Angry white man
I've found a rest stop less than 30 minutes from the Portland airport, where I have to be by 4:00am in the morning: I'm heading home to join a sistah's 50th birthday celebration!
I'm inside my camper, windows and door open to get the cooling off evening breeze and heating up the last of my food, cleaning out my fridge, puttering as well as I can in a floor space of about 3' wide and 6' long.
Soup hot, fruit piled artfully for consumption, I sit on my vintage red paint chipped metal stool and begin to enjoy.
Suddenly, I hear male shouting and someone is banging hard on my truck. I realize the sound is coming from the back so I quickly throw done my plate and jump out my truck, forgetting I'm barefoot and in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt.
A tall, skinny, shaved head white man, maybe around 40 years old, is stomping off to the side where he's parked his red suv - no white pickup for this angry white man!
My tone meets his as I demand to know what the hell he's doing, pounding on my truck. He doesn't seem to be able to make the connection between me, the owner/driver/painter, and the vehicle he's so furious at.
He in return demands to know if this is my truck. I do answer in the affirmative and ask again why does he think he has the right to touch my truck?
He disdainfully sputters that I made him do it. My hands are on my hips and my voice is so loud to meet his as I keep my eye out for others that might be joining him or our 'conversation' as I enquire with as much incredulity as I can muster "What the hell are you talking about?"
He storms back over to the back of my truck and points to the "End the white and male war....". I try to get him to explain why that makes him so angry and he declares the obvious, he's white and male and I want to kill him.
What a thought! I don'tsay 'can you read' butr point out to him it is WAR I want to end, not his life, I hold life sacred, even his.
He roars "You're not allowed to write this." Reafuckinly??? I'm not allowed...
Usually, I'm able to control men's volume by first retorting at the same decibel and then with each further remark, begin lowering until we're at conversation level. This doesn't work - neither with him nor for me.
The more he insists I'm not allowed to do this, the more angry I get and louder I get.
"What is not allowed is your physical violence. How dare you touch my vehicle? What if I did that to your vehicle."
He keeps repeating that I have to take those words off my truck, I'm not allowed to say such things.
If he had facebook's power he could kick my words to hell and back. Just last week I got facebook for 24 hours (seeJuly 14th). I wonder and prepare myself if he's thinking of trying to do violence to me.
And if I was male like him, I'd probably go over to his car and bang it a few times - then we'd have to have war!
He stomps over to my truck and pounds on the back again - I know for a fact this hurt his hand more than it hurt my door - but I don't smile. I just call out his violence as he retreats to his car and drives away leaving half the rubber of his tires on the pavement.
I return to my camper, my cold soup, my disturbed peace and turn off the lights to peer out my windows. He's gone. I walk around the parking lot, thankful it is small with no hidden corners, return again to my camper and lock my door, to repeat my vigil a couple more times during the night, glad I'm already leafin at 3a.m.
I'm inside my camper, windows and door open to get the cooling off evening breeze and heating up the last of my food, cleaning out my fridge, puttering as well as I can in a floor space of about 3' wide and 6' long.
Soup hot, fruit piled artfully for consumption, I sit on my vintage red paint chipped metal stool and begin to enjoy.
Suddenly, I hear male shouting and someone is banging hard on my truck. I realize the sound is coming from the back so I quickly throw done my plate and jump out my truck, forgetting I'm barefoot and in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt.
A tall, skinny, shaved head white man, maybe around 40 years old, is stomping off to the side where he's parked his red suv - no white pickup for this angry white man!
My tone meets his as I demand to know what the hell he's doing, pounding on my truck. He doesn't seem to be able to make the connection between me, the owner/driver/painter, and the vehicle he's so furious at.
He in return demands to know if this is my truck. I do answer in the affirmative and ask again why does he think he has the right to touch my truck?
He disdainfully sputters that I made him do it. My hands are on my hips and my voice is so loud to meet his as I keep my eye out for others that might be joining him or our 'conversation' as I enquire with as much incredulity as I can muster "What the hell are you talking about?"
He storms back over to the back of my truck and points to the "End the white and male war....". I try to get him to explain why that makes him so angry and he declares the obvious, he's white and male and I want to kill him.
What a thought! I don'tsay 'can you read' butr point out to him it is WAR I want to end, not his life, I hold life sacred, even his.
He roars "You're not allowed to write this." Reafuckinly??? I'm not allowed...
Usually, I'm able to control men's volume by first retorting at the same decibel and then with each further remark, begin lowering until we're at conversation level. This doesn't work - neither with him nor for me.
The more he insists I'm not allowed to do this, the more angry I get and louder I get.
"What is not allowed is your physical violence. How dare you touch my vehicle? What if I did that to your vehicle."
He keeps repeating that I have to take those words off my truck, I'm not allowed to say such things.
If he had facebook's power he could kick my words to hell and back. Just last week I got facebook for 24 hours (seeJuly 14th). I wonder and prepare myself if he's thinking of trying to do violence to me.
And if I was male like him, I'd probably go over to his car and bang it a few times - then we'd have to have war!
He stomps over to my truck and pounds on the back again - I know for a fact this hurt his hand more than it hurt my door - but I don't smile. I just call out his violence as he retreats to his car and drives away leaving half the rubber of his tires on the pavement.
I return to my camper, my cold soup, my disturbed peace and turn off the lights to peer out my windows. He's gone. I walk around the parking lot, thankful it is small with no hidden corners, return again to my camper and lock my door, to repeat my vigil a couple more times during the night, glad I'm already leafin at 3a.m.
posted by Xan @ 7:54 PM
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