I hate it when people misunderstand me. It happens now and again, like between the hours of nine to five weekdays, or on family vacations, or late at night in bed with my girlfriend, or when ordering services via the phone, or giving directions, or when filling out income tax forms . . . Thing is, I don't let it just slide. I do my best to correct the misconception to let the misconceiver, be he friend or stranger, know what's truly going on. But from time to time, there are instances where what I'm doing in the first place is so embarrassing or strange, that it is easier to just be thought a jerk.
Example. I was climbing the stairs at the Hunter College subway stop. Hunter College has a large percentage of persons of color, doing all they can to reject the role society has handed them and fight for an education and a better life. Bravo to them. As a result of this, many young African-American and Latino women train in from the outer boroughs, leaving behind the close-mindedness often so prevalent in blue collar neighborhoods in exchange for the enlightened equality of Manhattan's Upper East Side. Or so they think.
Climbing up the stairs, directly in front of me, was an African American woman with what may have been the finest tush in the history of Western Civilization. Granted, not nearly as fantastic as the tush of my dear sweet beloved girlfriend, who may be reading this right now, but a wonderful tush nonetheless. And, seeing as how my dear sweet beloved girlfriend's tush was not available for me to fawn over, I was left with this one. And, it was right there in front of me, with no where to go!
Have you ever climbed subway steps during rush hour? Everyone's face is not more than a nose's length from the tush of the person in front of you. I frequently feel tremendous guilt toward whomever is behind me (and the occasional awkward confusion when behind a longhaired boy.) But this one day the Fates had planted me squarely behind the Divine Behind. And, I admit, I was staring. Probably drooling.
And I felt horrible. Here was a woman coming to Hunter College to educate herself just so she could get away from just this sort of behavior. So she could bring herself to a position in society where she could be something other than a sex object. She commuted for hours and paid good money for tuition and was ruining it, ruining it! Plus, she may have been taking one of those Women's Studies courses, making her even more susceptible to mental anguish.
So I closed my eyes. For a few brief moments I closed my eyes. I could have looked away, but I still would have been staring, piercing into her and violating her. Even if I stared at the ground she'd've figured me for a weird shoe fetishist. I know what you're thinking. How could she know where I was looking if she was in front of me, back turned? She knew. I was looking so hard and so loudly, the whole damn New York City Transit System knew.
Eventually, she reached the top stair, as did I. Of course, my eyes were still closed, so I didn't realize I hit the top stair. I lost balance, and, to prevent me from falling, reached out and grabbed the first firm thing I could find. Which was . . . her ass.
She spun quickly around and looked hard at me, and, just from her eyes, I could tell she had been taking those Women's Studies classes. Now I had two options. I could say, "Sorry ma'am, I didn't mean to squeeze your heinie, I had my eyes closed because I didn't want to subject you to lookism, especially because you are an African American trying to better yourself through education and you have enough on your mind." Or I could flee and let her think I was just another pervert. Which would you choose?
Here's another example, from back in High School, strangely enough with another attractive woman.
As a Freshman I took a Chinese class. Well . . . it wasn't a real Chinese class. We met once a week, learned how to say "hello" "goodbye" and "thank you," and tried a few T'ai Chi Chu'an moves. For a class trip we went out and got ourselves some dumplings.
One day our teacher brings in a tape of "Monty Python's Contractual Obligation Album" which has a cute little song called "I Like Chinese." You may have heard the song--it's a popular favorite at Morning Zoo shows. It lists Chinese facts and achievements and has a maddeningly catchy melody that goes "I like Chi-neeeeese/I like Chi-neeeeese/I like Chi-neeeeese." Well, I guess in print it doesn't look that catchy, but you have to trust me on this.
I spent weeks humming and singing this song aloud. The whole class did. And I don't know if this applies to everyone, but when you're a Freshman in high school and you're singing one lyric for months at a time, eventually you begin to corrupt it, Bowdlerize it, switch words around a bit.
I like Chinese quickly became I ate Chinese. This had a modicum of logic to it, as Chinese food was very popular in New Jersey at this time. I ate Chinese became I hate Chinese. This was because it rhymed. I hate Chinese eventually became I kill Chinese. I don't know why on earth I would ever gladly hum this phrase, but hum it I did.
There was a Senior girl, damned if I recall the name, but, yes, she was a foreign exchange student from China. I always wanted to talk to her, but I was a lowly Freshman. She was really smokin', but a little lonely (as exchange students always are) and for months I wished I could show her how understanding I could be toward her. After all we were both outcasts. We were both artists, romantics. True, I had no idea what the hell her passions were, and I can barely write my name in the ground with a stick . . . but, for the sake of a good story . . . we were both artists, romantics.
One day I'm in the library and she's there. I try to ignore her, act coy, maybe I'll approach her and ask a cool question. But what to say? Well, don't just stand here thinking! Do something in the meantime. What? I dunno, whistle or something! I started whistling a nice little tune, a happy jolly catchy tune.
And before you know it, I'm singing this tune. Suddenly I realize, this woman, this poor foreign exchange student--from China, no less, the land of political injustice--who only came to this country to learn and to escape the cultural purges of her homeland--is staring face to face with some wanker who's singing, "I kill Chi-neeeeese/I kill Chi-neeeeese/I kill Chi-neeeeese."
Her eyes opened wide and suddenly I realized what I was doing. No! No! No! I wanted to shout, but I couldn't. I was to frozen at my own stupidity to do anything. I just hung there in front of her, letting the bouncy little tune rattle around both of our minds like a depraved, satanic Furby. I kill Chi-neeeeese.
What could I do? Could I say, "Excuse me, ma'am, I don't mean to frighten you, but I only wanted to act cool and hum around you like I wasn't aware of your saucy presence, so I fell back on the one tune in my mind, which actually isn't about killing Chinese, but liking them, and I've only changed the line from liking to killing because I've been singing the other one for weeks?" Could I say that? What would you do?
Sometimes it's better to be thought mean and nasty.
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