fLY for a White GUY

With the dust of Middletown USA fading into a fond memory, I arrived to survey my new assignment as an aspiring member of the eastern media elite - back to school in Gotham. Jettisoning my Banana Republic shirt and matching Bullwinkle cap, I emerged from a chic clothing boutique suitably attired with forward-cut, dyed-black hair, matching shirt, pants, and clove cigarette. Hands deep in my irony reinforced pockets, I strode out to gather insights.

Bye and bye, I came by a schoolyard. On this first day of classes, several kids amiably ambled around the yard. That's when I noticed something different. Stopping, I took quick note of the kids. The kids took quick note of me. Then it happened. No one fired a shot. No one even pulled a gun. I blinked in shock. You don't get this kind of respect in small towns, I mused, scribbling in my K-Mart notebook, remembering that new NRA bumper sticker: Guns Don't Kill People - Kids Do. These days, some small town dictionaries even list their own definition for pre-teen - "Felon." But I digress.

A closer look at the playground revealed a glaring explanation for this shocking anomaly. The school was in the middle of big city Manhattan, and the kids in this schoolyard were Black. Filled with a melancholy nostalgia, I closed my eyes, remembering those grande days when Roget's thesaurus listed "Inner-City" and "Back Kid," as synonyms for "run away as fast as you can." Times change of course, and it had been years since I started crossing the street at the first sight of anyone resembling Wally Cleaver. Heck, I can't even look at a GAP shirt anymore without trembling. Sure, friends slam me as an anti-suburban bigot. But hey - I'm still alive aren't I?

What's my survival secret? Well, first, I'm from the suburbs. I'd long since clawed my way out, but never forgot where I came from. Truth is, I would have been more than thrilled to blow away any number of people when I was a kid. It's just that my pesky parents would never give me a gun. Golly, if I knew then what kids know now, I would have sued them for that. Imagine - No pistols, no automatic re-load. Ridiculous as it now seems, that's the way it once was. I guess I grew up in a simpler time. Call me an old fashioned traditionalist, but in those days, when you wanted to kill someone over a pair of Hush-Puppies or something, you had the good grace to meet them first. At least tell them why they had to die. So who's the culprit today?

Technology. Kids today just have it so easy. Log-on to E-Weapon Dot Com, find a crowd, pick the birth date of a notorious dictator, and unload. Blame it on acne, or that prom date gone bad. If you're older, blame it on that pesky balding pattern, expanding waistline, or your workplace proximity to the local post office.

Some point fingers at the culture of male violence. That's silly. When I was a kid, we would meet some new guy on our block, check him out, tell a few jokes, and size him up. If we liked him, really liked the guy, we'd step back, huddle, look him up and down one last time, then ask the obvious - "Think we can kick his ass?" What's violent about that? But I digress.

Calculating that there might be a Pulitzer itching to reward my insight, I consulted an urban psychologist for elaboration. Scrambling to a nearby electronics store, I checked the TV display window for any doctor appearing on three screens or more at once. The winner stood out like Vanna White. I quickly called on I.M. Awll, Ph.D., TV, MTV. Diligently confirming his credentials, I noted that the New England Journal of Medicine listed him as the only man of medicine appearing on more screens than Marcus Welby and Dr. Kildare combined. Amazingly, this man of letters answered his own cell phone.

"I.M. Awll here, I got 90 seconds before the end of this commercial break, shoot."

"Doctor," I hurried, "I'm exploring complex sociological reasons behind modern male violence. In 30 seconds or less can you explain the central difference between male and female socialization patterns?"

Doc didn't miss a beat. "Watch two female friends re-unite after months apart. 'Oh hi, hey hi, yeah, oooh, great, hi.' You can't understand a single word. But you know it's basically about shopping."

"OK," I nodded, scribbling furiously into my K-Mart pad.

"Now, watch two guys re-unite after months apart. You'll see energetic slapping, pushing, and an occasional hook to the solar plexus, then words to the effect of, 'yo homo, where you been - afraid I'd kick your ass?'"

Tasting groundbreaking territory, I pressed on. "So what's the easy answer to this multifaceted problem?"

"Like the NRA says, the answer to violence is always more violence."

"What?" I probed.

"Find the most quiet, polite, White man on your block, and kill him."

I dropped my Bic. Doc sensed my shock.

"Look, just tell the judge it was only a matter of time before the guy picked up an automatic weapon and stopped by his local Kwiki-Mart for some misplaced revenge. That's what quiet people do, especially short-haired White ones from small towns with numerous satellite dishes."

Inhaling deeply and thanking the doctor for his wisdom, I disconnected. Picking up my Bic, I reflected. Then it hit me. No wonder doc holds the TV multi-TV screen record. Awll was fast, clear, and preposterous. The golden stuff of high TV academia.

That night, typing the lead line of my sure-to-be award-winning expose, I asked myself where I might fit in with all this mayhem. I was a suburban weaned White guy, after all. "Was I a pending menace too?"

Maybe, I considered briefly, then dashed the thought. My hair is too long, I talk too much, and my hometown is too big. I'm safe, I conclude. Closing my laptop with reassured relief, and reaching for a clove I then think I hear someone say ... "Hey - you talkin' to me?"

But I digress.

Yours truly,
Xandor

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