white male rage in new mexico
I back-track a little this morning to head into Las Cruces so I can go to the post office and get hooked up to the internet. I'm pleased to see a Starbucks sign, so I won't have to go to MacDonalds as both Starbucks the clientele and the workers have been very progressive all across the country plus no one will think I consume that micky-dee poison.
Even though the cafe is hopping so early on a Saturday morning, I find a large table where I can sit sight unseen by the workers, in case anyone wants to demand that I purchase a coffee in order to use the internet, which no one does.
A compact and wiry 40ish white man approaches my table and fools me into thinking he's pleasant and hip, especially for as isolated a town as Las Cruces is. He has a wide friendly smile on his slightly tanned face, short but not too short neatly trimmed light brown hair, off-white t-shirt and jeans with a brightly colored unbuttoned vest giving him a casual relaxed aura.
After his initial soft-spoken request that I share the table with him, curiosity lacing his inquiry about my ownership of the truck outside. I didn't see him come in and I wasn't aware of him noticing my shirt painted with "death to misogyny" not really visible behind my laptop nor reading my "are you great yet" hat so I half jokingly ask him how he figures that.
He lights into me, his smile and soft voice a fleeting figment, leaning across the table, and stridently demands to know why I hate white men. I ask him what makes him think I hate white men. "That hateful message you have on the back of your truck", he spits out each word with increasing volume.
I tell him he needs to calm down and stop yelling at me if he wants to have a conversation. He stares at me as if I've suddenly grown six heads (which I wish I could have). I continue by inviting him to take the seat he has pulled out for himself and reassure him I'd like to talk with him but only if he stops yelling.
He sits reluctantly, protest flitting across his face, as I ask him again "Can you explain what you find hateful on the back of my truck."
He claims I am spreading hate by telling Black people there's a war against them. I ask him if he doesn't think that Black people already know there's a war against them.
It suddenly occurs to him that he's not yelling, maybe because I've instructed him not to yell at me so he protests and sullenly declares if I can say there's a war on then he can yell.
A quick glance around the room lets me know there are mostly white men deeply engrossed in their conversations or the top of their coffee cups so I begin to shut down my computer as the little man stands up again, leaning across the wide table and raises his voice to outrageously tell me lesbians threw their children off a bridge when he lived in Oregon and does that mean he gets to hate lesbians.
His rage seems so personal succeed I ask "were you one of those children", succeeding in silencing him for a second. He actually looks embarrassed as he shakes his head no but he doesn't reduce his volume nor does he sit down.
I again tell him he cannot yell at me, maybe that's why he has a wife or children but I will not tolerate his violence. He shouts I'm the one that's violent, making Black people hate white men.
I leave him with "I think white men do a good enough job all by themselves inspiring hatred, they don't need me".
Even though the cafe is hopping so early on a Saturday morning, I find a large table where I can sit sight unseen by the workers, in case anyone wants to demand that I purchase a coffee in order to use the internet, which no one does.
A compact and wiry 40ish white man approaches my table and fools me into thinking he's pleasant and hip, especially for as isolated a town as Las Cruces is. He has a wide friendly smile on his slightly tanned face, short but not too short neatly trimmed light brown hair, off-white t-shirt and jeans with a brightly colored unbuttoned vest giving him a casual relaxed aura.
After his initial soft-spoken request that I share the table with him, curiosity lacing his inquiry about my ownership of the truck outside. I didn't see him come in and I wasn't aware of him noticing my shirt painted with "death to misogyny" not really visible behind my laptop nor reading my "are you great yet" hat so I half jokingly ask him how he figures that.
He lights into me, his smile and soft voice a fleeting figment, leaning across the table, and stridently demands to know why I hate white men. I ask him what makes him think I hate white men. "That hateful message you have on the back of your truck", he spits out each word with increasing volume.
I tell him he needs to calm down and stop yelling at me if he wants to have a conversation. He stares at me as if I've suddenly grown six heads (which I wish I could have). I continue by inviting him to take the seat he has pulled out for himself and reassure him I'd like to talk with him but only if he stops yelling.
He sits reluctantly, protest flitting across his face, as I ask him again "Can you explain what you find hateful on the back of my truck."
He claims I am spreading hate by telling Black people there's a war against them. I ask him if he doesn't think that Black people already know there's a war against them.
It suddenly occurs to him that he's not yelling, maybe because I've instructed him not to yell at me so he protests and sullenly declares if I can say there's a war on then he can yell.
A quick glance around the room lets me know there are mostly white men deeply engrossed in their conversations or the top of their coffee cups so I begin to shut down my computer as the little man stands up again, leaning across the wide table and raises his voice to outrageously tell me lesbians threw their children off a bridge when he lived in Oregon and does that mean he gets to hate lesbians.
His rage seems so personal succeed I ask "were you one of those children", succeeding in silencing him for a second. He actually looks embarrassed as he shakes his head no but he doesn't reduce his volume nor does he sit down.
I again tell him he cannot yell at me, maybe that's why he has a wife or children but I will not tolerate his violence. He shouts I'm the one that's violent, making Black people hate white men.
I leave him with "I think white men do a good enough job all by themselves inspiring hatred, they don't need me".
posted by Xan @ 9:04 AM
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