Inconspicuously Reach Over and Lock the Door

As I pulled to a stop at the signal light, a middle aged black man was starting to cross the street in front of me. He had a dirty, grungy, not-quite-homeless look to him. He wasn't quite dressed in rags, but he was clearly lower-income. He didn't look thuggish or gangsta, but he did have a certain ‘ghetto’ quality to his appearance. I inconspicuously reached over and locked the door. I did it casually and non-chalet, after all, I didn't want him to notice my racism. And yes, I fully admit that this was a racist act. As I was locking the door that thought never cross my mind, rather my thinking was more along the lines of precautionary self preservation. But it was certainly racist.

There was a piece of PVC pipe laying in the intersection. About 3" in diameter and approximately two feet long, it lay directly in front of my truck. I could narrowly dodge the pipe if I hugged the curb as I pulled into the intersection, so I wasn't overly concerned with it. As the frightening black man crossed the street in front of me, he noticed the pipe. He looked down and the pipe and then up at me. He held his index finger up, indicating that I should wait a moment. He then readjusted his backpack and lean down to pick up the pipe. Pipe in hand, he continued on his path across the street. My first thought was he was homeless/poor and this piece of discarded pipe must have some value or purpose for him. But as he reached the sidewalk on the other side he tossed the pipe in the grass.

The, slightly-less-scary, black man was simply moving the pipe out of the road. He had no interest in the pipe, other than it lay in my way, nor did he have any interest in robbing me at gun point. In fact, the whole idea that I needed to lock the door for security from the man on foot is ludicrous. The truth of the matter is, I’m an asshole and got called on it. Rabbi Steven Leder once said, “If we look deep inside ourselves, way down deep, each of us will find a person who has, just a little bit of racism. But the thing is, if we look even deeper, while find a person who know it’s wrong. And therein, lays hope for change.” This was a perfect example of that small amount of racism that I have deep inside myself. It’s not like I would eve shout a racial slur, nor would I consciously treat him different based on ethnicity, but it is clear now, that I am not as completely non-discriminatory as I thought.

As the, not-so-scary-after-all, black man continued on his route down the sidewalk, we made eye contact. I waved and mouthed the word, “Thanks.” But I felt like I should have been mouthing an apology. However, as I look back on that now, “Thanks” was exactly the right response. Not only should I thank him for moving the pipe, but I should be thanking him for pointing out a flaw a desperately needed to see.

"A Truck Full of Mexicans"

My mom got her car back today from the body shop. Before she went to pick it up she called out insurance agent to verify how much of a deposit she would have to pay, if any. We have a $500 deposit, but if we are hit by an uninsured motorist the deposit is only $250. However, according to our insurance agent, "there's a clause that kicks in when you get hit by a truck full of Mexicans."

What he meant to say is our insurance has a special policy if we are hit by someone who isn't a legal resident then we will get reimbursed for the deposit. The nationality of the driver[1], the vehicle[2], or the number of illegal residents in the vehicle[3], are actually irrelevant.


1. Mexican
2. Truck
3. Full of 'em

Aunt Tim

My mother has an aunt, my great-aunt, that lives in a small town in western Oklahoma. Occasionally, my mother goes to visit her Aunt Tim (no one knows why she is named Tim, but she doesn’t seem to realize it’s a strange name for a woman). Generally we dislike making this trip, as it is long, boring, un-scenic, and once we arrive, there is still nothing to do. The small town she lives in has but one restaurant, and if you don’t make it by sun-down, then it may be closed. As a matter of fact, the whole town pretty much closes at 5:00pm. The only thing there is to do, is to make the 45 minute trek to the nearest decent size town, Elk City. And in case you were wondering, any place, where you look forward to going to a town named Elk City, must suck.

On my mother’s most recent trip, Aunt Tim scheduled a doctor’s appointment in Elk City (which was probably overdue), because she needed my mom to drive her. Aunt Tim is a tiny, 88 year old, 4’10” woman, who can barley see and barley hear. Yet she will drive herself around town, in her over sized Lincoln Continental. Fortunately, she knows not to try and drive herself across any great distances, or to travel at highway speeds.

On a doctor visit like this, my mom serves the roll of interpreter. The doctor, or nurse, or whoever, will speak to my great-aunt, and then she will look at my mother and wait for my mother to repeat, sometimes word for word, what was said so that Aunt Tim can understand it. After they enter the doctor‘s office, the receptionist gives them the standard forms to be filled out and tells Aunt Tim she will need to provide her insurance card after filling out the form. After they take a seat in the waiting room, and mother starts filling out the form, Aunt Tim turns to her and says, “What did she say?” My mom explains to her that she will need to show her insurance card.
“Oh,” says Aunt Tim, “I can never understand those people. The Mexicans.”

My mom, flushed face, sinks down in her chair, as this was said loud enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear. Not to mention that the receptionist was not Mexican, but white.

Later in the doctor’s office, the nurse says something, which my mother then has to translate, and while the nurse is still in the room, Aunt Tim says, “I can’t understand her, she must be speaking Spanish.” The nurse, like the receptionist, was also white, and definitely not speaking Spanish.

Finally, the doctor came and check her out. And it was a long ordeal, since me mother had to translate virtually everything the doctor said. When the doctor left, and they were preparing to go, Aunt Tim says, “He had a funny accent too. Too many foreigners.” Needless to say, he did not have a funny accent, nor was he a foreigner. I am starting to suspect that my Aunt Tim may be a racist. And now that I think about it, she did once refer to Oklahoma City as “Nigger Town”, and she once warned us not to go to Love’s gas stations, because “that’s where the hoodlums and blacks hang out.”

It also, makes no sense to us why she can apparently hear my mom, but can’t hear anyone else. But despite her little quirks (like racism) she is, for the most part, a sweet old lady.