Barack Obama is Different

I am spending the evening around some of my favorite friends: books. Whether I enter a big box bookseller like Barnes and Noble or a small cramped hole in the wall with stacks and stacks of dusty books, I feel excited and anxious at once. All the possibilities of new worlds and amazing characters between these covers excite me, while looking at the stacks or shelves of books makes me anxious because I'll never have time to read them all.

Tonight I'm navigating around big tables piled high with coffee table books deeply discounted at Barnes and Noble. I look at one called The Complete History of the World, which keeps sliding on the slick glossy covers of the books underneath it because it's nearly two feet tall.

The table also has a selection of books about President Elect Barack Obama - his two bestsellers, a political pundit's analysis of him and a giant picture book of his campaign. Soon two female seniors approach the table. One of them opens the Obama picture book and stops at a double-page spread capturing close-up photos of three black women in the crowd at Obama's victory speech. Tears stream down all three black womens' faces and two of them grip tiny American flags in their clasped hands.

The older white women looking at the book pause at this photo, one smiles softly and the other utters a barely audible 'hhmm':

Smiles: My, my. It must be something to see one of your own finally make it this far.
Hhmm: Yes, well, Obama's not your average black. He's different.
Smiles: How do you mean?
Hhmm: Well, he's not on welfare, a thief or a gang member, is he? And he went to college. And got a job.
Smiles: Ohhh, shhh! Don't say that!
Hhmm: Why? I don't hear you disagreeing with me.

Fried Chicken in the White House

I've come to the mall against my better judgment. I promise myself to restrict spending to my loot of holiday gift cards and enter Macy's department store, wide-eyed. I've purposely arrived in the early afternoon on a week day to avoid crowds. Stumbling into a completely empty dressing room with an armful of clothing, I'm very pleased with myself.

I choose the corner stall in the back because it's big enough for my own private fashion show; I don't much like twirling in front of the paneled community mirror. A small flat screen TV is on the wall close to the entrance. The volume is a little high and Wolf Blitzer's voice booms from the CNN channel. In between two pairs of jeans (on sale!) CNN cuts to clips of the recent heated debate between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama.

Two female voices enter the dressing room. They talk to each other as friends do. One says how happy she'll be if the jeans fit. The ladies choose stalls midway down the row. Two doors open and close. Hangers clink and conversation continues:

Friend 1: It's great shopping this way! No kids hanging off us. No crowds!

Friend 2: Yeah. Look at this! We have it all to ourselves!

(I freeze, jeans in hand)

Friend 1: We should take a day off every month for shopping.

Friend 2: Definitely. Oooooh...I love these -

(Barack quips about Bill Clinton. Hillary snaps back at Barack.)

Friend 2: Oh god. Again. If I have to hear this one more time...

Friend 1: Ugh! Can you believe him? How he picks at her? Like a little chicken.

Friend 2: Yeah. Pick, pick picaaaw! Hahaha!

Friend 1: Can you imagine him president? What are they gonna serve at White House dinners? Fried chicken? Grits?

Friend 2: Ha! Yeah! And he'll make us pay the Blacks restitution for slavery -

Friend 1: Uh, we already do that. It's called welfare.

A Hypocritical Combo To Go, Please.

It's cold tonight in Southern Cal and I follow my nose to a nice little place for a hot dinner after work. The large tropical fish tank glows in the entry way. Customers are lined up to order about seven deep. I fall in line behind a white couple. The man is mid-40s with thinning brown hair but a very full, dark beard. His lady companion wears a tight ponytail that brushes her waist. Both are heavy-set and wear track suits slightly modified for his and hers.

Happy music plays on the stereo speakers. Diners chatter and a few small children cavort near tables. There is some confusion with a customer's order. A cashier turns to the cook staff behind her and yells orders through the opening above the counter. One cook returns fire and they joke for a few seconds, talking loudly above the din. The customer joins in the banter.

The couple before me shifts in place. The woman sighs. The man looks at the ceiling. The woman tightens her ponytail. The man puts his wallet back in his pocket. The woman nudges him, turns toward him and talks under her breath:

Woman: (sucks her teeth) These Mexicans. They're so damn loud.

Man: Humph.

Woman: Look at this. We're all waitin' here while they have a good old time. I'm tired of these people. They're nothin' but trouble. Look at the border. Look at all our stuff translated into Es-pan-ol.

Man: Uh huh. Well. I'm just hungry. That's all.

Woman: Well that's what I'm sayin'. Look at this. We're all waitin' on them and they're messin' around. They're no good (sighs). I don't like anything about 'em.

The joking ends. The line advances. The cashier smiles warmly. The couple orders lobster tacos and an enchilada combo. I am at Rubio's Baja Grill, enjoying Mexican food.

Chicken, Dirty Feet and Assumptions

In the midst of Thanksgiving grocery shopping, I took a break at a favorite Mediterranean restaurant for lunch. The fragrant aroma of chicken marinated with cinnamon and other exotic spices hangs in the air. The place is casual, with self seating. After the staff brings your plate, you're left to yourself and the condiment bar. It's moderately crowded with a mix of ethnicities, but mostly white people munch their lunch. I sit at a small table on the periphery and settle in.

There is a middle-aged white couple to my left halfway through their whole chicken special. The table to my right is empty. A few seats down, sit two dark-skinned young men with black hair and big, deep brown eyes. They speak loudly in their native language, which sounds like Malay or a Southeast Asian dialect to me. They wave their hands around as they speak and laugh, enjoying lunch. Both rip into their chickens with their hands and teeth. They wear flip-flops and soon each has kicked them off. They sit with one bare foot resting on the other knee, exposing soles dark with dirt towards me. The couple on my left notices them, also:

Female: Ugh. Look at those two. They eat like pigs.

Male: Yeah. I wouldn't even sit like that at the table.

Female: You bet you wouldn't! Look at those dirty feet. Ugh. Do their wives just put up with it?

Male: Their wives got nothin' to say about it. They probably have to eat the leftovers alone in the kitchen!

Female: Bullshit! I'd never...just look at how they eat. They're so filthy.

Male: Dirty Arabs. I hope we blast 'em all.

The boys, lost in their conversation, suddenly erupt with laughter. One of them burps and they laugh harder. Other diners now stare at them, but they hardly notice.

Loser

I made a day trip to a local Indian casino yesterday and once there, remembered why we don't do it more often. It's extremely crowded; navigating slot machine aisles proves difficult without constantly bumping into others searching for empty machines. Eager players stand behind those already seated, waiting for their credits to disappear. Finally, I find a machine and plop on the stool, still warm from the last person's rear end.

I begin playing and glance at my neighbors. A petite Asian lady plays to my left, repeatedly moving her hand across the screen with every spin. A big white guy plays to my right. He is about 25, with a shaved head covered with small beads of perspiration. A girl stands by his side, biting her fingernail. He bangs his fist on the spin button again and again. Suddenly, he stands to go. As he does, a short older Asian lady inserts her player's card into his machine before he cleared the chair:

Man: Hey! You fuckin' bitch! You greedy bitch! Wait!

(He snatches her card out of the slot and throws it on the floor)

Lady: I, I, sorry.

Man: I, I, I, I! Fuck you, you ugly chink bitch!

(He steps on her card and kicks it away. He puts his hands on either side of his face and stretches out his features.)

Man: I, I, I hate you fuckin' people!

The lady bows her head a little, glancing nervously at the floor and back at the man. She places her hands together, palms touching, and holds them out in front of her, gently shaking them up and down. Again, she says "I sorry". The man's girlfriend is wide-eyed. She pulls at her boyfriend's large bicep with both hands, urging him away. He looks back at the lady several times while his girlfriend pushes him down the aisle, repeatedly kissing his cheek. He turns and yells, "I HATE you!" one last time before disappearing from the aisle.

Someone has retrieved the lady's card and gives it back to her. She sits down slowly on the stool. She is quietly crying. Security arrives but she waves them away, shaking her head and repeating, "No trouble! No trouble!". They try again to speak with her. Someone brings her a bottle of water. She continues waving her hands and gets off the stool. Her knees buckle and she falls to the ground.

New Money

A mother and teen daughter shop in handbags. The mother is dark-haired, slender and very tan. She wears a "Juicy" light pink velour track suit, carries an oversized white pleated leather Chanel bag and sports no wedding ring. The girl is blond, hair long and straight as a board, an inch of dark regrowth. She has flawless skin, wears pink lip gloss and and low slung jeans. She is very thin and looks tired. She is not at all animated and follows her mother around the glass cases displaying designer bags.

Mom: Coach purses are so new money. They're ridiculous. Everyone has them, even the blacks.

Girl : I know.

Mom: When you rush this fall, you'll have a nice Gucci bag. Everyone knows how much Gucci is. By that time, Coach bags will probably be at Walmart.

The girl laughs but it doesn't sound real.