Posted on 08/17/2019 7:24:27 PM PDT by robowombat
Seeing poor white people makes me happy June 11, 2019
By Nicholas Powers
“Should I kick him in the face? Hard? No, chill, he’s not worth it. But why is this white boy begging for money in a Black neighborhood? Is he stupid?” I shake the evil out of my head and go into the subway. He comes every Spring. The homeless white boy flaps down like a dirty migratory bird, makes himself a nest from garbage and sleeps on the sidewalk. A sign on his shopping cart asks for money—I never give. I should tho ‘cause he makes me feel good.
White people begging us for food feels like justice. It feels like Afro-Futurism after America falls. It feels like a Black Nationalist wet dream. It has the feels I rarely feel, a hunger for historical vengeance satisfied so well I rub my belly.
I know it’s not a good look. At least I think I know? I have the ghost of Martin Luther King Jr. in my head like a life coach exhorting me to “be my best self,” “show compassion to those who spite you,” “turn the other cheek” and “don’t give our enemies more reasons to hate us.” I need to kick Martin Luther King Jr. out of my head. Go fuck another secretary Martin! I need to ask what this white homeless boy means to me. White homeless poor in the ‘hood are a Rorschach test. I see in them the history of colonization, slavery and mass incarceration that makes their begging Black people for money ironic—if not insulting. You wasted your whiteness! Why should we give to you? Others see that same history, but for them, he is a chance to be MLK’s dream.
Here is a descendant of murderers who killed our ancestors now begging us to save their life. So let’s turn the other cheek! But it’s not always honest. It is the trick of internalized racism that Black anger is transformed into showy altruism to show the “white gaze” that we’re safe—good Negroes. So we aren’t attacked by more powerful whites—instead rewarded by them.
I saw an older Caribbean woman, devoutly Christian place a container of jerk chicken at his feet. Holy light radiated from her. It was a public lesson to us all, that we shouldn’t let racism poison our souls with hate. “God bless you,” she intoned loudly as if performing Shakespeare in the park. Yet I saw this same Jesus freak walk by a legless brother pushing his wheelchair through traffic, asking for change and she did not even bat an eyelash. He wasn’t worthy. But the white boy is. She saw her best self reflected in his whiteness. She saw her beautiful white soul, doing a white God’s work, on the mirror of white flesh.
Sometimes folks see that same history and want to get even. I saw three brothers run up and spit on him as people cackled at the white boy who wiped sticky gobs from his eyelids. The laughter was cruel, joyful and belly deep. They might as well shook slave chains in his face and said, “Now you get to wear these nigga!”
All these thoughts crashed in my head as I got on the subway. “Help,” a cracked plea jabbed at the quiet. “Help me get something to eat,” a legless Nuyorican pushed his wheelchair between train riders studying their cellphones. Jesus, I thought, did all the homeless get their legs cut off? “Help me,” he asked and no one answered. I saw in his face the African, Native and European bloodlines spilled by war and rape. Just like mine. “Help me get food,” he asked the next rider and the next. I’ve known Nuyoricans like him my whole life, homeless or shooting heroin in doorways and like an x-ray, saw the history of violence and oppression that created their destruction. I just barely dodged it myself because of a fraught class privilege.
I hear “help” and see the Nuyorican in the wheelchair, or the endless parade of Black men or women holding out crusted hands for pennies. I smell their death. I hear their voices scraped on sidewalks and long nights in the cold. I see their scabbed skin, or gaunt thin lips, or yellow liquored eyes. I retreat inside myself, waiting until they pass like an image rounding the surface of a soap bubble.
But when a white person begs, maybe a white woman breastfeeding or a young white boy whining like a broken flute, I feel better. Good. It’s not just us. I feel happy. I feel like the scales of justice could shift. The other day I jogged up the subway stairs and saw the homeless white boy again. “Can you get me something to eat,” he barked out to the river of people passing by. “Someone stole all my shit!” Scabs covered his mouth. He was sunburnt and thin. I ignored him but thought “Baby, you stole all mine.” I glanced at his blanket, shopping cart and books. Who is he? Why is he here? Where are his people?
I stopped myself. It’s the Martin Luther King Jr. life-coach again, saying, “Love your enemies! Get to know them as people.” No Dr. King! Today I own my anger. I want to snatch his food and say, “Go beg in a white neighborhood!” And eat it. And rub my belly. And laugh. I smile. The cruelty cures my internalized racism that forces me to empathize with him—so I can be patted on the head like a good peaceful protester. All my white editors want me to write that way. All the white institutions that pay me want me to feel that way. But I don’t—and saying I don’t is freeing. It pulls the unconscious whiteness out of my brain. I don’t need to see my best or worst self reflected on his skin.
As I walk away, a white man in tailored clothes and exfoliated skin talked to the homeless white boy. His face is a mix of fear and disgust, race loyalty and pity. He’s doing what I did, confronting history. How do I know? The fear in his tight mouth is disgust. The fear in his eyes is forced and unwanted racial empathy. He’s worried, like many whites are, that as they become the minority, fewer and fewer places will exist where they have power. They worry that at some point the roles will be reversed and they will have to beg for food. He looked at the homeless white boy and saw a hungry ghost, seemingly expelled from some alternate dimension where Europeans are enslaved, segregated and mass incarcerated. He sees the fall of America.
Neither of us ask the kid’s name. We don’t need to. His name is ink-blot. His name is Rorschach. It’s whatever we see in the dark shapes that sleep on the street or pass by us on the train. That occasionally reaches out to us and says, “Help.”
I am raising a million dollars for Trump 2020. What are you doing?
The writer must not get around much, or maybe he’s very young.
Because homeless “white” people are nothing new.
FReepers tend to remind me if I do. :)
That’s funny, you’re reply
“Kind of a self answered question....
Remember back when if a Black was in a ‘White’ neighborhood and got set upon the Jacksons/Sharptons etc of the world screamed out that EVERYONE had a right to be in ANY neighborhood.
Now if a White were set upon in a Black neighborhood the same clowns would ask ‘How stupid is this guy for being in THAT neighborhood’?
So, in essence, JJ/AS were saying Blacks had ‘rights’ but Whites should be smarter than them..
Thing is, often I worked 2 full time union jobs in Philly. It worked out great for me. I was able to swap shifts with other guys who wanted to work only day to be home with their family I guess?? I’d work their night shifts which were in the Badlands, every night was exciting, to say the least.
Then during the day, I’d work my federal job in the same inner city ghetto.
It’s funny because every day driving to the Badlands down Whitaker av I’d see the same guy that limps like a disabled vet on the Blvd begging. yet, I’d see him walking fine with his BK breakfast and coffee going up to his post on the Blvd.
It’s a shame because at one time I’d give but now. sorry
Dear Nicholas Powers,
It is too bad the last of the really good writers passed away last century. You grasp at greatness, impact, but you are devoid of originality and without it you are nothing.
This is a case where I agree with the author.
When I get to my office in NYC very early, I see these white beggars getting set up at their corners. I witnessed a well dressed white female inking the carboard signs they would hold up on 8th Ave near Port Authority Bus Terminal.
Unlike the black beggars whom I do pity, the white beggars have relatively clean hair and most notably, clean, well fitted shoes. As the author stated, you don’t see them out there in the winter.
There are plenty of legitimate white, hispanic, black and asian homeless on the streets of NYC these days with Mayor de Blasio reversing all of the policies of the two prior mayors.
There’s a lot of scammers out there. Direct your compassion appropriately.
Years ago I was at a lunch counter with Griggs, he was my boss and he was black. When we get our bill we we’re getting ready to leave and pay at the cashier and I said “how much you going to tip?”
And Griggs said, “Blacks don’t one tip.” I looked at him and I said, “seriously?” Griggs replied with, “Blacks don’t one tip.”
I don’t doubt it, Griggs was a straight up boss. But I never really checked that out.
I lived and worked in downtown Chicago for several decades. Black beggars would routinely ignore the many blacks walking by and approach only whites.
Why are they Africans?
Arent they Black Americans?
Just remember, when white people rebel, they nuke things! Not something any other people have been able to replicate!
Sick racist. I don’t like to see anyone poor or destitute, no matter the ethnicity. What an evil person.
Your link is busted, but don’t bother fixing it. Garbage.
Wow! What an evil, hateful being.n
If racism is bad, then racism is bad.
This guy is doing his best to prove at least some racism is good.
Just wow. Who should know better than this other than America’s Blacks, but here this guy is.
In a word, “tragic”.
Thank heaven there are many Blacks out there who would be appalled by this too.
Not the ones I am talking about. They were black Africans. Only one, from Eritrea, was a US citizen, that I knew of, and was a Captain in the US Air Force reserve. She had to be a US Citizen, in order to be a commissioned officer. Some were from Uganda, Nigeria and Ghana. There were others, but I didn’t know what country they came from.
I along time ago, maybe 1997, I worked with 7 black women, a hispanic girl and a Jewish guy in a graphics dept of an investment bank.
We got along Great!
Wow, I forgot about those times.
There were a couple of idiots but there’s a couple of idiots in any group.
They were all single moms, but hearing about the men in and out of their lives, I know they shouldn’t have had the kids but they were definitely better off without those “men” in their lives.
and they were trying.
It was sad sometimes.
I was in the Air Force for 20 years. It was probably similar to what you are talking about. I worked with many different people.
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.