A letter to the president (For Justin)

Dear President Obama,

                I did not vote for you in the last presidential election. I must be honest with you when I tell you that should you run for re-election against Sarah Palin, I will not vote for you again. There’s just something about her old fashioned, down to earth, no nonsense approach to politics that I can’t deny. During every debate I could almost see the down –home honesty swell within her with every rise and fall of her shapely chest. I hope you will look past politics. Also, despite your not having been born an American citizen, I’m sure you want the same things I do for this, our land of opportunity. Or, as your people would call it, “El Norte.”

 It is with growing concern that I write you this letter. I pray it does not fall on deaf ears. By the time Ms. Palin (God Bless her soul and her very healthy body) takes the oath of office, it may be too late.  The threat is imminent. I have seen the enemy, and he is my neighbor.  Let me explain:

My wife and I moved to Alabama just over a year ago. North Alabama was continuing to grow despite what the Democrats had done to the economy during the Bush administration and we looked forward to the life we would live amongst the simple folk native to the region. I still remember the excitement that was roused in us as my wife Beth and I discussed the various merits of “country livin’”.

We chose a home close to an elementary school because it would be convenient for our two children, Chadwick and Pretoria. We had adopted Pretoria when she was just an infant. When the man from the adoption agency told us she was from Barbados, we decided to name her Pretoria. With her tribal homeland being such a terrifying and severe place, we feared she may never go back. With her traditional African name, she would always feel that part of her homeland was with her. Coincidentally, a friend of ours informed us recently that this is where those who speak American got the word “Pretty.” Small world, huh?

But, I digress. I could talk for days about our diverse family. It’s my neighbor I am concerned about. For that matter, it is the Afro American community in general.  (Strange, a people would choose to be named after a hairstyle. But who am I to judge?)

I’ve always been considerate to my neighbors. When Beth and I moved into the neighborhood, we took great effort to hang sheets between our moving van and our garage.  The last thing I would want to do is flaunt our expensive electronics and luxurious Ikea furniture in front of him. No doubt, he is poor and cannot afford such luxuries. When he offered to help I informed him that we were not from here and had no interest in enslaving people of color. Also, our five disc cd changer was sitting out in plain sight and I did not wish to tempt him. Things seemed to be going along just fine - For a while at least.

One day I saw Chadwick standing at the front door. He was talking to someone and I approached to see that it was our Neighbor. “Justin” he called himself. This was, no doubt, his gang name. He started to point out towards the road and, no doubt, spin an exaggerated tale devised to induce me into giving him money. I have no time for such things and he hadn’t gotten past “Hey, I just wanted to let you know….” When I cut him off saying “Hey, soul brother, I know times are hard but you to learn how to fish. You dig?” He shook his head. I supposed that he hadn’t gotten this kind of tough love before. He began to walk away and when he turned to look at me his face was quizzical. His puzzled look led me to think what I said had hit home.  I felt pretty good about our exchange until I came outside later to discover that he had broken into my car, released the emergency break and let it drift into the road. To make matters worse, he and some of his friends (gang members, no doubt) were gathered around it trying to pull the hood right off of my car! I can’t say for sure, but I’m fairly certain that a high performance, 4cylinder, Honda accord engine would fetch a pretty penny on the black market. They were wresting it with such force that the car was actually being driven back up into my driveway! “Hey! Check yourself before you wreck yourself!” I yelled from my barely cracked front door. Adding “This is NOT ‘The Ghetto’! You can’t just take other people’s things! Do I have to call the police?” They shrugged and walked off, shaking their heads as they walked back to “Justin’s” house.  They also used one of their gang signs.

I have become quite familiar with it. They will take their hand and raise it in the air, extending all of their fingers. Sometimes, they mix it up by menacingly moving it back and forth.  Occasionally, it will be accompanied by a mocking smile. This I have deemed “The five Jive” as I’m sure that they must belong to a gang that contains the number 5, like “The 5 digit mafia” Or “The 5 street clique”. This hand sign so much resembles the common wave that you have to be vigilant to catch it. Where as you or I might wave by extending our rigid hand out at a 45 degree angle as far as we can and standing stiffly, this one is loose, relaxed, and menacing.

The theft attempts did not stop there. One day I came home to find him trying to steal our trash can. When I caught him, red handed, and confronted him about it he said “I was just trying to help. You forgot to take it to the curb. It’s trash day.” Shocked by his strange logic, I said “Help? You call this help? Stealing? What? You think you’re going to teach me a lesson.” Once again, the shrug, the head shaking, the “five jive.”

Another time, he stole my wife’s wedding ring. He must have gotten nervous because we found it a few days later on our bedside table. The thought of him wandering through our house chilled me to the bone. Not to mention the fact that he had gotten past our security system comprised of motion detectors, light sensors, sound sensors and video cameras. He must have had help with the camera systems, which recorded nothing.

It wasn’t until last month that I realized how dangerous this situation was becoming. Apparently, his gang had decided to have a “gang party”. The chosen location for this event? You guessed it – Brother Justin’s house. I came home after a golf game one Saturday night to find his yard and porch full of violent gangsters, accompanied by their “hoes”. I estimate that they numbered at least 200. (The police report, erroneously, indicated only 45. The party had grown so large that it had spilled over into my driveway and lawn. My once serene lawn had become tarnished with the presence of gang members doing various violent, sexually charged “Hip Hopping” dances. As I approached, many of the troublemakers threw their hands in the air to do the “five jive”, Smiling gleefully at the implied threat to me and my family.

Once I spotted “Justin” amongst the violent throng, I called him over and yelled at him through a crack in my window. Normally, I would not yell, but the music was so loud it made it near impossible to hear myself think. “Why won’t you people leave us alone? We are good people. These things are scary!” I screamed desperately. He said something about “hamburgers” and “good time”. It was fairly obvious that “hamburgers” was just a code word for “crack cocaine” and “good time” was just his way of saying he would like to sleep with my wife. (She’s blonde. This must certainly seem exotic to him.) I couldn’t make out everything he said, but the meaning was obvious.

It wasn’t until I laid on my horn that the crowed began menacingly working their way back into my neighbor’s yard. I hurriedly pulled my car up through the driveway and onto the lawn. Knowing that I had a small window, I pulled the car as close to the front door as I could get it. I was horrified to see little Pretoria moving rhythmically to the violent beats of the gangster music from next door.  Chadwick was also doing little movements in an attempt to dance. Putting my fears aside, I scooped up my two children and along with my wife, ran inside.

From the safety of my house, I phoned the local police department. When the operator answered, I told her about the violent gathering next door and she said she was sending someone over. I watched with anticipation through a part in my curtains.

I was relieved when a police car arrived. It had been less than five minutes since I called. I cannot put to words the overwhelming sense of pride I felt when the police officer stepped from his car and stood before the angry throng. He wasn’t in uniform and he wasn’t armed, no doubt aware of the fact that the sight of a badge or a gun might incite them into frenzy. He looked like a brave, white knight as he approached the group without hesitation. He was willing to lay down his life if it meant he might have a chance of reasoning with them. What happened next shattered my hope, my world came crashing down around me.

After a brief conversation, he smiled and laughed heartily. Everyone was laughing. They were overcome with it. The police officer and the gang were all one in their merriment. He then began dancing and after a short time went into the house. Picturing him shooting marijuana into his veins, my heart cried out for the world. He came out shortly afterward with a plate of what looked to be food. It could have been a plate of guns, it was hard to see. He, the public servant, was one of them.

I called back to the police department and attempted to warn them of the infiltration. The operator informed me that he had reported back saying that everything was ok. When I told her that he was one of them she said he had simply stopped by to check it out on his way home. Seeing that his shift was over, he took them up on the offer to join them and that is was not any sort of violation. “you need to lighten up.” She said.

I just hung up the phone. The corruption was deep. “The five finger mafia” was in cahoots with the police department. I know not how deep the corruption goes, but it seems widespread. What’s worse – it is everywhere now.

Drive through my town and you will see people of all creeds and colors throwing up their hands at each other in the all-too-familiar “five jive.” They have even incorporated the Muslims, no doubt due to their mutual hatred of freedom and happiness. Everywhere I turn I see the gang members laughing, gang-signing, dancing and smiling. They flaunt their power in the faces of honest people.

Whatever happened to this world? I used to see whites and blacks getting along peacefully. But these are not the kind gentle blacks I remember from such documentaries as “Driving Miss Daisy” or “Fried Green Tomatoes”. They are hateful and angry and they are ON THE MOVE.

I know that despite your being a communist, you want the same things I do - A nicer, cleaner America where everyone is law-abiding and friendly. Or in prison. I dream of An America where we are united against our common enemy; the gays. Of course, They will cease to be an issue once they are wiped out by HIV. The gay plague is God’s answer to a life of sin. The lesbians can stay. They aren’t sinning very much.

I beseech you, my fellow American, my ebony commander, you who are so well spoken – ACT QUICKLY! Time is short.

Yours Truly,

Robert Dobbs

I dedicate this letter to my Neighbor. Yes, his name is Justin. For those of you who do not know him, I will tell you that he is not someone you might describe as being “Legendary” or “Destined for Greatness”. Those of you who do know him will probably just agree. You might agree too much.  I can say that he is a person I relate very much to. And, in my opinion, he is at the very least, a very good person.

 I often curse him because my futile attempts at having “one more smoke” are complete failures that result in my sitting on the front porch of my house talking to him for the next 4 to 6 hours. Our conversations range from silly to deeply meaningful. An outside observer might witness something that resembles the Q & A section after a lecture given by an author visiting from another country. Here’s an excerpt:

Justin: “Yes, the man sitting on his front porch in his boxer briefs has a question?”

Me: “Yes, sir. First of all, thank you for coming today.”

Justin: “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”

Me: “Sir, while I now it is not an area of specialization for you, I understand that you are well versed in Hip Hop and Rap music.”

Justin: “Well, of course. While it is not the entirety of our musical vocabulary, it does play a large part in our culture.”

Me: “I was hoping that you might explain the cultural significance of ‘Gin and Juice’.”

Justin: “Ah, yes. You are of course referring to the song of the same name by the artist ‘Snoop Dogg’. It is simply a mixed alcoholic beverage consisting of some combination of gin and fruit juice.”

Me: “Ah, I see. Now, is it necessary to drink it while smoking ‘indo’? Furthermore, why does the artist choose this time to contemplate financial matters?”

Justin: “Well, Mr. Dogg is simply drawing for his listener a mental image of someone who has achieved financial success and is celebrating it while relaxing with a delicious beverage and some marijuana. Gin and Juice is really no different than, say, iced tea. It can be enjoyed in many situations.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Justin: “My pleasure. The gentlemen who has stepped outside for a smoke halfway through shaving, do you have a question?”

Me: “Yes sir, I do. Please excuse my half beard.”

Justin: “Not at all.”

Me: “Why do black people not play Hockey?”

Justin: “An excellent question. I cannot speak for everyone, but I would guess it is largely due to the fact that it is a sport played on ice. My people tend toward more temperate climes and are, thusly, not prone to engage in activities centered around snow and ice. Also, we have developed a dislike for being chased by white people with sticks.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Justin: “I have time for one more question. Yes, the gentleman that has been sitting on his porch for the last two hours playing solitaire on his cell phone, do you have a question.”

Me: “Yeah, what’s the deal with spinners?”

Justin: “I have no clue. I suppose it is a matter of one’s personal taste.”

That same outside observer may witness us talking only to walk away thinking “Did those guys just spend two hours discussing the way they say words with the letter “r” in them?”  (I am physically incapable of pronouncing “gangsta” without making it sound ridiculous. Ever want to see me strain? Ask me about my favorite ‘Lil’ Troy’ song.)

You may also find us discussing recent hardships or tough decisions. I have nothing funny or entertaining to say about those exchanges.

I used to make it a point to disclose to a black person, usually within the first three sentences, that I was “sympathetic to their plight.” I would say something that basically equated to “So, how about that oppression suffered at the hands of the white devil?” I guess I expected, at minimum, a knowing nod that said “You feel my people’s pain. Thank you, my white friend.” In a more dramatic scenario that same person might run towards the nearest phone and start calling all of his friends saying “Hey man, you gotta check this out. I just met a white dude that gets it! He really gets it! Finally!”

It’s the kind of activity that comes naturally to those who are extremely self-righteous. It’s also pretty fucked up. At best, it makes for boring conversation. It’s pretty lame and I feel a twinge of shame in admitting it.

Through our various conversations, Justin has taught me that true acceptance means accepting everyone - even those you don’t agree with. Racism doesn’t make a person any more than race does. We are creatures of our environment and we all have a different idea of what is right and wrong. The best thing I can do for my fellow man is to be myself and have a good time. The worst thing I can do is judge others. The possibility that I might be guilty of the same crime I am accusing them of is too great.

There are some words I will share with you. They were delivered in passing but the impact they had on me continues to be profound. I have to come to make it one of the tenets that defines my logic and understanding. Because it is true that it is not a single fault or feature that makes us who we are. Justin, when you spoke the following words you opened my eyes a little wider. For that, you have my gratitude.

“I am black. More importantly, I am Justin.”