He wears the names of all the black
men cops shot on his back like a target, a member of an exclusive club he uses
as an excuse not to do what other people are required to do, or do what he
thinks is due him, boasting about how he is a freedom fighter for those 400
years when he people were chained as the cash register camera at the local drug
store catches him pocketing cookies he thinks he doesn’t have to pay for as one
small reparation, then accused the guard who confronts him of racial profiling
when both of them are black – a rebel with a cause so oblique as to seem
transparent, a me-too like warrior determined to get his because other got
theirs, and he thinking that they got theirs on the backs of people like him,
and so he will get his regardless of the facts or reality that he is a target
because he so desperately thinks he needs to be, aches to be, doing all he can
to provide those he hates, doing anything to prove he has been right all along,
attributing their reaction to his color rather than how he acts, refusing to
remove his hat or even stand during the Pledge of Allegiance to a country that
gave him birth, but not the yellow brick road he expects.
He wears the names of the black men
cops shot on his back like a target, leaving space at the bottom where someone
else can jot down his name, too, a member of a still-more exclusive club nobody
in their right wants to be a member of, except him or the masked idiots he’s
too intimidated to join up with, except remotely, the unmasked avenger who
weeps over Charlottesville, or all those other places of conflict, as if each
victim was his immediate kin, half hoping he has courage enough to provoke real
racists in places like those, when all he can do is strut about in his own neck
of the woods, crowing like a headless chicken, painting anyone who disagrees
with him as a racist even when they are not.
When he came into the office and said
he’d been “racially profiled” at the local drug store, nearly all the liberal-minded
kumbaya staff took him at his word.
He claimed he had gone into the store
to buy a drink and a package of cookies, and the security guard (who I later
learned was black) had followed him around just because he was black.
Our guy usually wore a black lives
matter t-shirt with the names of the victims of police brutality on it.
Perhaps the guard or the clerk didn’t
trust him because of that.
Then at the check out counter, the
guard asked him to empty his pockets, claiming that he had shoplifted a second
package of cookies.
Indignant, our friend refused, and
left the store, leaving his drink and the package of cookies on the counter,
and a guard shaking his head.
I filed a complaint with the corporate
offices of the drug store and a few days later the head of security for the
company called me, telling me he had reviewed the tapes – and that video
supported the guard’s claim, and also showed that our guy apparently threatened
the guard when confronted.
“Your friend walked out of the store
leaving behind those things he actually paid for,” the security man said. “We
didn’t pursue this legally.”