Few months back during a casual walk down the street, rockin' my favorite U.G.K. hits on earphones and singing along, I found myself in a tense predicament. There I was on my usual walk through God's glorious green land getting lost deep in contemplation, "Why's that sewer cap rusting?" I thought. "It's merely a result of rain attempting to erode it and restore the natural balance and harmony of notorious Mother Nature." "Why's the sewer even need a cap?" I thought. "Because the Turtle Lair needs many exits in strategic locations, dipshit." I quickly calmed.
There were birds in the trees beckoning thoughts of peace, but frankly, they're just flying twats that like to sit and shit. There were flowers with their supposed beauty and nauseating smell. Old mailboxes and unsupervised kids I passed by, or maybe they were passing me by. Lost in deep thought I was, and losing track of myself by the world's wondrous stimulation. Unwittingly, I was singing along to one of my favorite U.G.K. jams, which I believe was a cover of Marilyn Manson's "Irresponsible Hate Anthem".
As an intimidating tough black and I crossed paths, I was oblivious in my Ipod-sedated state and mouthing along to these street lyrics I can relate to:
"Peep this game here, nigga I'm not no pimp. I pimped fifteen years ago.
Nigga, I got DEGREES in playa... and pimpin on niggaz, hoes,
e'ry nigga get in my face, I'll play on 'em. You up, nigga?"
Of course, while repeating these introspective lyrics merrily aloud, I forgot to show tact. As a progressive American, proper grammar is of utmost importance to me - as slang is reserved for inferiors - and pronounced the racist words in their entirety. Unfortunately, I was wrong in my thought that all racism escaped America with the invention of Music Television and the internet.
The big black man stood before me, then put me in a headlock before slamming me into a nearby steel fence. Dazed, I told him, "Yo, holmes. Homie dog, chill out. Just feelin' these joints here from my main men Underground Kingz."
"Bro, it's cool. I'm on my way to see my bustdown who happens to be Puerto Rican which means she's five percent black, plus her uncle is married to a sister, yo. I was strollin' up to the bustdown's crib and singing along to this song that said the n-word. My bad, man."
After being grabbed by the back of the neck and virtually dragged into his home six blocks out, I was forced to do yard work and paint the exterior of this man's garage. Later that evening I was invited inside. "Cracker, you alright," he said. "My name's Black Jerome. No light reflects off me, I'm the blackest. I've got low tolerance for snowmen, but you made good on your word to mow my lawn and didn't break any of my two dozen lawn gnomes, including my beloved Professor Pinky. It really means a lot. Come get some lemonade."
I was still shaken by the experience. Perhaps it was fear or Stockholm syndrome that allowed me to enter the house and not question his moniker. After an awkward conversation and an attempt to leave, Black Jerome invited me to see Scrubs with him. The subtle affection between J.D. and Turk gave me a new level of awareness thanks to this peculiar situation. It was a bonding experience. Nothing like the bonding afterward, which left me more battered and bruised than the earlier roughhousing. Could this be the love I sought to find nature's harmony; the unrelenting beauty I can't find in my buxom Puerto Rican girlfriend, or in the most stunningly bright blue jays?
Well, we've been together for all of three months now. It's an open relationship on his side, where he has casual sexual encounters with other men and women, but I'm pretty sure he's the love of my life. I will never say the n-word again, except when B.J. asks for it, which tends to be in private and followed by a derogatory term for homosexuals. For the record, I am not gay, merely dealing with the joyful consequence of being a passive white man whose racial insensitivity insulted a studly, comely black man.