(Warning: This post contains some harsh language beyond what I would consider normal, even for a gal who curses like a sailor as I am inclined to do.)
Today, I went to the movies with a good friend I’ve had forever, a fellow named Malakai. Kai’s black. I’m not. Suffice to say, in 2006, neither of us gave much thought to this issue.* We went to the Big Regional Mall. BRM is what I call my “Home mall”. That is to say, I know it inside and out, worked there in high school, and basically, it owns my soul. (Nordstroms. Cole Haan. Macy’s. Apple. Cheesecake Factory. Urban Outfitters. Need I say more?)
We went and saw “Dreamgirls”. I sat next to an elderly African American lady who smiled, patted my hand, and told me about her days in a girl group in the 50s. The movie was amazing– who knew people would spontaneously burst into applause? At a movie. Like… Not a stage show. A movie. We did. The whole theater.
So, we’re leaving. We pick the car up from valet (Yes, I realize how that sounds. Shut up. It was impossible to find a place to park. $4 not to have to park my car during the holiday season? Sounds brilliant to me.) I’m driving my trusty SUV and we head out. I know this mall; I know this parking lot. I follow the traffic pattern through a series of small mall parking lot intersections, clearly designed by Satan and implemented by his bitches.
A very, very angry woman in an ugly burnt orange SUV about four times as big as my petite SUV tries to barrell through a stop sign and hit me. Oh. I should probably mention that owing to the fact that it’s 60 degrees (F), I have the windows down. Blaring rap music. Because I can. This woman, in this SUV, screeches to a stop as I’m caught in a bit of parking lot traffic. She throws her door open, as does her male companion. They’re shouting at me, screaming at me, but I can’t make it out. I turn down the music.
“I didn’t have a stop sign!” I called.
“… GODDAMNED NIGGER LOVER! MOTHERFUCKING NIGGER!”
“…”
(Dear Reader, that would be the sound of my jaw dropping and Kai’s middle finger flipping up in sheer reflex.)
They’re advancing on my car, and I realize that I, along with Kai, are about to get in serious, serious trouble. As if by the Grace of God, traffic clears, and I floor it. I’m shaking, laughing and crying all at the same time, while I try to drive. Kai is cursing up a storm, furious that my safety, his safety was threatened. I reach over, and take his hand. He reaches over, puts his hand in my hair.
“You okay, baby?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Good.”
He nods at me, and we sit at the light in a troubled silence, waiting to turn left, to head for home, eight miles away, to our liberal college mecca where that never would have happened. I literally, at that moment, had feared for my physical safety. But even now, I wonder about the damage to his dignity. To my dignity. Because we’re southern. And white. And black. And all of those things wrap up in a messy ball of identity that seems impossible to sort out or tame.
I take great pride on being from the South. I treasure it. My accent. The way I think about things. The idiocyncracies, and the silly turns of words, and ridiculous superstitions. The way small towns are, but especially small southern towns. The sweet tea and the magnolias and the postman who’s been your postman since you were 3. The high school teacher who you invite to your wedding and the parents of your friends who smile and stop to chat with you in the grocery store. It’s whistling dixie and being delightfuly, amazingly southern.
But there’s an ugly side to the south. And it hurts, when it’s thrown in my face; smacking me and knocking me into the mud. It’s the accent. The silly turn of words that seems innocent but means something nasty. The Flag, and The War, and whistlin’ dixie. The poverty and the ignorance and the hate and the violence. It’s being inexplicably, painfully southern.
Kai’s been my friend for a long time. He’s lovingly nicknamed me, “The Whitest White Girl” ever because of my fair (not pale, fair, damnit) complexion and my geeky taste in country music. He does admit, however, that due to the Otis Redding, James Brown, Sam Cooke, and Kanye on my pink iPod, I have a bit of soul.
He’s one of the only people I can honestly say has seen me cry, throw up, and pass out. Sometimes, all at once. (Don’t ask. You don’t want to know!) He’s that kind of man. You know the kind I’m talking about. The one who holds your hair back, or wipes away your tears, or undresses you as much as modest and decency will allow and then tucks you into his bed and sits beside you all night, watching you sleep. To make sure you’re all right.
Nigger lover indeed.
They can kiss my pretty white freckled ass.
We drove home. Rap music blaring. Windows down.
Holding hands the whole way.
*This is not to say that I don’t understand there are still a ton of race relation problems all over this nation, particuarly in the American south, but. Seriously. The *mall*. I live in a pretty socially, if not politically, liberal area, too. Who says that anymore? Who acts that way? In public? Fuck off, you ignorant fucktarts.
