Colonialist Mentality on the Daily: A Micro-level Analysis

With a heavy heart and three big bumps on my precious noggin, I take to the outlet of my blog to write this.

This past Saturday night I went to a show in San Francisco I had been so looking forward to. Telefon Tel Aviv's melodic, ambient sounds awaited me (sans Charlie Cooper, RIP) at Bottom of the Hill, a venue in Potrero I had yet to visit. I, recently dumped, and with a health scare the previous week, was determined to enjoy myself that day and night, having treated myself to clothes I couldn't afford earlier on in the day and hoping the music would soothe some of my worries away.

I should say, I get nervous in crowds sometimes. Especially when I don't look like everyone else in the room. (as in all the time.) The show was predominantly white, with weedwhacker haircuts and facial piercings and the sour expressions of surly San Franciscans as far as the eye could see. "It's okay," I thought, "I've been here before. We have this music in common, so it's all good."

My friends and I stood near the stage, staking our spot through one non-offensive opening act and another terribly offensive Depeche Mode meets The Wedding Singer meets Megadeth meets latfh.com act. Then Telefon Tel Aviv came on, and the room was hushed. We swayed and smiled and closed our eyes. We danced lightly. It was a sweet and mellow time. Before the second to last song, Joshua said, "This one's for Charlie," and the night was starting to feel complete, regardless of the obnoxious couple who had crowded up behind me and my friend and were pushing us into the stage. I had managed to ignore them thus far, and refrained from the shit-talking I would usually participate in about people with their particular fashion sense. I chose to succumb to the music instead, even when I vaguely half-heard her make some disparaging remarks about me.

But as soon as the last song started, she of the tacky red thrift store dress and ridiculous hair took it a little too far. She pushed into me, intentionally, a couple of times before I finally turned around and asked her to back up. She was immediately aggro, coked out probably, refusing to back up even though she was pushing me right into the stage. So I told her to shut up and back the fuck up out of my space and turned around.

Before I knew what was happening, she had grabbed me by my curls from behind and was smashing her drink glass into my head. I tried to turn around but I couldn't see anything, as she was pushing my hair into my face. One of the only things I remember thinking during the brawl was how much I miss my shaved head. I attempted to swing, punch, claw, but I was useless. She had sucker punched me. For someone who knows how to kick some goddamn ass when she needs to, this was frustrating to say the least.

I emerged from my own hair curtain slipping on broken glass and soaking wet with booze. I hadn't had a drop to drink that night because of the antibiotics I am on, and immediately pictured myself getting pulled over on the drive home and trying to explain to a police officer that no, I swear, I was not drinking.

I saw that a circle had formed and that her boyfriend was holding her back, seemingly to protect her. It took every ounce of strength I had not to lunge at her, not because of any attempt at making peace, but because after all, we know which skin tone gets arrested in situations like this, don't we? So instead, I shouted as loud as I could varied obscenities peppered with phrases like "You're a tacky bitch!" and "Your hair is lame!" (it really was.)

I walked right past my two friends who had been near me the whole time. I knew they wouldn't do what I needed a friend to do in this situation. I've rarely known a white person to understand this kind of situation, unless they were raised within a certain class, which my friends definitely were not. I went to the back room to look for my brown friend/lover, who had gone to lie down in a booth a few minutes earlier, mellowed by the music. Somehow, through alcohol dripping into my eyes, I explained what happened. He jumped up with the fury that a brown, immigrant tranny exudes in the face of such injustice. He knew what was up.

We walked toward the exit and saw the happy white couple at the end of the bar, looking like they were about to order another drink. We raged. It's a blur. We were alternating telling the tacky bitch that we'd see her outside with trying to explain to the bar staff what happened.

Are you ready for the big fucking surprise of the year? The bar staff started yelling at us, treating us like Angry Brown People, telling us to calm down. I told them they wouldn't fucking be calm if some dumb bitch had just broken a glass over their head. They said there was no way to know what happened. I told them they could go ask any of the six people who were asking me if I was okay after seeing what happened. They acted like we were crazy. They acted like we were the ones who fucked up, who did something wrong. They let her go. They didn't call the cops. They let her go and told me to calm down. They lied about having security on the dance floor. They let her go. They didn't call the police. They told me to calm down. They let her go!

Can you imagine that it would be at all possible for a brown person to do that to a white person in a predominantly white bar and to have the white staff, ironic mustaches and all, tell the white person to calm down and let the brown person go without calling the cops? If you are brown or have half a brain, you know that this would never happen.

My friend wanted to kick her ass outside, but I insisted she wasn't worth it. She walked off with her boyfriend and friend, making gestures she probably saw on MTV, probably walking back to the apartment her parents pay the rent for. I yelled at them as they walked away, obscenities . . . I couldn't control myself. It was either that or cry and I couldn't let the entitled bitch see me cry.

I tried to tell the door guy that in the future, he should call the police in such situations. He interrupted me, wouldn't let me finish, told me I should have come to him (which I did do.) He ignored the facts and chose to belittle me, dismiss me, treat me like an angry brown person.

Fuck yeah I'm an angry brown person.

Whether on the macro-level or the micro-level, this situation is what happens over and over and over in the world:

White people believe they are entitled to something (ie. space), and so choose to take it. If a brown person challenges them, they get rude. If said brown person challenges them further, they get violent. When some regulatory body is brought into it, they are almost always white and assume that the brown person did something wrong. The brown person gets accused; the white person gets off scot-free. White person goes on believing that the world is theirs and that they deserve and can have whatever they want.

Anybody who tells me this is not the case has got their head up their ass. It is no coincidence that every brown person I know (and every brown person they know) has at least one story that demonstrates this cycle. If you think this isn't about race, you've managed to reach this point in your life with no understanding of history, politics, resource wars, genocide, corporate & governmental thievery of the people, etc. (you know, "reality.")

Fuck yeah I'm an angry brown person. Probably will be for my whole life unless and until white people, who think it's fine to just stay neutral in this fucked up cycle, stand up and say something, do something about the injustices that brown people face.

I have no happy ending here, no constructive and positive note to end on. What I experienced was fucked up and my head still hurts, two days later. And it's a part of the way this world is run and I'm mad as hell about it.

The End.

Labor Day

There are a LOT of things I could say about the “political” happenings of the past few weeks, which greatly intensified in the past few days. But I think the most important thing is:

Congratulations, Glenn Beck. Your ass is showing. As is the flabby, pasty ass of the entire Republican party.

You see, while the rest of us (you know, the majority of the country, the 75% or so who think you are a waste of space) are understandably upset this weekend, we also have renewed hope. Because we know the reason that you and your cronies started this schizophrenic smear-campaign against our friend Van is because we are winning. You’re shaking in your Men’s Wearhouse trousers and you don’t even know the half of it.

You see, if you thought taking out Van was going to be any kind of success, you were sorely mistaken. Because supporting Van and the movement for creating a just and sustainable economic system and combating climate change is an army of smart, savvy, trained leaders and organizers who are carrying out the work all around the country. Under-resourced? Absolutely. Exhausted? Definitely. Still determined? You betcha. And this pathetic demonstration of your fear of Van and everything he symbolizes has just emboldened us. We know that you only knew part of the story and that you were already terrified. Imagine if you knew the whole truth – that our movement has gone viral.

The good news for you and for all of us is that our win will not compromise you and your quality of life. Progressives by definition are working toward a better world for ALL, in contrast to conservatives who consistently work to oppress the “other.” So even though you make this game difficult for us (yes, all of you, even “nice” conservatives who support oppression via silence and apathy), when we win this seemingly uphill battle, you will not be left behind. We got you.

Holler at me in a few years. I’ll be the one growing tomatoes and harvesting rainwater. You’ll be the one with a useless pile of paper money and a Jesus fish on the back of your rusted SUV. I promise I’ll resist the urge to laugh in your face, and instead will share my bounty. You’re welcome in advance.