by Omar Tyree
I walk up and down Wisconsin Avenue doing that window-shopping-type shit. They got all these dress clothing stores with suits, ties, and shoes inside the showcases. Then you got antique stores, a few book stores, and all these expensive-ass white restaurants.
All these wealthy-ass, affluent white people are walking past me. Most of these motherfuckers are Georgetown students. The rest are just rich preppies. This probably the only part of D.C. they know. Except for when they go to RFK Stadium in Northeast to see the Redskins play. I mean, this old-fashioned-looking Georgetown area might as well be another damn city. You know what I’m saying? These white people don’t really live in D.C.
“Transfer, main man?” this bummy brown nigga asks this college student on M Street. He shakes his head and walks on.
The bummy dude looks to me now with droopy dog eyes, looking all pitiful. “You’on got no transfer, do you, brotherman?”
I shake my head. “Naw.”
“You got any change?”
Fuck it. I reach into my pocket and give Joe two dollars. He looks at the bills and back to me, but he still don’t look too happy. That makes me feel like taking my ducats back. You know?
“You’on have to do this, man. I just needed fifty cents to ride the bus back to Southeast.”
I frown at him. “What’chu wanna give it back t’ me?”
This motherfucker smiles. “I’m just sayin’ that it was nice’a you to do dat for a brother, you know? I mean, I ain’t gotta tell you how hard it is for a nigga out here.” He shakes his head. “I mean, you know how shit is for us.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I walk down M Street seeing more homeless-looking niggas begging for spare change. This shit don’t make no sense when you figure that a lot of these white people up here are rich. Then these motherfuckers wonder why we out robbing people. We should be robbing their asses, for real! You know what I’m saying?
I jump on a 32 bus and head back downtown. It’s always white people on these 30 buses until you get to the southeast side of D.C. Then you see nothing but niggas on the bus. But every now and then you’ll see like a “poor white trash” person or a white businessman that looks like his car broke down. It’s a lot of white people in Capitol Hill on the southeast side though, and then in them big-ass houses back Pennsylvania Avenue. White people always have the best shit. That’s fucked up!
Anyway, I hop off the 32 bus at Fifteenth and F Streets Northwest. I walk across the street from the Treasury Department building.
“Look, Mom, there it is!” a little white boy shouts to his mother. He’s pointing his finger upward-like.
I turn around to see what he’s looking at. And damn, I should have guessed it. He’s all excited about the Washington Monument.
I stand here and stare at the shit myself. That statue looks like a long-ass white dick. Seriously though! I mean, what is the significance of a damn statue that goes straight up in the air? You know what I’m saying? That ain’t no amazing shit to me. Anybody can build that.
But you know what? I heard people say that that shit does represent a white dick. No joke. And I heard that no building in Washington is allowed to be taller than the monument.
Ain’t that a bitch! So like, the white man is saying that he wants the biggest dick in the city. Then motherfuckers go right down there and take pictures of his dick, send postcards of his dick, sell posters of his dick.
Wait a minute. I don’t believe this shit! I’m out here lunchin’. But it sounds true. I mean, white men are always talking about how big the black man’s dick is. So this motherfucker went right ahead and built his own big white dick for everybody to see. And even niggas come down here, year after year, and pay tribute to the white man’s big dick.
I start laughing at my thoughts. This white family turns around and glances at me with pink, fake-ass smiles on their faces. I guess they’re thinking I’m just another crazy, jet-black nigga. But fuck them white people! I know what the hell I’m laughing at!
I head to Fourteenth and F and catch a 52 bus going up Fourteenth Street. A bunch of Hispanics is getting on this bus. And when you get all the way up Fourteenth Street, these Hispanics are every-fucking-where. They even got their own damn stores in Adams Morgan. Years ago them Hispanic motherfuckers had a riot. They were saying some of the same things that niggas cry about. You know,about America’s racism and the lack of jobs and discrimination and all that type shit. But all the niggas that I know just went up there to snatch some free-ass gear.
I jump off the 52 bus at Fourteenth and U. They got a whole bunch of new stores up here after rebuilding. I remember when this shit looked like that movie Escape From New York for like five years. I mean, U Street was all fucked up, and it took the city long as hell to build the Yellow and Green Line Metro stations. Shopkeepers were complaining because it messed up a lot of their businesses. I can’t blame them motherfuckers. They wouldn’t do that in no white neighborhood! But fuck it, Ben’s Chili Bowl is still here.
I get on a 96 bus. I ride it back to Georgia Avenue, heading to Carlette’s crib. When I get off, this Hispanic dude damn near hits my ass while I’m crossing the street. Motherfucker better watch where he’s going. They should ban them piece-of-shit, put-together-ass foreign cars them Hispanics drive anyway. Them niggas act like they can’t buy no new ones. All their cars be out of them car lots. I ain’t lying! And then they put them horns and shit in them and give them all these crazy-looking paint jobs.
I get back to the Howard Towers Plaza-East and walk in behind some students. My boy ain’t at the desk now, but I made it in without him anyway. Carlette should be finished by now. It’s almost seven o’clock.
I get off on her floor, turn the corner, and spot that same nerd who was talking to her out here a few months ago when I came over.
“All right,” she tells him as I walk up.
Nerd dude waves and walks down the carpeted hallway toward the elevators.
I point to his back. “What’s up wit’chu and dude?”
Carlette pulls me into her kitchen by my arm. “Come on, he’s just my friend.”
I smile at her. “So you in here cookin’ for me, huh?”
She stirs a big pot of pasta boiling in hot water. “I’m cooking for both of us.”
I look inside the pot. This shit looks like some big-ass pieces of pasta paper. “What da hell is that?”
She laughs. “It’s lasagna. I have to lay it on top of the cheese and the tomato sauce.”
“Oh.”
I head to her bedroom and take off my Nike Airs and my jacket. I get ready to stretch out across her bed, but she got a newspaper and books spread all over it. I pick up the newspaper and read the large print headline:
VIOLENCE INITIATIVE: THE GOVERNMENT’S PLAN TO SEDATE BLACK YOUTH
Carlette comes in while I’m reading this article in New Dimensions newspaper. Some crazy-ass white man is saying that inner-city niggas are like wild African monkeys and that they need to be calmed down with medicine when they’re young. And yo, this white man talking about giving them psychiatric medicines at five years old and shit!
This doc is crazy! Them motherfuckers are just kids!
“I’m doing a report on that,” Carlette tells me.
“Oh, yeah?” I’m still reading it.
I throw it back on her bed when I’m finished and shake my head. “Damn! Yo, they can do that?” I ask her.
She nods. “If black people don’t complain. They’re already using Ritalin and talking about using this drug called Prozac. But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
I sit down on the edge of her bed and pull her toward me. “What?”
She pulls away and smiles. “No, I’m serious. I want you to help me with my homework.”
I frown at her. “Help you wit’cha homework?” What da fuck is she talkin’ ’bout?
She grins like a fucking she-devil. “I need you to answer some questions for me.”
“Like what?�
�
“I want you to remember when you were young.”
“Yeah, what about it?” I ask her suspiciously.
“Were you angry?” She sits on the floor in front of me with a notebook and a pen in her hand.
I look down at her like she’s crazy. “Wait a minute. What da hell is dis?”
She sighs and looks up at me all innocent-like. I know she gon’ try to sweet-talk me now. Watch.
“Did I ever ask you for much?”
See what da fuck I mean?
“Aw’ight, aw’ight, I’ll answer your damn questions. But first, what is it for?”
“I’m doing my final research paper on ‘The Angry Black Man’. That’s my title.”
“For what?”
“I just told you, it’s for my final.”
“In what class?”
“Sociology.”
“Sociology?”
“Yeah.”
I grimace. “Oh, so you tryin’a use me as a guinea pig.”
She smiles. “No, I’m not. I just need a tough guy like you to answer some personal questions.”
“Are you gon’ use my name?”
She looks at me as if I’m stupid. And I guess I am from the way she’s looking at me.
“Of course not, Darnell.”
I’m thinking about it. A few questions shouldn’t be that bad, but I’m still feeling funny. I mean, first that college boy Wes gives me a damn lecture, and now this Howard bit—I mean, my girl wants to quiz me for some research paper.
“Come on wit’ it then,” I tell her.
She leans up and kisses me. “Thanks.”
I smile and shake my head. She got me feeling like a silly-ass bamma. But fuck it!
She leans up on the floor with her back to the wall. She says, “Okay. Would you call yourself angry when you were little?”
“Yeah.”
“Why were you angry?”
“My mom did it.”
She stops and looks at me. “Your mom did it?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“How?”
“I’on know. Like, she was always fuckin’ wit’ me. And I remember this one damn time she burned me with a cigarette an’ shit.”
“Why?”
“Because I was hard-headed.”
Carlette sits quiet. She acts like I just fucked up her whole interview. She’s sitting there looking all sad. She finally shakes her head. “Man that’s messed up.” She says it with a cracked voice, almost like she wants to cry.
I suck my teeth. “Man, fuck that. I mean, I was aw’ight.”
“But still, burning your kid with a cigarette? See, that’s why people are talking about having licenses to bear kids now.”
She’s getting all dramatic about the shit. I mean, it was only a little burn. I didn’t even cry.
She sighs again and starts over. “Okay. Did you know your father?”
“Naw.”
“Did your mother talk about him?”
“Not as much as my gran’mom did before she died.”
Carlette looks confused. “Why did your grandmother talk about him?”
“’Cause I guess he got on her damn nerves. I’on know.”
“Well, what kind of things did she say about him?”
“She called him a devilish man.”
“A devilish man?”
“Yeah, my gran’mom called e’rybody that shit—my uncles, my cousins, me.”
Carlette shakes her head like she can’t believe it. “Okay, okay. Did you ever have any events where your family had a good time?”
I smile. “Yeah. Me and my cousins used ta throw rocks at cars an’ shit. Then we used to chase stray cats and dogs with slingshots. Get in fights with other niggas. Aw, man, girl, we had a bunch of fun.”
She bursts out laughing. “No, Darnell. I’m talking about, like, family reunions and stuff.”
“Oh, yeah.” I think back to the time. “We ain’t really get along though. Like, my gran’mother had the Bruce family up in New York, but she ain’t really like ’em ma’fuckas. And the Halls? We only had small shit, and we’d always get into family fights and whatnot.”
Carlette shakes her head again. “This is so depressing. I mean, sure, every family has fights and stuff, but what good things do you remember?”
“Umm, me and my cousin Cal used to draw comic book shit and go to the movies a lot, make Kung Fu weapons. Run ball with my uncle and his friends. A whole bunch of shit.”
Now she smiles. “You used to read comic books?”
“Still do.”
“What kinds?”
“Any kind. But da shit is Wolverine, from the X-Men. He like dat!”
She nods. “Yeah, I’ve seen him on TV. But he’s ruthless though.”
“Yeah, that’s why he da shit.”
“So, you like being ruthless?” She’s starting to take notes again.
“Sometimes you gotta be.”
“Why?”
“Ta let ma’fuckas know you ain’t bullshittin’.”
“Why is that so important to young black men?”
I smile. “Why is it so important for girls to get their hair done?”
She smiles back. “Is it that simple?”
“Damn straight! Would you go with that nerd dude you had up here?”
She grins. “He’s not a nerd.”
“Answer the question.”
She looks away. “No. Okay?”
I laugh. “Yeah, know you wouldn’t.”
“Anyway.” She looks back down at her notes. “Okay, here’s the big question. Do you feel that white society has contributed to your being angry?”
Now I look at her like she’s stupid. “What da fuck you think?”
She smiles. “Okay then. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you feel that white society has added to you being angry?”
I frown. “’Cause ’em ma’fuckas got all da money.”
“What about poor white people?”
“Fuck ’em. I hate ’em.”
She cracks the hell up. “Okay, Mr. Ice Cube. This is not Predator, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever. Next question.”
“Okay. Why is black-on-black crime more prevalent if white people are the real enemies?”
I rub my chin and look past her. “I’on know. Like, niggas be tryin’a carry you all da time.”
“Carry you? That means like to diss you, right?”
“Yeah. Niggas be frontin’ and showin’ off and talkin’ shit, and all that makes you wanna fuck ’em up.”
“You never beat up a white boy?”
“Not me, ’cause dey never fucked wit’ me. But I know niggas that used t’ go down Georgetown jus’ ta fuck up some white people.”
“Why?”
“Because dey wanted to.”
“But why?”
“’Cause they don’t fuckin’ like white people!”
“But you don’t like white people either, right?”
“Fuck no!”
“So how come you didn’t go?”
Yo, I’m gettin’ tired of this now. “I told’ju! White people ain’t never fuck wit’ me.”
“So how come you hate them?”
She got me there. I sit here and blow out air. “Because it’s their damn fault that we in this shit in the first place.”
“So why not try to get out?”
“How?”
“I don’t know. By gettin’ an education and bettering yourself.”
Okay, I knew dat shit was comin’. These Howard ma’fuckas always talkin’ dat get-an-education shit. But I got somethin’ for her ass.
“Yo—right. I know dis ma’fucka whose family is educated and got money. But he say that them ma’fuckas is puppets for the system. And he say that the only power niggas really have in this country is in’na streets. So he’s out in the streets even though he don’t need to be because he say he don’t want to end up like his punk-ass fath
er! Now, what’chu think about that? Your father’s educated, right? What kind of power he got?”
“He gets to make his owns decisions and he’s helping black people to get healthy! My father loves black people. But he says that people like this friend you’re talking about have to learn to have faith in themselves and that nobody can give you power, you have to learn how to get it the legal way and go after it.”
“Yeah, well, how much money does your father give back to poor niggas after he charges them the hell up, and what would he say about you fuckin’ wit’ me?”
“I don’t know what he’d say about me talking to you, and I don’t know how much money he gives to charity!”
“Fuck charity! I’m talkin’ ’bout niggas, not da fuckin’ American way! That ain’t nothin’ but white people, t’ me, that and that Red Cross-type shit.”
“Well, you have to earn money. This country is not the Salvation Army. People know that. So we need to all grow up and realize that this is a capitalistic system.”
I smile at her, still thinking about Butterman. “Well, this nigga say that’s what he’s doin’, capitaliz-in’, just like the white man capitalized on slavery in Africa, opium in China, Native American land over here, and drugs and alcohol now. So what about that, Miss Educated?”
Carlette looks at me with sharp-ass eyes, like how I look when I’m about to bust somebody up. “The difference is that we’re doing it to our own people!” she yells up at me.
We both sit quiet for a while. I ain’t mad or nothing. I mean, if I had money and the peace of mind to go to college, I would. But I don’t. “So you got any more questions for me?” I ask her.
She looks like she’s pissed the hell off, but she looks sad-like too. She says, “I just think people like you are being used. And I mean, I like you a lot, but it never seems like you wanna listen and do something positive with yourself.”
I suck my teeth. “Stop fuckin’ cryin’. You know damn well we ain’t no match made in heaven.”