Thursday, August 9, 2007

Forgive Me Father, For My Black Ass Has Sinned...

"We inspire crime,—this we know, for Bob Allen tells us so."

One of the "things" I have noticed in my blog-reading over the last few years, above and beyond he stand-bys like "Cat-blogging", and "Shorter Blah-Blah" posts, is the self-baring "confession" post, where the writer shares some deep secret about him or herself with the readers that is virtually guaranteed to shock, or elicit tongue clucks and a rueful "Oh my God." from the so-called faithful.

This is one such post.

So let's get on with it, shall we? Great. Here goes.

I, LowerManhattanite...have a confession to make. I have, through my damnable Blackness, and my very presence, moved White people to commit crimes. Just through my being around—swear to God... like what happened to this poor, unfortunate fellow:

You remember a little while back we brought you the story of Florida McCain campaign co-chair, Rep. Bob Allen (R). Right on the heels of Giuliani Southern Regional Chairman David Vitter's exposure as a serial user of prostitutes, Allen got caught in a Titusville park restroom offering to pay an undercover police officer to allow him to perform oral sex on him.

Now it turns out that Allen revealed the true reason for the alleged park-john-offer in a tape recorded statement he made just after his arrest.

"This was a pretty stocky black guy, and there was nothing but other black guys around in the park," said Allen, according to this article in the Orlando Sentinel. Allen went on to say he was afraid of becoming a "statistic."

To Florida GOP Rep. Burns—on behalf of the nearly 40 million Negroes (thank you Stanley Crouch!) bumbling about and influencing the terrible, out-of-character acts that so bedevil you and your friends, I apologize profusely. We just can't help it, sir—this...power we have over you. I have found myself radiating this odd influence over you and your ilk. In fact, I can vivdly remember the first day I ever "caused" such a crime.

It was a warm May day in 1974. I was 11 years old, and shopping for a bottle of Testors brick red model paint. I wanted to mix it with the regular red for a model kit I'd bought earlier in the week—a 1970 GTO "Judge" I wanted to look a little more "stock". My regular hobby shop was out of brick red, so I went with Plan B—the hulking, old Nescott Drug store on Northern Blvd. and 86th St. They had a huge hobby aisle and I went in with a sense of purpose—I HAD to have that paint! Down that long, disorganized aisle I walked, back and forth, well past the rack of paint bottles and brushes because stuff was scattered around pell-mell. Stalking the errant bottle, I was a boy possessed—checking behind the Don "The Snake" Prudhomme Dragster and Aurora "The Mummy" model kits. I turned that aisle upside down looking for that paint, stumbling across stray craft knives, and lemon-scented plastic cement sticks. I barely noticed the lanky, pimpled White kid who was in the aisle with me, casually looking at the Lindbergh ship models opposite me. But I could feel my evil, crime-inducing power surging through me like fevered blood as I looked for paint to buy.

And then, it exploded! My powers, that is, because the next thing I knew, the Frank Oz-clone store manager was upon me, grabbing at my arm.

You see, as far as he was concerned, my crazed searching for that bottle of Testors brick red was actually a boost-fest, a veritable smorgasbord of shoplifting. I protested, noting the aisle's disorganization, and my quest for that perfect pigment, and how instead of grabbing at me, he could help me find the paint. But it was too late. I was Carrie at the end of the prom, law-breaking power now pouring from me like a sun going nova...and I'd sadly found a victim.

That poor, pimply-faced White kid, not twenty feet away.

My waves of criminal inspiration hit him full-force, and he lowered his head to maintain consciousness from their buffeting. He then looked side to side for help against my onslaught—but none would come. He was a goner. As I was being led away and having my pockets turned inside out by "Frank Oz", I could see the poor kid spasm...and then quickly stuff two of the narrow motorized ship kit boxes into his green windbreaker as he drifted away and out the door to the tinkle of the exit bell. My a catalyst for evil-doing was manifest on that fateful day. Sure...I was unjustly accused of theft, and had my parents called, even though I had a torn-out picture from "Hot Rod" magazine in my pocket that I was using as a swatch for the color I sought...and yes, clearly told the man to call Racar Hobbies three blocks west to ask about my being there mere minutes before, and asking about that damned Testors brick red—but what I would soon realize, is that I was indeed in the wrong that day. I saw with my own eyes what I was capable of, and it sickened me. Because I knew that I could not help it. It was in my blood, this ugly, innate ability to move men to misdeeds. It was a cross I would eventually learn to bear—and time would show me that I wasn't alone in my sick pathology. Cold comfort, that. They say that misery loves company...but let me say right here—knowing that I have millions of fellow travelers on this path of infectious evil...well, call me cynical, but I'd much rather suffer alone, thank you very much. Would that there could be but one of us "Typhoid Tyrones" out there infecting these unsuspecting, God-fearing White folk, instead of so damned many of us. "Sigh!"

Mr. Allen...again I apologize, not just for me—but for every one of us.

For James Byrd's inciting your poor brothers to commit that awful act.

For Susan Smith and the hopelessness that we drove her to. That poor woman!

For Charles Stuart in Boston and the absolute hell we put him through...My God!

For callously tricking your forefathers into the practice of American Slavery, and forcing your people into committing all of those terrible lynchings you would have otherwise avoided had we not been around threatening and scaring you.

For that damned Medgar Evers and his constant pressure and bullying. Urrrrgh!

And those four little girls in Birmingham in 1963. Such little troublemakers, Mr. Allen. I...I just don't know what our problem is sir, antagonizing you and your friends with our constant, overwhelming "around-ness".

Can you ever forgive me?

You can?

You just don't know what that means to me!

But, uh sir? If you're the one doing the forgiving, may I ask what you're doing on your knees?

With that...twenty-dollar bill in your mouth?