s song called the Candy Man in rotation for pocket change from drunken white patrons of Greek restaurants and the casinos.  Cadillac was willing to give lawful means of trying to earn money without a job.

One warm spring morning, Cadillac saw a white man in a field that had once been two city blocks, he had a mule pulling some strange device that was helping to seed soil.  Cadillac approached the unique looking old white man with a long beard.

“Eh man…  Y’all some hard working folks.  I see y’all out here from sun up til sun down.  People round here cain’t quite figure you people out.  It’s cool and all but look like some Little House on the Prairie shit to us.  We ain’t never seen no farmers and ain’t never seen no corn coming up out the ground…  It’s cool.  So I don’t mean to stop a hard workingman but I come to aks you if there is anything…  Anything at all that you might need help with where I could make some money and be of some assistance to y’all.  I will be on time and never take no time off.  I know when it come to working, you people ain’t playin.”

Wilhelm hired Cadillac to do all sorts of things like feeding animals on farm and cleaning shit.  It might appear like more exploitation of blacks without a skill but it wasn’t.  Cadillac earned more money than he made blowing a trumpet and he was in no danger of being arrested for making money by unlawful means.

Wilhelm’s daughter returned from something called Rumspringa where she went into the world to experience things outside of their Amish community.  Edith went to Toronto to drink, smoke, take drugs, have sex and wear jeans.  Edith bounced around from guy to guy and then she decided to return to her wholesome, quiet, tight-knit community in northwest Detroit.

Edith came home to find a genuine black man working out in her father’s field with his shirt off.  The wiry man had tight muscles and his dark skin seemed to shine with the sweat that ran down his chest.  Edith was drawn to Cadillac immediately. Edith had been with a plethora of white guys, an Asian guy with a racing Honda and an Indian guy with an English accent who promised to take Edith to London the night they met.  The Brit disappeared promptly the next day.  Edith decided to return home to Detroit and join the Amish church, find a husband and get married.  Cadillac is not what the Amish had envisioned.

The Amish community was very clannish, community orientated and opposed too much in the way of change.  The idea of allowing an outsider into the fold was difficult but allowing a son of those enslaved Africans to marry and cross breed with a Germanic child of god, took who needed to approve the idea to do some deep soul searching.  Was it wrong for races to mix?  Could this black man who was immersed in some of the worst things the English world had to offer, give up fried foods, malt liquor, cars, flashy clothes, Direct TV and live a humble and rudimentary life?  Most had argued that from what they knew of the environs of Detroit, the dramatic life change would not be possible.  The need to sneak off and see other women, plant their seed, drink and gamble, would be too overwhelming and then they would have to deal with a broken family within the Amish community.  One man who remained optimistic and open minded, reasoned that if the president of the United States could marry one woman and remain with her, it would be possible for Cadillac to stay with Edith.  The Amish decided to gamble on Cadillac.

If you ever want to buy some vegetables and hand made chairs, there is a black dude who sits on the site of a former Amoco gas station with his blue-eyed daughter with blondish cork screw curls and light caramel skin and sells his products.  He is one to marvel at and is a true curiosity.  What astounds people most about the bearded black man in overalls is that he can speak their language.

“Number one killer of brothas is heart disease.  You want you some corn and lettuce?  You need vitamins and vegetables in your diet, brotha.  This stuff much better foh you than a spicy pickle in a plastic bag, floating round in who knows what.    This stuff here was grown right here in god’s country; Detroit, Michigan.”

November 6, 2012

We Have Black Friends or For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge

Filed under: Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,obama,Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 11:00 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

The Thames, pronounced “temz” just like the famous river in England, was lying in bed in their bedroom, each watching their own television.  It was like watching television at an appliance store.  One would have to filter out the other sounds in order to focus on their own program.  A marriage counselor recommended that in order to preserve their marriage and spend more time together, that they purchase two televisions and watch television separate but equal…  I heard that term somewhere else.

Tim Thames was watching Monday Night Football while Tammy Thames was watching Dancing With The Stars.  Tim thought the show was stupid and he concluded that if he were coached eight hours a day, he too could prance about like Gene Kelly.  Dancing was for weddings.  Watching men in tight pants writhe around on freezing tundra, was much more to his liking.  Tammy didn’t hate football, in fact she would occasionally peek at this guy or that guy and marvel at how tight and round their asses were.  Some men looked as though they had canned hams strapped to their buttocks, under Lycra.  It never mattered to Tammy who won or who was playing.

Tammy received a text message while lying in bed next to Tim.  It was a commercial break and she had been admiring football player ass when the message came in from their friends The Whites.

William and Hilary White, were black and as much as people wanted to call them Bill and Hilary, William corrected people.  His name was William and not Will, Willy, Bill or Billy.  William was his grandfather’s name who came from Kingston, Jamaica.  William thought of himself as an English gent of the Caribbean, a modern day Sidney Poitier.  Hilary was an attractive black woman with a pretty smile and a fantastic ass.  How they became friends oddly enough was through the sport of ice hockey.  Their two sons who are now in college, played youth hockey together for many years.  For over ten years, they woke up early and drove their boys to practices and games and then drank in hotel hallways and lounges together.  The White’s son was always the one black player on the hockey team.  It made the other whites, not to be confused with The Whites, feel as though they were tolerant and accepting of other races and cultures by the mere fact that they had black friends; The Whites.  Tim and Tammy often threw that out among other whites.

“Our good friends, The Whites…  Who are really black…  I mean African-American, will be at the party too.”

And so on…

Hilary had sent a text inviting Tim and Tammy to their house to watch the election results and sip some red wine that they picked up at a winery in Germany.  The Whites took a vacation and toured wineries near the French border in Germany.  William had whispered to his wife while taste testing Riesling in Germany, “Hitler must be rolling over in his grave.  Two American blacks drinking prized German wine and being served like servants by members of the master race…  It doesn’t get any better than this…”

William and Tim were both very outspoken no-it-alls and alcohol and vast knowledge often led to fights.  William was a supporter of the president and Tim was a supporter of Romney.  Wine with opposing political views pointed towards an interesting evening.

“I see you’ve texted Hilary back.  Have you already committed us to going to their place again?  In 2008, you didn’t tell me that their extended family was going to be sitting around the living room, crying and hugging each other after Obama won.  I had to pretend like I was happy too and I wasn’t,” said Tim.

“Why?  Because it was the symbolic decline of the American white male?  An attractive black man becomes president and white men are threatened,” said Tammy.

“Denzel Washington is an attractive black man.  The president is not.  The president looks like…  A monkey.”  Said Tim.

“Now that is perfect.  Our president is a simian.  How very Klanish of you,” said Tammy.

“If he looked like a fucking aardvark, I would tell you that.  To me, he resembles a monkey.  I’ll agree that he is smooth and self confident but I don’t agree that he is attractive,” said Tim.

Strangely enough, once while having sex with each other for possibly the 10,000 times since the first time in the back seat of a car during college, Tim fantasized about being behind Michelle Obama and Tammy fantasized that the man behind her was the commander-in-chief.  Tim and Tammy were prone to a lot of talking during sex.  It was also the counselor’s opinion that they connect more with each other while having sex in the form of verbally relaying their pleasure with one another.  There would be rhetorical questions such as, “Who owns this pussy? Or who wants this pussy?”.  On a night when neither of them was saying much, they both had thoughts about fucking the first lady and the president while fucking each other.  Both Tim and Tammy had given thought to fucking William and Hilary but never discussed it with each other.  Both had accused the other of being a little too inviting in their body language, tone of voice and smiles with the Whites.

“George Bush was an unattractive man and you never said a word about how he looks.  Why is it that you have yet to come to grips with the fact that our president is black?”  Asked Tammy.

“I don’t care about how white he really is while appearing to be black.  Our president was raised by his grandparents just like most black kids are today.  The difference is that he was raised by white people in Hawaii and he went to Harvard.  He comes off as some native of Chicago and he is about as much a Chicagoan as he is truly black…  Be all that as it is, I don’t want to be around a bunch of gloating black people if Obama wins re-election.  I don’t want to pretend I voted for Obama too just so that I don’t appear racist.  Whites and I don’t mean William and Hilary; still make up 65% of this country.  If whites don’t vote for the president, he isn’t going to be president.  I’m tired of hearing how racist whites still are.  Nobody tried to kill the president and whites overwhelmingly voted for a blackish man,” said Tim.

“Blackish?  Like brackish?  You really are racist and have not come to grips with it.  We live in an all white neighborhood with a smattering of Indians and Koreans and you work with white people in another all white area and people of color make you uncomfortable.  Face it so you can begin to accept it,” said Tammy.

“That sounds like some kind of Oprah-esque brainwashing.  Unless you go out and hold hands with queers and people of all other colors other than your own, you’re racist and homophobic.  I have voted Republican since Reagan when I was a senior in high school.  I voted once for Perot and felt like an asshole after doing it so I will most likely vote Republican until I die.  Not because they are the white party as much as they are not the party to worry and cater to those who don’t wish to do for themselves, don’t care if queers want to fuck up their lives with marriage and hand out money for abortions.  Today if fags want to get abortions, nobody really cares.  People are worried about losing their jobs and homes.  Everything else is not important.  With unemployment still up and the housing market still flat, I don’t see what has happened in the last four years that would make me want to vote for Obama.  Call me racist or call me a realist.  I hope you’re not voting for him because Oprah told you to or because you think he is more attractive than Romney.  I hope you are not fearful of Mormons and for that reason voting for a man who might be a closet Muslim,” said Tim.

“If you don’t want to go, I will simply tell them we are staying home,” said Tammy with folded arms.

“No, we’re going.  They will totally think I made you not go.  I have a gun to my head on this one.  I will go and I will not boast and beat my chest if Romney wins but don’t expect me to cry and bring up Rosa Parks with their relatives if Obama wins.  I don’t want to argue with William either.  I cannot believe he would argue with me over the word fuck.  It most definitely means, for unlawful carnal knowledge and not fornication under consent of the king.  He still believes he is a subject of the queen because he was born in Kingston.  The queen doesn’t give a shit about Jamaica unless she’s looking for a bottle of rum,” said Tim.

Tammy flicked off the light and turned off both televisions.  She turned on her side away from Tim and did not say goodnight.  Tim felt bad and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.  He kissed her softly on the neck and told her that none of that stuff really mattered to him and that finding the person best suited for his life was what really mattered most to him.  Tammy turned towards Tim.  The nice, unsolicited words just put her in the mood.  Tim wrapped his arms around his wife and he began to massage her cold and pimply butt cheeks while kissing her.  They made love as they had many, many times in the past.  Tim then rolled over and immediately began to fall asleep.  A good fucking for Tim was like giving a baby a bottle of milk.  Tim was ready to sleep.  Tammy on the other hand was wide-awake.  She could feel Tim’s hand getting heavy around her waist.  She thought that she should probably say something before Tim truly fell asleep.

“Honey?”

“Hmm?”

“I need to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me, okay?”

“Okay…”

“Would you say my ass is as nice as Hilary’s or Michelle Obama’s?”

Tim didn’t want to come off as a liar or have his wife think that he was lying even though he was about to lie.  Michelle Obama and Hilary both looked like they had canned hams for buttocks.  Asses that could support drinks and so on.  Tim wanted to sleep and he wanted Tammy to sleep too.  He had to think quickly.  He leaned in and kissed his wife under her ear.

“In this age when men need Viagra.  I never need a boost when it comes to you.  You still give me a full metal jacket after all these years.  I still feel like an admiral of a beautiful ship when I get behind you…  I’d rather have your ass than any others.”

Tammy bought the nice words and Tim fell fast asleep.  They will be watching the election results with the Whites tonight.   How about you?

October 23, 2012

The Final Debate or Lions, Tigers and Da Bears

            The Washington’s, no relations to Harold the former first black mayor of Chicago or George the first white president of the United States that they are aware of but then again you never know, were sitting in their living room after work, school and dinner.

            LincolnWashington, the patriarch got a job at Mc Donald’s as junior in high school.  Lincoln would take a Woodward Avenue bus from a rough section of Detroit and when you are talking about a rougher than average area of Detroit, it would be in the running with some of the most dangerous areas in the world.  Be that as it were, Lincoln found a job in the suburbs and started at $3.35 an hour in 1983 by 2012, Lincoln owned two franchises of his own.  Lincoln drove a Lincoln Navigator and his wife drove a Chrysler 300.  Lincoln set his wife Mi’chelle up with a day spa in downtown Detroit near the casinos, ball parks and Greektown.  One could get their nails done and the stress of American life kneed out of their backs while listening to Kenny G and a waterfall within a small cubical.  The Washington’s were ahead of the American curve and living the American dream.

            Lincoln and Mi’chelle had two children, Tonisha and Dwight.  Tonisha, the eldest, left Detroit and immigrated to South Africa.  She wanted to be part of the transformation in the new South Africa.  While going to school in Capetown, she met a handsome young man who surfed and was an heir to a winery.  So much for bonding with true black Africans and taking up their struggle.  Tonisha married a blond haired blue eyed Afrikaner who surfs for a living and does part time promotional work for his father’s winery.  Their mixed race children run around the beach.  The two boys like to play Rugby and surf and hunt with their grandfather Pieter way out in the bush.

            Dwight, who was named after a former American president, received a scholarship to the University of Chicago and bought a bean pie one day from a clean cut looking young man on StoneyIsland on Chicago’s south side, became his friend and eventually joined the nation of Islam.  Dwight returned to Detroit to try and transform poverty sticken areas and convert hopelessly poor people to the Nation of Islam.

 Tonisha was in bed asleep in Capetown when the final debate started. She fell asleep wondering how she was going to get her hair done, get Fredrich to his Cricket practice and Wilhelm to his Rugby match all at the same time.  The next president of the free world never entered her mind.  Meanwhile in Detroit, Michigan, her family sat glued to the television.

            “I got it right here what Romney actually said about the auto industry.  It’s on the internet for everyone to look up and find.  How can that man bold face lie about something that is in print for everyone to find for themselves?”  Said Lincoln.

            “I wish you’d hush… That man is your president.  Your president went out on a limb and saved this town from going outta business.  He believed in the auto industry and believed in Detroit and you still standing behind a white man who didn’t even believe you were a human being until 1978.” Said Mi’chelle.

            “It’s been 4000 years since white people came from Africa and Africans to go into the world and become the pasty white devils that they are.  Black people are duped and herded by the Jewish agenda.  Jews have us buying into believing that they carry the struggle of the black man with them.  How many poor blacks do you see? Now how many poor Jews do you know?”  Said Dwight.

            “Boy, hush up…  Sammy Davis Jr. was as black as he was Jewish.” Said Lincoln.

            “How can I respond to that sort of a comment?  Where is the logic, dad?  The Candy Man was a black Jew so we should all become Jews?”  Asked Dwight.

            “No, I’m asking you to hold your tongue so we can hear what the men have to say.  Ron Paul ain’t going to be the next president no matter how much you and Farrakhan want him in.  It’s going to be one or the other and you might as well get used to it.” Said Lincoln.

            The president and Mitt Romney went on to sell themselves on the American public on who would be a better man to serve the nation’s interests and needs.  Lincoln sat in his chair strategically in front of the television, Mi’chelle sat on the couch while Dwight leaned with arms folded against the wall of their 4,000 square foot home that was insulated by the fact that at 14 Mile Road and Telegraph Road, they were a great distance from the blight and hopelessness that the average Detroiter lives with day in and day out.  Quiet and desolate streets appearing to be a ghost town among abandoned homes or slabs of concrete where homes used to be where sparsely scattered homes inhabited by trapped people whose plight will not change whether the president is a Republican or Democrat.  At 14 miles from the center of downtown Detroit, there was low unemployment, well kept homes with manicured lawns, nice cars and children playing outside.  The difference between living and surviving could be found within fourteen miles.  The difference between the first world and the third world, the invisible and not invisible, haves and have-nots all within just 14 miles.

  The father, mother and son agreed to disagree.  The father wanted a man who was a good business man to run the country like a prosperous business.  The mother wanted to stay the course and follow a man who inherited a tremendous mess and believed he was doing well considering the hand he was dealt and then there was their son.  Their son was rebelling against his parents who embodied the true essence of the American dream; follow your dreams, work hard and you will prosper.  Like any bored and privileged suburban young man who is underemployed and still living at home, Dwight was raging against the status quo.  Idealism eventually gives way to reality with maturity or when bills need to be paid was what Lincoln quietly concluded to himself about his son.

 The debate ended and Lincoln turned the television on to the football game between The Detroit Lions and the Chicago Bears just in time to see the Lions fail to score.  At the one yard line with less than three feet from the end zone and six points, the Lions fumbled the football.  The family winced collectively and then they were quiet for a moment.  Things appeared to be returning to the way things had been in Detroit for a long time after a great football season the year before.

            “I think we can all agree on one thing…  The Lions are still the same old Lions.  Thank god for the Tigers.”

July 12, 2012

Romney Meets the NAACP

Filed under: humor,Mixed Race,obama,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 3:54 pm
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                As Mitt Romney took the podium in front of a gathering of the NAACP, the song, It’s Your Thing by the Isley Brothers blared through speakers throughout the auditorium.  Mitt smiled and waved as he waited for the song to stop while gripping the podium with white knuckles with his left hand.

                “ I feel a bit like Fidel Castro facing the John Birch Society, Jesse Jackson at a Klan rally or W in front of …  A room full of scholars.”

                There was a polite chuckle from the audience at Mitt’s attempt at easing into an uncomfortable situation.

                “There is the saying that one is damned if they do and damned if they don’t and really that is the boat I am in today.  Nobody likes to waste one’s time or waste one’s mind…  For that really is a terrible thing.  I thank you for the opportunity to speak to you today and I’m not really sure what I am here for except to provide cannon fodder for the press to exploit the fact that I am nervous and out of my element.  I don’t think there is one person in this room who will be voting for me and I can respect that.  I could explain to you the differences between me and my opponent but to beat a dead horse is silly really.  I believe in being frank and direct.  Call a club a club and a …  shovel a shovel…”

                Mitt took a drink of water and momentarily studied stern looking faces and folded arms.  He took a deep breath and waited for the teleprompter to illuminate the substance of what he needed to say to the conventioneers.  The teleprompter appeared to be off.  Mitt had no notes in front of him and the screen was black. No pun intended.  A sudden moment of panic caused his body to feel flush.  His heart pounded, his hands slightly trembled.  The words flowed from his mouth like water from a broken pipe or watery feces from an asshole.

                “The Republican Party started more or less due to the fact that we believed you people should not have been slaves and servants to anyone.  A white man or any other sort of man other than black or white…  It has been since the Great Depression that things have changed for people of color…  Your color that is and the Republican Party.  With us riding the crest of a second Great Depression, I believe it is time for you to return home…Like it was during the Civil War… In that I mean that the ties between Negros and Republicans was strong and could and should be again as I stand before you today.  Nearly four years of hope and change that has not arrived and I’m hoping you may change your minds or open your minds up to a change that could help keep hope alive and even flourish and prosper.  I still believe in this country where if you assert  yourself, you can be anything you really want.  Look at Colin Powell, Condoleezza Rice and Clarence Thomas…  They should be shining beacons for all people and your race in particular.  They beat the Bell Curve and showed that you don’t need to be a misogynistic Rap artist to make it in this land…  You might not see it this way but among white people, Mormons are a bit of a pariah.  We were chased out and discriminated against going back to Joseph Smith.  There are still those that would rather vote for the other guy strictly over my religious beliefs.  I believe I understand what it is to be a minority and to be discriminated against…  the more things change, the more they really don’t change all that much…”

                Suddenly the teleprompter began to work again.   A light went back on in Mitt’s head as if there had been some sort of a juggling, bumbling comedy act  by candlelight that gave way to an awesome light show, with glamour, glitz and slight of hand.

“If equal opportunity in America were an accomplished fact, then a chronically bad economy would be equally bad for everyone, Instead, it’s worse for African Americans in almost every way…  And that is why I am going to eliminate every non-essential, expensive program that I can find — and that includes Obamacare.”

            And with that, the afternoon tea party with the NAACP concluded. Fait accompli.

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