Le Docteur et ses Malades

Don't think you can afford to laugh nowadays as the Jews drag us into their
Shemitic family feud with their fellow dune coons! Breathe. Inhale. Hold it.
Now release. And stop bogarting and pass it, fer chrissakes! Did you flunk
sharing in Kindergarten? Stop watching the Tel-Avivision for a minute. It
will only make you feel even shittier, watching The Zombies wave that limp,
used Kotex sanitary pad formerly known as the Stars 'n' Stripes.

Have you ever had relatives that embarrass the phuck out of you? That made
you wonder if this is God's idea of a sick joke; some sort of undeserved
karma that makes you wince every time you're reminded that you share the
same family tree with these cretins? You know the ones I'm talkin' about.
That's right. THEM. And unfortunately for you and me, THEY LIVE.

No one would suggest that you "hated yourself" for admitting that these
types exist, right? No one would infer that you are trying to "deny who you
were" merely for pointing out your family's pathologies, and their attempts
to out-do each other in the pissing contest for putting the "funk" in
dysfunctional.

Well, it seems that I have earned some sort of cosmic retribution, although
I'm driving myself crazy these days, trying to figure out what I could've
ever done to win this spot on God's shit list. Aside from being born! I'm so
desperate for answers, I've stooped to asking the Van Impes to put me on
their prayer list. INDEFINITELY. Extreme measures, indeed. WAIT -- I found
Jesus! Do you know he's been hiding behind the sofa the WHOLE GULDURNED
TIME?

That em-BARE-ASS-ment that I described, my friends, is very similar to the
feelings I have currently for many of my fellow "African-Americans" during
these days of: jacking Whitey's gravy train for more gub'ment cheese; and
reverting to blood-frenzied savagery in the urban jungles. Friends of Niggas
don't let ******s buy gold teefes and Glocks on layaway.

I am the daughter of '60s black intellectual artists who flirted with Black
Nationalism (and each other, obviously) during the heady days and purple
haze of the Summer of Love. My father was a teacher at New York's City
College; my mom was one of his students, a starry-eyed black hippie chick
refugee from the North Shore of Chicago. Why do the Jews want Israel,
anyway? Aren't the North Shore and Florida enough?

My mother dragged me to the S.F. Bay Area (the belly of the P.C. Multi-Kulti
beast) when I was entering Kindergarten to chase her Utopian rainbows of
social justice, 'wimmins rights,' and all the weed she could toke. I have
baby photos of me in our former growing room! I was weaned on a figurative
and literal hybrid diet of grits AND granola; corn bread AND tofu, and was
exposed to the counterculture of black and White artists, intellectuals,
musicians, and lefty-type political activists before I was teething. I was
probably one of the very few black girls in my very integrated public school
who learned how to walk on hardwood floors while my mother played Sun Ra
records, and read Tarot cards in clouds of dense incense and Columbian
smoke.

You get the picture. I was a freak even before I was conscious of it. I
defied all conventional labels, and to make things worse, I was part of that
gun-point-granted 'freedom for diversity' otherwise known as bussing. That
would be code for "Pickaninny Potluck." Only "Guess Who's goin' in da pot?"
And guess who's shit outta luck, Whitey? If I was that White bus driver, I'd
have put on my best Miss Prissy accent and said, "Miss Scarlevitz, I don'
know nuthin' 'bout bussin' no Bebe's kids!"

My mother should've known that I was going to have problems when I came home
from nursery school crying, because the project bunnies were calling me
"white girl." Now mind you, they weren't getting this perception from my
skin, as I was a light-bronze-complexioned child with a thick, long shock of
wavy black hair. Clearly a black child, albeit somewhat light-skinned until
summer, anyway. I was too young and innocent to even know what being a
"white girl" was. I just knew by the way that they were taunting me that it
wasn't the thing to be.

I asked my mother through sobs if I was "white," and my mother looked at me,
horrified, trying to figure out who and why anyone would torment her child
with such dumb-ass nonsense. My mother is dark skinned and mixed with some
Irish blood; my father is pretty light complexioned and a straight up black
Seminole of Afro-Indian descent from Florida. Yep. THOSE Seminoles. Crazy
MoFoes who engaged this country in the longest, most expensive and fiercest
battle EVER against Whitey.

I came out with light-bronze skin, almond-shaped dark eyes,
Tomahawk-chiseled cheek bones, and symmetrical, sharp features to rival
those of any ski-jump-nosed, potato-chip-lipped, freckle-faced White child.
That's why I've never been jealous of White girls, unlike most Chimpettes.
Thank God. Genes are funny like that. I am definitely a chip off my father's
block. I have the reddish-brown skin to qualify as a bona-fide mongoloid
negress, yet the racial phenotype of my White and Indian relatives is
undeniably visible in my face. So ****** Bitches, don't hate me because I'm
beautiful. Hate me because yo' NIGGA thinks I'm beautiful! Oh, wait --
THAT'S why you called me "white girl" in the first place, huh?!?

So why were these kool-aid-drunken Bebe's kids torturing me with accusations
that I was "White"? It certainly couldn't have been my medium red-brown
skin. Strangers of all races would stop my mother and comment on what a
pretty child I was, and my peers asked me constantly what I was "mixed
with." Adults of all races were always bewitched by my huge brown eyes,
bronze skin, small lips, tiny button nose, and precocious, sassy charm. I
never gave any of this multi-racial attention to my ethnic Afro-ambiguity
much thought, as I knew I was just a li'l black girl too busy to care;
setting up lemonade stands, going to summer camp, gorging on Now 'n' Laters,
and raiding local plum trees with my integrated neighborhood's kids.

There were maybe two or three White families still stuck in our newfound
working-class "changing" neighborhood, and these White kids befriended me.
They told me in hushed tones that I was "different from those other Blacks,"
and their supposedly "racist" parents invited me into their homes, whereas
the project jungle bunnies did not get extended the same birthday and
sleep-over invitations. Nyeah, nyeah, nyeah! Seriously, I don't say this out
of some twisted exclusivity, this is just a fact.

It should be pointed out that in retrospect, maybe these White kids'
families were "racist," yet they trusted me over the rest of the little
savages to be civilized in their homes. These Whites may or may not have
been racist, but they were discriminating, as they recognized that I had
what's referred to in Ebonics as "home trainin.'" Meaning that they knew I
wasn't casing the house when I looked for my kickball in their shrubbery. So
if they were in fact "racist," it couldn't have been just because of "brown
skin." If they were so-called "racist," then why did they make an exception
for me? Because they knew they'd never have to worry that I'd stain their
furniture with Jherri Curl Juice, that's why!

Mongrel's purgatory... This is when my life became a mongrel's
purgatory. On the one hand, here I was, being raised bi-culturally by my hip
swingin' sixties Afro-mama steeped in Afrocentrism; yet told by the ******s
on the school bus that I was a "White bitch" at the tender age of six years
old by monkey bitches who were repeating the third grade for the third time.
It was surreal, to say the least. I wasn't even a White girl, yet I was
being made to pay for their 'sins' just because I resembled Jane Goodall
more than I did her furry friends!

My fellow "brethren" would try to sexually assault me, and beat me up when I
resisted, and the "sistas" would spit in my hair one day, and then volunteer
to braid my wavy, thick "good hair" they coveted the next. Confusion doesn't
even begin to do explain what I was going through. Add to this volatile mix
the fact that I had to learn ESL (that would be Ebonics as a Second
Language) just to survive at school, and my lil' White buddies tried
valiantly to protect me in vain from the jealous wrath of my "own people." I
would ask my mother "why?" All she could say was, "They're just mad because
they think you have something they don't." And what would that "something"
be? An ATM card instead of a check-cashing card? Sense enough to know better
than to lease furniture and DVD players on a weekly basis from Mr.
Schwindler?

It only got worse by the time I was nine years old. My public elementary
school was now a festering witch's brew of savage, gub'ment cheese-eatin'
'hood rats, PCP "loc'd out" Mexicans known as 'nortenos,' glue-sniffin' poor
White kids, and upper-middle-class Birkenstock-clad White kids. A sprinkling
of Asians kids who had sense enough to stay the hell out of everyone else's
way.

__________________
<img src="http://www.ichokedonapretzel.com/Images/bush-dancoat.gif"><img src="http://www.davidstuff.com/pee.gif"><img src="http://www.ichokedonapretzel.com/Images/bush-danunder.gif">