TBX- On the Job

There you are on the train, free Metro paper in hand, towards your place of employment. There are 2 empty seats in the same general area, one next to another hood resident you might find somewhat threatening if you weren't black (but your black instincts tell you is just some guy in Timberlands) and the other across the aisle near a pack of loud little street urchins on their way to P.S. 666, the local public inner-city high school. Unfortunately you forgot your headphones, so blocking them out isn't an option...you take your seat next to Timbs and wait for your stop. The high schoolers yell and cuss rambunctiously, reciting rap lyrics and detailing their sexual experiences (true story). One kid forgot his headphones too, but doesn't let that stop him from blasting top 40 urban radio hits out the back of his phone.

It's then that you take a look at the car around you. You see a slice of the city's population. Besides the school kids and your seat partner, the majority of the others present are white. As the kids carry on making early morning asses of themsleves, some of the whitefolk begin to whisper and gesture subtly in their direction. Your black instincts can't help but wonder if on some level they wonder if you have something to do with it...or worse, discussing bets on when you're going to join in. Even though you have nothing to do with the situation, you can't help but feel mortified. These little fucktards are making you look bad in front of the neighbors...you wish you could say something, but your black instincts tell you such an action would result in a conspicuous confrontation which you lack the hood experience points to handle safely and effectively.

However, one of the white folks on the car don't have black instincts. Having had enough, he rises from his seat next to his friend and calmly asks them to quiet down so his head doesn't fold in on itself from sonic pressure brought on by long-term exposure to Nicki Minaj. The kids just stare at him blankly, but you kinda wish they would shut the fuck up too, and think he makes a good point...until he's struck in the back of the head midsentence with a huggie juice bottle stuffed with Donut Stick wrappers, the remains of some kid's breakfast. The thrower's girlfriend then speaks up.

"Shut the fuck up with that bullshit white man don't nobody wanna hear that who the fuck is you you ain't my pop my pop is black and you ain't nothin but a bitch ass blah blah blah..."

She continues with her tirade, spewing complex blends of profanities, epithets and good ole bad English as fast as she can draw breath to do it. The man realizes that any further action on his part may land him in jail, so he cuts his losses and goes back to his seat. The kids cheer on the young smartmouth, who feeds on it like a forest fire and just keeps screaming. You look around at the other horrified passengers and shake your head...that's when you overhear someone nearby remark that that's exactly what to expect out of "those people". You find yourself offended, but more than that with a deep sadness that another negative stereotype of your people has reinforced for all to see. Luckily, the train pulls up to your stop in Center City and it's off to work before any further embarrassment.

You slide into your desk, put your paper down, and check your email. That's when your boss, a middle aged white guy who mostly knows black people from watching BET with his 13 year old son, walks up the hall. You don't particularly like him, but you deal because you're paid to. You can hear his approach because he greets each of his (mostly white) employees.

"Hey, big guy...what's new?"

"How's it going, Charlie?"

"Good morning, Beth...say, you're looking good today!"

Then he strolls on over to you at your desk.

"Yo, what's good, dawg? You chillin'?"

Your black instincts can't help but notice your greeting was a bit different. He spoke to everyone else in his path in a professional manner and then went all Malibu's Most Wanted on you. It ain't the first time this has happened to someone that works at your job...you just never noticed before because you weren't black. It's a minor irritant though...you shake it off, mumble a greeting back, and attempt to move on with your day...but your boss hasn't finished his business there with you.

"Check this out, my brother...we're getting together a pickup basketball team around the office. It's so gangster. We could really use somebody like you...I know you probably have a wicked jump shot."

You can't stop yourself from giving him a fucked up look for half a second. Not only have you never mentioned basketball at any point during your employ (and damn sure wouldn't say it or anything else unwork-related to him if you did), you haven't ever been on a serious basketball team, only play at the park a few times a year and in fact, lettered in some other sport in high school. Your black instinct tell you something's wrong here, but you ignore it and explain why you're not the best guy for the job. He scoffs.

"Don't try to play me, my brother...I know you people know your way around a basketball..."

Your black instincts flare up...now wait just a damn minute. You cock your eyebrow. He immediately sees his error in judgement and scrambles to correct it.

"Duh...I...not like that, not "you people"...I meant...um...people from this city...and...I just thought..."

You increase the intensity of your stoneface 35% and stay the course. He's now in full despration mode.

"D...um...hey, here's an idea. How about I treat the whole department to lunch and we hang out in the conference room? Yeah...that should be fun...what do you say, bromie?"

You accept his reparation invitation with an eyeroll and he nervously shuffles away. You now begin your mundane job duties, which I don't even care enough as a writer to describe. After a while, it's lunchtime. Your boss comes into the office with a huge bag of KFC and assorted sides. He puts the bag on the receptionist's desk and begins to make a speech. Your black instincts tell you this is probably gonna be bad (and whatever color instincts you naturally have probably agree).

"Attention everyone...just wanted you guys to know I appreciate what you do around here. You're the soul of this company...and what better way to show you I care than with some authentic soul food? Everybody dig in!"

You can smell the tasty little birds and for some reason they smell even more delicious than usual today...you didn't eat breakfast, other than whatever little snack you bought this morning, so you're starving...but your black instincts tell you that being too quick to the chicken is an open invitation for your boss to make some stupid ass joke. You decide to hang back and watcj your co-workers bumrush the food. They all get plates before you and eagerly tear into them. Eventually you get to the food and see that all the good pieces had been taken. You see your boss laughing it up with one of your co-workers while eating the big piece of chicken. Well, at least he can't make jokes with his mouth full of poultry...you find a couple pieces, scoop up some sides and go back to your desk to eat. Your boss, however, wants to chat with you...so he comes over to your desk yet again.

"Hey, I'm sorry about this morning...I was cold trippin'. I thought a little grub might smooth things over. I thought about you when I picked the menu...how you liking that? Just like momma used to make, am I right, my brother?"

You recall your mother can't even cook...she was too busy working 2 jobs and going to school as a single parent of 3 trying to make a living wage while sucking on the government's teat as little as possible. You were willing to ignore the chicken thing, but this shit is too much. You finally explain to him that while lunch is okay (and not authentic in the least), he really could cut back on the assumptions and also he can talk to you just like everyone else because we speak English too. This seems to confuse him.

"Don't be like that, my brother! We don't have to have beef. We have got to stop all this black on black hate!"

Before you can interrupt him, he continues.

"We go way back, dawg. I ride for you in these corporate streets, and now you don't bang with me? I thought we were cool, why do you want me to cry, homie? I feel you though, you still feel some type of way from this morning. I'll let you do you, come back and check on you later, all right? We cool, my brother?"

Your black instincts urge you to punch him in the face and make at least one part of him black, but you know you could get fired, go to jail AND get a record...and your black instincts know your black ass ain't ever getting a legit job again once you get into the system. You think better of it, tell him it's cool and shake his hand (the normal way). He attempts a series of exotic hand tricks during the shake, but eventually you just let your hand go limp until he's finished. He then takes his leave.

"Ail right, man...stay black..."

Your black insticts bristle. They can be restrained no longer. They tell you that you've taken all you can take from that asshole and the word after the next word he speaks to you will be "ouch". You look at the clock. It's 2:30 and you don't get off til 5...but you can't leave. If you leave, somebody will notice and you may get fired. However, your black instincts tell you that if you stick around and he comes back to your desk with some ole jive-talkin bullshit, you're gonna deck the shit out of him with a keyboard and you WILL be fired. You play the odds, sneak out a back stairwell, and head for the next part of your black experience...maybe you'll make it all the way through this one...

Part III: In the Media- coming next Friday!