Guilty of Being White

It had been an exhausting couple of weeks, but redemption was on the horizon.  My blistered feet only had one more day of suffering until the glory of new shoes.  I spent all day at work fantasizing about how perfect those new etnies were going to feel, or how protected those dc’s would make my feet.  After making sure the check had cleared the next day I hobbled into the mall and made my way to the storefront I had been drooling at on my lunchbreak for weeks.  I stood and stared at the selection and felt torn.  My daydreaming was interrupted by a rauckous cackle and an “aaaay boieee”.  The stereotype of a man standing next to me grinned from ear to ear.  “What can I do fo you cuz?” he pushed out the corner of his mouth.

            “I’m just in for some new sneaks man,” I gasped in a reverent tone.  My white-boy senses were tingling and I was already worried I was going to offend him.  “Do you have any dc’s or etnies in eleven wides?”  The last sentence was almost a church whisper and I could feel a sinking feeling in my gut.  Growing up in Maine I had no bearing on how to act.

            That cackle rushed past his lips again.  “Nah son, we done been cleaned out,” still grinning from ear to ear he damn near shouts the next line, “but I got some hi-tops that gone blow yo mind!”  He swaggers into the back room and disappears.  My fight or flight reflexes are starting to kick in.  I start rolling through a list of topics.  Is it racist if I bring up wu-tang clan, I wonder.  Is it okay to laugh because I feel awkward?  Before I can even get a plan of attack formed he’s back out with one box in hand.  “I know you gone laawdeese,” I frantically try to decode “this tha hot shit son.”  He cackles again as he opens the box.  It’s that same cackle from “let me clear my throat”.

            I do everything I can to bury my initial reaction, I can’t possibly shit on his taste.  I’d look like such a racist.  I swallow my pride and try them on and the second I get them laced up he shouts “OOOO-WEEEE!”  I jump a little bit and he cackles again.  Much to my dismay they are amazingly comfortable.  I look up to see an asian girl in a panda dress and an anime nerd with a panda hat walk by.  I chuckle a little realizing I don’t have any right to judge anyones taste in clothes right now.  The events that take place in the next couple of minutes are all a blur.  Somehow, I get to the register stunned and guilty and when he says something about how my shoes are shining I visibly wince.  Please chuck d, don’t mention shoe-shine with my skinhead standing in front of you.  Someone is going to get the wrong idea.

            After a quick dash to the car I look down at the neon monstrosities on my feet.  I can feel my pride sink a little bit lower as Minor Threat’s “Guilty of being white” plays in my head.  As I step out of the car to get the longboard out of the back after arriving home there’s a glimmer of hope this isn’t all bad.  I get on and I’m amazed at how comfortable these shoes are to skate in.  Before I know it I’m as far into the ghetto as I have ever been and look up to an immediate rush of white guilt.  Five or six dudes give me a white boy sneer and I do my best to get out of there.   I’m no where near fast enough.  They’re on me like a pack of dogs.  “Those kicks are too good for you cracka, lemme help you out of ‘em” one of the dudes says.  “Yeah, run you shit” echoes another of his entourage.

            So, the next thing I know I’m coming to again.  My shirt is bloody and ripped.  I can still feel some wetness on my nose.  I look up to see the leader of the group toss my sneakers up at the powerlines.  The flip end over end like neon nunchucks and land with a whisper on the powerline.  High fives and complicated processions of handshakes follow.  “Guilty of being white” starts up in my head again, and I realize I might actually be a racist.
It had been an exhausting couple of weeks, but redemption was on the horizon. My blistered feet only had one more day of suffering until the glory of new shoes. I spent all day at work fantasizing about how perfect those new etnies were going to feel, or how protected those dc’s would make my feet. After making sure the check had cleared the next day I hobbled into the mall and made my way to the storefront I had been drooling at on my lunchbreak for weeks. I stood and stared at the selection and felt torn. My daydreaming was interrupted by a rauckous cackle and an “aaaay boieee”. The stereotype of a man standing next to me grinned from ear to ear. “What can I do fo you cuz?” he pushed out the corner of his mouth.
“I’m just in for some new sneaks man,” I gasped in a reverent tone. My white-boy senses were tingling and I was already worried I was going to offend him. “Do you have any dc’s or etnies in eleven wides?” The last sentence was almost a church whisper and I could feel a sinking feeling in my gut. Growing up in Maine I had no bearing on how to act.
That cackle rushed past his lips again. “Nah son, we done been cleaned out,” still grinning from ear to ear he damn near shouts the next line, “but I got some hi-tops that gone blow yo mind!” He swaggers into the back room and disappears. My fight or flight reflexes are starting to kick in. I start rolling through a list of topics. Is it racist if I bring up wu-tang clan, I wonder. Is it okay to laugh because I feel awkward? Before I can even get a plan of attack formed he’s back out with one box in hand. “I know you gone laawdeese,” I frantically try to decode “this tha hot shit son.” He cackles again as he opens the box. It’s that same cackle from “let me clear my throat”.
I do everything I can to bury my initial reaction, I can’t possibly shit on his taste. I’d look like such a racist. I swallow my pride and try them on and the second I get them laced up he shouts “OOOO-WEEEE!” I jump a little bit and he cackles again. Much to my dismay they are amazingly comfortable. I look up to see an asian girl in a panda dress and an anime nerd with a panda hat walk by. I chuckle a little realizing I don’t have any right to judge anyones taste in clothes right now. The events that take place in the next couple of minutes are all a blur. Somehow, I get to the register stunned and guilty and when he says something about how my shoes are shining I visibly wince. Please chuck d, don’t mention shoe-shine with my skinhead standing in front of you. Someone is going to get the wrong idea.
After a quick dash to the car I look down at the neon monstrosities on my feet. I can feel my pride sink a little bit lower as Minor Threat’s “Guilty of being white” plays in my head. As I step out of the car to get the longboard out of the back after arriving home there’s a glimmer of hope this isn’t all bad. I get on and I’m amazed at how comfortable these shoes are to skate in. Before I know it I’m as far into the ghetto as I have ever been and look up to an immediate rush of white guilt. Five or six dudes give me a white boy sneer and I do my best to get out of there. I’m no where near fast enough. They’re on me like a pack of dogs. “Those kicks are too good for you cracka, lemme help you out of ‘em” one of the dudes says. “Yeah, run you shit” echoes another of his entourage.
So, the next thing I know I’m coming to again. My shirt is bloody and ripped. I can still feel some wetness on my nose. I look up to see the leader of the group toss my sneakers up at the powerlines. The flip end over end like neon nunchucks and land with a whisper on the powerline. High fives and complicated processions of handshakes follow. “Guilty of being white” starts up in my head again, and I realize I might actually be a racist.

Don’t ask me about the gold
I pity the fool who doesn’t respect the belt
Virgil standing on your chest for the ten count
The million dollar man shouting everyone has a price.

Don’t ask me about the green
The bamboo chute gripped in surprisingly human paws
A smug grin on a black and white face
Happy panda is happy indeed.

Don’t ask me about the purple
Neon high tops in tones of yellow and green and purple
That reflect my bruised ego
And a crippling fear of being a racist

Don’t ask me about the white
The little ears on the top of the cap
Each one a secret pact
Odd birds of a feather fly together after all.