Shall I Begin?

Why does the warm feel of a vodka-coated buzz make the thoughts in my mind flow without the impedance of my self-induced fuzz? A lot is always there. Always. Forever. But little makes it to my tongue. Sorry for you. Why don't you just ask? Or tell?  What's been in here tonight? The cold. Fire. Dream-work. Brown eyes. Rape. Blood. Race. Flood. Of emotion. Of inspiration. Of pain. Of uncertainty. In life. In here. Again. Persistent desire. Of her. Who? Unknowingness. Delightful tastes. Knowing. No one. Not her. Paper. Pen. Solitude. Tears. Mirrors. Fears. Of her. Of whom? No one. Not her. Not here now. And definitely not the idiot I work with.

I gotta say first of all that she's nice. She's harmless in a way in that she won't hurt anyone. But she's dangerous because of her ignorance. I've been meaning to relay the conversations I have had with this girl, the daughter of the cancer patient. But I figured I'd have time. And that I would remember all of the wonderful dialogs we've had. But it's impossible. Because they occur every day.

Every day, destructive-to-humankind-things come out of her mouth: The biological superiority of the Japanese. The funny names that Koreans have. What tha?

Last week:  HER: I really like her (Charlize Theron). She's so pretty. Nice looking.  ME: She's all right. Have you heard of the movie Monster?  HER: No.  ME: Check it out. (I direct her to IMDB.com so that she may see the transformation the actor underwent to portray lesbian serial killer extraordinaire, Eileen Wournos. As she finds her way to the site, I proceed with snippets of information, which is most of what I'm good for.) She witnessed her mother kill her father.  HER: (Mouth open.)  ME: (Nodding.) He was abusive. Do you know anything about the movie?  HER: No.  ME: Eileen Wournos was executed for killing five (or six?) men. They thought it important to note that she was also a lesbian.  HER: (Finally reaching the site.) Man. They really made her look like a lesbian.  ME: How do you mean (knowing full well how she meant)?  HER: Well look at her. They make her look mean. Like a man.  I smiled.

At the time, I hadn't known her for very long. So I didn't question her. I realized that this way-too-old-to-be-so-stupid individual had some things to learn, but I decided that I was going to avoid the teacher role. Plus, as I said, I just didn't know her well and I just started this job. So I moved on with the tidbits.

ME: She grew up in South Africa.  HER: (Shocked.) What?! But she's white.  ME: Uh. ! Uh. (Calmly. Matter of factly.) White people live in South Africa. Have you heard of aparth--? Never mind.

I went for a smoke in the cold. As this week went on, she started putting me off. I didn't want to sit by her, and I certainly didn't want to listen to her talk. But there was little chance in that, because she was there, this time about a foot away in her stilettos, tight-as-hell pants, and fashionable glasses. She's a Parson's student -- designing CD covers is her dream. And she's an idiot.

Today the discussion was about gender at first. I was talking to Alma about something -- I don't remember what -- and I told her how it pissed me off (so much so that I can't remember what we were talking about). It had to do with people or a person, because I said something to the effect of "I would want to knock their head off and pummel it into the ground with my boot."

Now those who know me well, not well, intimately, or however you choose to define your relation to me, know that I am incapable of carrying out such harm on another human being. But I said it anyway. It was more for the effect, of course.

HER: (Gasping.) You sound like a man.

My God. I look like a man. I sound like a man. This shit's getting really old. I have no dick. I swear. But a dick doesn't make the man, right? Just like a uterus doesn't make a woman. Sorry guys. Dicks mean dick. You've got more hair. Deeper voices. (Oh but wait, my voice is deep and is, according to a woman who approached me at the homosexual center the other night, one of my "secret weapons." Whatever. I have no license to carry such things so, to me, they don't exist.) Rougher skin. More money. Stop. I'm too tired for this now. Anyway.

ME: How do you mean?  HER: You're aggressive.

Yeah, with stupid people. I've come out of my shell at the job. Alma calls it my inner self. And I'm now all about calling this chick on her shit.  ME: What are you saying? Women can't get angry? Have aggression? Express themselves?

HER: I would slap. Not hit.

I didn't even know where to go next. I didn't. And before I knew it, we got into race. Others joined. She insisted there was one individual responsible for freeing blacks. And she couldn't think of his name. my. god. I asked her if she read books. "I hate reading." No fucking kidding.

"You really should read some stuff," I told her. "I'll give you a list." She's been in this country since she was 12. And evidently living under a boulder in Brooklyn. She's 24. As I watched her penciled-in eyebrows move up and down, resonating with certainty, I could feel my biting tone rise.

"Who are you talking about?"  As she fumbled over the three names, I asked "Martin Luther King, Jr.?"

"Yes. He freed the blacks."

"No he didn't."

"But it's equal now," she said confidently.

She then said how New Jersey was really accepting of people. Another guy I work with patiently pointed out to her that she is working from the perspective of a white person. (An ignant one at that.) She remained unwilling to back down. She believes it's equal and that things are good. There was just too much to say. I pushed a little more. And she pushed back. And then I realized that if she wouldn't read, then she wouldn't listen. So I stopped. For now.

I've been at the gig for three weeks and I imagine during the next 15 weeks, I'll have plenty more opportunities to knock her head off and pummel it into the ground with my boot.

But I thought of something tonight. Something disturbing. About how I used to be stupid. "Slavery" was just a word to me in high school. I ate from the spoons with which my teachers fed me and managed Cs on my scantron tests. It wasn't until I was way out of college that I started getting angry. And challenging people. Challenging myself. I was once like this fool. I don't regret it, though. I had to be that, unlearn, learn again. And I'll always be learning. My eyes are also almost shut. Good sleep has not been mine for a few days. Lots in here. And it's all trying really hard to stay put. One night it will stop keeping me awake.