Yeah, I’m white
by j.charles @ textproductions
“Cracker this, cracker that…” -phunk junkeez
Yeah, I’m white. So the fuck what. You’re black. I smell like barbecue and Coors light and wear a collar to the club where I drink Hennessy from a snifter, La Famiglia in a shot glass. I’m from the whitest and northern most suburbs of the bay, live with my grandparents and work five thousand hours a week to pay for my fucked up car. But I still manage to find time in my weekend, time that I could be using to study, to come check out your band and venue and write about it. So fuck you.
Does where I come from have any bearing on how your music sounds? I bet the farm that it doesn’t. In fact you should take it as a compliment that I drove for a god damned hour and paid the fee just to see a set. I know you can see me in the back of the club. A six four white boy in a fedora tends to draw the eye in a place like this. I bounce to the beat, and sing a chorus. I did my fucking research. And when I approach you for an interview I suggest you hold the fuck on and be courteous.
But you front. I’m just here to further your exposure and help myself out for a few hours and you come at me with some old reverse Jim Crowe shit. Separate but equal didn’t work then, it don’t work now. You see the pen and pad in my hand. You see the pressed fits and sweater vest. You know I don’t belong here, save for the fact that I chose to be. And you still just cruise on by with a “do you know where you are honkey?” look on your face. Yeah, I do. And now I want my eight dollars back, fucker.
Put it to you like this, all you musical kats and kittens; weather you like it or not, what you see is what you get. I’m here to write a story because I want to. Races don’t mean shit to me. although I will admit that I notice it, like anyone would, the answer is no; I don’t feel the least bit uncomfortable being the only white kid on the block, let alone in the club.
The question is this; are you willing to admit that you notice the color barrier? If so, are you willing to get the fuck over it? Are you willing to get large no matter what the cost and recognize that it doesn’t matter who listens to your music, as long as they get it?
Compliments come from the strangest places. Nobody grows up perfect, even in the suburbs. My life is a lot closer to yours than you might think. Of course you will never know that, because all you saw was white. Which is why I dress like this. Subterfuge. If it’s an issue to you, than there is no real story here for me anyway. So fuck you, get over yourself. At least I’m not the white kid who sports Fubu and tries to rock airforce ones. At least I know my societal department. At least I act exactly the same at the club as I do in the suburbs.
The point is this; does it really matter? Isn’t a person just a person, especially when they buy the rights, buy the beer, and buy the merch? Should be. Bad business gets you nowhere further than the horizon of the hood you grew up in, and will probably die in. Good publicity, however, gets you bling. Gets you fast cars, a house in the Oakland hills (or knob hill) and pays for your daughter’s college education far better than working at Albertson’s will. Credible sources are hard to come by, kat. Do people listen to you? they hear you, but do they understand you? They have to listen to me. My word is ever lasting. Your words disappear with your record sales, into the “coulda woulda shoulda” bin at Sam Goody. Shoulda, but you didn’t. And you deserve all that it earns you. bitch.
Yeah, you’re black. So the fuck what, I’m white. You eat Nickie’s barbecue and drink beer. You wear your stunner shades to the club, drink Hennessy out of the snifter, live with your girlfriend in North Berkeley, and drive a bucket ass brougham. But hey, you’re a big time rap star, with mad respect and bangin’; ass groupies. It’s a god damn shame none of your fans know that.
This story was written in response to a clearly very frustrating event. It was written to a very specific person, who knows exactly who he is, who will probably never ever visit the website. So I made a copy at Kinko’s and put it in his mailbox. And under his door. And all over his front yard; in his poorly secured car and posted to the shaker siding along the side of his apartment. In North Berkeley. Also in the fifth pocket of his white girlfriend’s Seven jeans, size four.