I was tasked with the responsibility of picking up some help with one of life’s more painstaking and tumultuous endeavors.
I helped a compadre move. I HATE moving. With the passion of three Lil Wayne features and Jimmy McNulty watching The Passion of the Christ. Yes, that much. But, for a friend, I put aside my reservations, rolled up my sleeves and hit the skids to be a friend.
Ah yes, back to the help. I’m old. And with this wisdomful old age I realized that backbreaking labor is for the birds. Partridge. So I did what any civic minded individual would do who held an interest in this nation’s economic income distribution problem and similarly stood firmly against Arizona’s immigration reforms: I went to Home Depot to get me some Mexicans.
Except I live in DC, so my Mexicans are really El Salvadorans, but whose counting? Abacus.
Racial distinctions aside, Home Depot is where my dilemma manifested itself. Gangstarr. Anybody whose gone to any locale to pick up some help knows that there really is no rhyme or reason to who you pick up. Generally, you know how much you’re willing to pay and to how many people. Most folks getting their day laborer on are all about that tax-free paper and as a man of the people, I get it. I’ve also dabbled in some tax-free pay a job or two.
It’s possible that you see where this going. Tyler Perry.
So I’m driving into the parking lot and see something like 6,000 day laborers throwing me hand signals which seemed to have ranged from I’m short and gay to gang signs to possibly wishing leukemia and the heebeejeebies on my grandmother. What can I say, I’m not well versed in such labor practices.
Amidst the see of ESL compadres, I noticed a swath of Ebonically proficient dudes. Now, I’m also Ebonically proficient. I’m also listening to Nirvana right now. My point is that I’m a lot of things. My first reaction is to stop, pick my ‘Twan and Jerome since we all speak the same language. But then my spidey sense went off.
“Your boy has a big screen TV and at least 12 pairs of Jordans – hire the hombres.”
Hmmmm. I wrestled with my conscience for no less than 7 seconds when I concluded that I have 3 cousins who are robbers who have sold me stuff that they came up on “suspicious circumstances”. Of course, anybody who has seen your wares can tell somebody else who can tell somebody else who can find a reason to be in your place when you come home relieving you of the stuff you hadn’t sent to Cash 4 Gold yet. But for some reason, I just assume that the homies would be a more likely word-of-mouth siren than the hombres, who did get hired by the way and did a bang up job for a reasonable price and two cases of Coronas.
Of course this touched off a hilarious debate amongst me and my friends about my blatant racism. Which, well, is blatant. I mean, I’ve been robbed no less than 7 times during the course of my short time on this planet and each time it’s been at the hands of people that, ya know, looked like me. I profile. Arizona.
(By the way, four of those times included my next door neighbor on that Westside. Zone 4).
I defended my stance vigorously but in my heart of hearts, I’ve been going back and forth about this. I mean, Tupac said it best, “it’s not them that’s holding us down, it’s us that’s holding us down.” I’m sure somebody more poignant than Tupac said that first but my Bible is missing a few pages.
So I bring it to you, good people of VSB, is Panama Jackson a racist? An intra-race racist? Am I the only one? Or was I just being smart?
Unperplex me. Ugh, that’s nasty. I’m not asthmatic.
-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka VITAMIN P aka TANGLE JIG P aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIRL, HE A 3