Please Excuse My Skin’s Unfortunate Color
Most of my acquaintance with urban living comes through having lived in New Orleans for the last five years. Living in the city has it’s advantages but, more and more, I could move out because, the more experience I have, the less safe I feel as being of minority race.
Earlier tonight, I was on my way to a nearby store to buy a few things I’d run out of; I was minding my own business, walking down the sidewalk, when suddenly a passenger in a car crossing at the intersection some yards ahead pushed his head and shoulders out of his passenger-side window and yelled, as loudly as he could, in tones of intense anger, “Fuck you, bitch!”. It was completely apropos nothing; our only “contact” to that point was through his having caught sight of me as his car was crossing the intersection. It’s the fourth case of majority-on-minority verbal abuse I can recall since October. The women seem just fine; the worst I can say is that a few of the clerks here and there seem to resent my coming into their store. Most of the men are okay, too, but at least a small fraction of them seem to wish they could waste me on the spot even though we’ve never before laid eyes on each other. More and more it just seems reckless to live in the city; God knows if I had children there’d be no question of my having them around those angry freaks.