The guy with the gun was white. Darryl is black. The officer only saw the black speeding but not the white guy with the rifle right in front of his nose. Darryl is upset, and he wants me to know.
Another black man, from the same party, comes outside and tells me a similar story. Their message is clear: the black-white division in America is not a poor-rich division, but racial.
It’s all about race.
Which raises the question: What race am I?
I’m in Houston, and in Houston you have all kinds of businesses, not only oil companies. One of those other businesses is called Family Tree DNA.
Many Americans are busy taking DNA tests these days because they, the “diverse” people, want to know who they really are. There are blacks, I’m told, who take this test to find out if they have white genes, which would mean that they are actually white. Makes total sense.
Who am I? Am I a Jew, or perhaps I am really a Saudi. Personally, I’d like to be a Saudi sheikh.
I go to take the race test. The DNA test is fast and almost painless. I get a kit, which identifies me with a number, and I am given something that looks like a set of two toothbrushes. All I have to do is take these brushes and rub them on the inside of my cheeks. Rub, rub, rub, rub, rub, rub, rub. Then I put the brushes in little containers on which my number is assigned. In a few weeks, I’m told, I’ll be given a detailed report of who I am and where I come from.
I can’t wait.
• • •
Oscar, Oscar! Where are the good people of Texas? Did you, by any chance, mean the people of Vidor? Vidor, I hear, is a racist, skinhead city, where the Ku Klux Klan used to have a number of parades.
I have never seen any KKK characters up close, and I would love to see them now, parading or otherwise. I drive to Vidor, in southeast Texas. My Captiva can drive anywhere and everywhere.
Captiva is not white; she’s gray, kind of silver, and I really hope that silver is an okay color in KKK land. She’s not black, and I hope that’s good enough.
When I reach Vidor I stop at the first parking place I find, a consignment shop parking lot, get out of Captiva, tell her to honk if she gets into trouble and walk inside. What can I see in Vidor? I ask in the shop.
Neither the shoppers nor the owner are used to having a stranger pop into their lives with such a question. I assure them that I’m not a cop, an NSA agent or even an FBI agent. I’m just a fat tourist from Europe. They smile and talk to me.
As far as they know, they say, there’s nothing special to see in Vidor. Is there anything specific you’re looking for? they inquire.
Honesty is the best policy, goes the American saying, and I tell them that I’m looking for a couple of KKK sweethearts.
No one can help me. “I don’t think they are alive anymore,” a young man tells me. “My old grandfather was a Klan member,” but that belongs in the past. The KKK, others tell me, left town ten, twenty or thirty years ago.
Are there any skinheads around?
Oh, those types abound, about one thousand of them.
Great! Where exactly could I find them?
“They are on crystal meth,” a man volunteers, and I had better avoid them.
No chance. I want to see them.
You’d better not go there, he tells me, unless you have a gun on you. I don’t, and I don’t plan to buy one today.
It’s a dangerous place out there, he warns me, and he who goes there should expect to be shot, robbed or both. “You don’t want to meet them,” he says. “They are the type who’ll rob you and steal everything. They’re no good.”
The skinheads, a young lady tells me, are members of the notorious Aryan Brotherhood gang, and they live in mobile homes, trailers. They are white trash, and they are dirty as well. “Nobody goes there,” she says sternly. The other people in the shop concur.
Logically, I should heed their advice. But the possibility of facing one thousand anti-black, anti-Jew individuals in one setting arouses my curiosity, and I turn deaf to their warnings. Not only that. I would love, love, to see an Àsatrú service. I missed the service in the North Dakotan prison; I shouldn’t miss one again, oh, no!
Where exactly, ask I, should I drive to reach the meth-consuming, trailer-living white supremacists? They give me directions: drive south, cross the rail tracks, pass the church, make a left and a right and you’ll see them there.
I drive. Two minutes later, when I look to my right, I see a number of police cars surrounding two young white people. This is an arrest, I guess.
I drive there.
The cops handcuff a young blond girl and push her into a police car. Once done, they do the same to the blond guy. Their vehicle, an old pickup truck, is being impounded. Crime? Narcotics. The skinheads in the area, one of the cops tells me, are very upset today because the police have arrested a number of them.
I think of Andrea, who told me that cops shoot more white people than black people, and wonder: Is this true? I don’t know.
I do a little research and this is what I find: during 2015, as of today, almost 250 blacks and close to five hundred whites were killed by US law enforcement personnel.
Where are the skinheads located exactly? I ask the cop.
Don’t go there, he tells me, adding: “I wouldn’t go there!”
Captiva and I drive on.
I make a right, a left, a reverse, a right, straight, left, straight, over and over and over; I drive all around. No shot is heard. No one bothers me. When I stop to ask for directions, I get friendly responses and helpful instructions.
Where are the skinheads? Where are the guns? Where are the crystal meth folks? Where are my Aryans? Where are the Àsatrú worshippers?
There are trailers here, some with big American flags; but that’s it. I spend a considerable amount of time in search of racists and anti-Semites, but I find none. This part of the world is as dangerous as Dearborn.
Yes, it is possible that some real nuts live here. It is also possible that some real nuts study in UC Berkeley.
While driving out, I notice a restaurant by the name of Schnitzel. Must be Germans, part of the fifty million. Let me go there.
When I stop at Schnitzel the owner is having a smoke break outside, and I join her. Her name is Monika, and she is originally from Germany but has been living in the United States for many years. She tells me that whatever I heard about Vidor has no basis in reality. Maybe it was like that a generation or two ago, but the neo-Nazis that lived here have either left on their own volition, were forced to leave by one or another government agency or simply passed away.
As we chat more, over two more cigarettes, she tells me about many of her thoughts, including that she supports Israel. Yeah. If you want to meet a German who supports Israel, come to Vidor, Texas.
Cigarettes done, we walk in. It’s late in the evening, about one hour before closing time, and there are only two people at the restaurant now. Both are children of German parents, one is an older man and the other middle-aged, and both are monks from a nearby city. Last night, one of them tells me in perfect German, ninety-seven people stayed at their monastery. Both are very happy that they have the power to influence people.
Not all people, as you know, think proper. For example: Monika. Supporting Israel is wrong, damn wrong, they say.
Why?
“The Palestinians have been living there for seven hundred, eight hundred years,” and that parcel of land belongs to them.
Didn’t the Jews live there as well? At least, this is what the Bible says, isn’t it?
Hearing this, they get upset with me. Why, in heaven’s name, am I bringing the Bible into this discussion?
Well, I tell them, you are monks, aren’t you?
This gets them even more upset. I am intruding on their privacy, they suddenly say. They just had great food, the food mama used to feed them, good German food, and I had to come here and mention the Bible? What a chutzpah! “The Bible is not a history book. What the Bible says a
re just allegories,” says the younger monk, who is now very, very upset.
Perfectly okay with me, I say. But since the Bible’s stories are just allegories, could we also conclude that Jesus himself is just an allegory?
The discussion is over, declares the younger monk. Now I have really crossed all boundaries. The older one adds that the media is controlled by the “rich people.”
Do you mean the Jews?
Obviously he does, and so immediately the younger monk motions the older monk to stop talking; he gets up, and they both leave.
I tried to chat with Vidor racist skinheads and I end up with two old outsider monks who feed their bellies with schnitzels and their souls with hatred.
When I entered Texas, a monument for the dead who fought hatred stared at my face. When I leave Texas, I stare back and what I see are living haters eating schnitzels.
Adios, Texas; hello, Louisiana.
Gate Twenty-One
A man with no teeth has a heavenly smile
AS I REACH LOUISIANA I STOP BY A LITTLE RESTAURANT. I HOPE THAT Louisiana will finally save America’s reputation for me and that I’ll find some good food here. Louisiana, many people have told me before, is a state where people love to eat and they know how to make food, good food.
The waitress comes to my table and starts talking. Oh, Lord of lords, I have no idea what she’s saying. There are many accents across the USA, and I thought I understood them all. But oh, was I wrong!
I try to strike up a conversation, just to get my ears used to this new accent. What’s the best thing in Louisiana? I ask the lady.
“Bores,” she says.
Bores?
“Many bores.”
That’s all you have, boring people?
Now she has no clue what I am saying. It takes me some time, of sheer confusion and delight, until I successfully decipher the accent. Bars, she said, not bores. It takes another ten minutes, and by then we understand each other perfectly well.
Bars.
Out the window is a big sign about Jesus. I have seen more Jesus signs during this journey than I care to count, but this one is special. Here goes:
Jesus
There is power When you just Say His name.
Thank you Jesus.
The food arrives. Fried and delicious. Thank you, Jesus. Somebody in this country knows how to make food. Hallelujah!
On the top news of today’s American media, written in a clear accent, I read these:
Washington Post: “Palestinian protesters set fire to a Jewish holy shrine in the West Bank.” Fox News: “‘How to Stab a Jew’: Palestinian leaders condemned for violence.”
Can’t American media get busy with other things, let’s say Red Zone, and with other people, let’s say Mad Dog?
• • •
The temperature in Louisiana is about thirty degrees lower than in Texas. I love Louisiana! I drive on.
Somewhere along the roads, I think it’s called Pierre Part, I see people in boathouses and I stop. I pay a visit to one such boathouse. The owner, Pam, is sitting on the porch with a few ladies, her guests. “My husband killed a deer this mornin’; he went deer huntin’. We freeze it and then we cut it,” she says. “He’s gonna go back huntin’ this afternoon to kill another one. We’ll put it in our freezer and then we got our meat for the year. Would y’all like some coffee?”
We all do. In the north they say you guys. In the south they say y’all.
Are you a proud American? I ask Pam while sipping her American coffee.
“Very proud! For Labor Day we had some wounded warriors come down. Some with no legs. You know, that far foul country.”
Iraq?
“Africa, Afghanistan, and all that; you know. And they came down here, and my husband took ’em on airboat tours. They were just – and before they left they gave my husband a purple heart. Yeah! I mean, it – it was – it was sad, but I was so happy I got to meet these people.”
What did they tell you about Afghanistan?
“Oh! He got hurt, he had a leg blown off, but he was so worried about his friend that he saw was bleedin’ that he crawled to him, just tryin’ to save his life. I mean, they told us – ”
Did he explain to you why America is fighting in Afghanistan?
“No.”
Do you know why America is fighting in Afghanistan?
“No. Because it look like it’s not helpin’ any. They just keep on fightin’ and fightin’ and fightin’.”
Did he tell you what’s going on in Afghanistan, what’s the reason America went to Afghanistan?
“There are certain things they want to talk about, and there are things they don’t want to talk about.”
They never told you why?
“No.”
Do you know why?
“No. I don’t have no idea why they fightin’.”
But you stand by them?
“I stand by my troops. Yeah.”
She thinks for a second, how to best explain her feelings to a stranger, and then says: “My uncle, he went to Korea.”
She did not vote for Obama, she tells me, even though she’s a Democrat, because she despises him. You don’t like blacks? I ask.
“Oh, I don’t mind blacks. Not at all.”
Pam’s two female friends drink coffee and tell me why America went to war in Iraq. The reason? The Iraqis came in and blew up the Twin Towers in New York. I tell them that they were not Iraqis but Saudis, but they don’t see the point. What’s the difference, after all? Saudis, Iraqis. It’s all the same. One of the ladies has fifteen to twenty guns in her home, the other one has thirty. Why not? If you can afford more than one gun, why not have thirty?
What I see here is not a common sight: Americans socializing with one another. Most often, as far as I have seen, this is not the case. Blacks and Spanish tend to socialize more, even in the ’hoods between shootings, but whites are usually into their own, befriending their TV sets and socializing with their cars. It is nice to witness this exception.
When I leave them I think of Robin. Robin doesn’t stand by her troops, she stands by justice. Not everybody is Robin.
• • •
In an hour, maybe two, I reach New Orleans. We’re just driving, Captiva and I. We can’t stand still.
The first man I meet is Mike, a tall, fat black man walking around with a cup of beer. Could you, my friend, tell me what’s New Orleans about?
“In New Orleans you can drink like a rock star, eat like a pig and party like an animal. Any way you slice it, it’s a good time.”
He has a good time. He even counts for me, in case I want to know, the total number of fingers he has on both his hands: “Six on one hand, half a dozen on the other.”
New Orleans, others tell me, is about football. To be more exact: the New Orleans Saints, which is the local professional team. New Orleans, with its long history of brothels and drunks, slaves and jazz couldn’t come up with a better name for its professional sports team.
Saints. Yep.
For tourists, New Orleans is about the French Quarter, where they drink big glasses of beer and dance to music performed by mediocre musicians and singers of jazz and the blues. I’m on Bourbon Street, one of the French Quarter’s most recognized streets, and I get bored pretty quickly. It’s such a tourist trap!
I walk away from the quarter into the rest of the city of New Orleans, looking to meet real people, and soon enough I meet Frank. Frank is riding his bike in a black New Orleans neighborhood, and when he sees me he stops. He seems to be over seventy years of age and is missing almost all of his teeth, but there is a smile on his face that refuses to die.
Who is this man?
In 1971, Frank tells me, he went to Germany, where he stayed for four years as part of his military service. He was, as they call it here, a “GI” (Galvanized Iron/Government Issue, US military personnel).
You speak German?
“Kinder Deutsch [children’s German],” he answers in Ge
rman, laughing heartily.
What did you do when you came back?
“Truck driver.”
What can you tell me about America?
“It’s a great country to live in, one of the best in the world.”
It takes a few minutes for Frank to feel comfortable with me, and when he does he tells me a different story, the real story.
Years back, about ten years ago, Frank now tells me, he worked in construction and he was told that he “may not use the bathroom” in the house.
Why, because you’re black?
“That’s right.”
So what did you do?
Well, if there was a restroom in the garage, he could use it, but not the one inside the house. “You work for some people, and if you ask the people if they would let you use the bathroom or not, they might fire you because you actually asked the people to use the bathroom.”
Does this still happen today? According to Frank, yes.
Frank doesn’t like President Obama. “For me,” he tells me, “he hasn’t done anything.” Under Obama, he says, his food stamps were taken away and his only income nowadays is what he gets from Social Security, which totals $762 a month.
I’m trying to calculate how he lives off such a small amount.
How much is your rent?
“I’m homeless.”
Where do you live?
“In the street.”
Where do you take a shower?
“At the Mission.”
A church?
“Yeah.”
And where do you go to the bathroom?
“Burger King.”
But he has healthcare.
Frank has four daughters and fourteen grandchildren, but he doesn’t ask his children for help. He wouldn’t “take food out of their mouths,” he explains. He doesn’t want his daughters to know that he’s homeless. And to make sure that they don’t find out, he doesn’t keep in touch with them. But from time to time he rides around their houses just to take a look at his grandchildren.
The Lies They Tell Page 29