Rush Hour Racism

Today, a black girl tried to beat my ass.

It’s not the first time, though it’s not like I go around attracting much violence, as a habit.  And it’s certainly not the first traffic altercation I’ve ever had during rush hour; one expects a little yelling and the occasional flipped bird — it’s part of the tax on cars, I guess.

Now, what hurts immediately is the humiliation, no doubt.  Being a rational being, I can’t justify getting into a fistfight over someone (her) driving like an ass; if I fought everyone who drove like an idiot I’d be Rambo, and anyway, nothing that happened is worth property damage, physical damage, or police involvement, not to mention what a fistfight in the middle of the street now would do to my self-image later.  No, I made the right decision when I drove off (while she tore open her car door, leaving her three kids inside a running car stopped in the middle of a busy street) … but I drove off to a chorus of, "That’s right, white bitch!  RUN!"  And nobody likes to do that.  It feels like cowardice, even if you know it isn’t.

That’s an hour gone, though, and I’m mostly over it (and most of the way through a much-needed beer).  What I’m not over, and what I’m more angry about in retrospect, is that she was black.

Living in a racially-charged area as I do, avoiding racism is a constant struggle.  Not because I’m a twit, or because I led a terribly sheltered life, or anything like that.  It’s a constant struggle because everybody else is doing it, emphatically including the "other side".  Being white around here means desperately trying to not be racist in spite of constant slurs, "honky" yelled from cars, insinuations everywhere that you shouldn’t be in this store or on this street because you’re the wrong color, ominous overtones, What’re you doin’ out here, white girl?  It’s fighting to see clearly in spite of the fact that nice little old white ladies think it’s perfectly acceptable to want to be segregated, and nice little old black ladies think you’re the devil, and all the stereotypes you try so hard to ignore keep coming up to bite you in your white ass.

What was it, three months ago, that a black guy mugged my mother right in front of me?  I jumped every time I was near a black man for weeks after that, and felt like a total dickhead every time I did it.  The constant berating myself for what was obviously a simple animal reaction really wore on me, but I was mostly over it when Ms. Sterling Parent leapt at my car, humiliated me, and left me cringing every time I drove past a black driver all the way home.

I’m not racist by nature, okay?  I’m a philosopher, a reason-fanatic, wisdom-worshipper idealist.  But it seems this world, or this place, or something — maybe it is black people — tries its hardest to make me into a bigot.

For now, I shall finish my beer, play with my daughter, and practice some martial arts, and hope that the combination does something to salvage the evening.