American Women
An everyday reminder of women's oppression in America.Monday, October 30, 2006
The stigma of black men in America
I was riding the bus in the city, sitting at the front, right before the handicap seating. In front of me was a man, 50 years old or so. He spent the entire bus ride counting and sorting four wads of cash in the seat ahead of me; facing me so that I saw his cash. We stepped off the bus at the same stop, and I walked quickly. It was dusk, and I didn't know when the next train was, so I wanted to hurry to the station.
To my left I saw a figure walking quickly to catch up with me; it was the same man from the bus.
"Can I tell you something?"
What could I respond? "Sure," I said.
"You are gorgeous."
"Thank you," I said, "that's very flattering."
He didn't stop at showing me his wealth or stating his interest in my physical traits; he proceeded to demonstrate his intellectual ability by talking about his schooling at Georgetown University (in terrible grammar) and his schooling in Criminal Justice and at Law School. After a good five minutes of talking, I found an excuse to turn in a different direction.
I said goodbye and, out of the corner of my eye, watched him walk two feet further before turning around to ask me for my phone number: me, a nineteen year old white girl, and him, a 50 year old black man. I said no, and he didn't proceed in the same direction we had been walking; he walked back where we came from.
To my left I saw a figure walking quickly to catch up with me; it was the same man from the bus.
"Can I tell you something?"
What could I respond? "Sure," I said.
"You are gorgeous."
"Thank you," I said, "that's very flattering."
He didn't stop at showing me his wealth or stating his interest in my physical traits; he proceeded to demonstrate his intellectual ability by talking about his schooling at Georgetown University (in terrible grammar) and his schooling in Criminal Justice and at Law School. After a good five minutes of talking, I found an excuse to turn in a different direction.
I said goodbye and, out of the corner of my eye, watched him walk two feet further before turning around to ask me for my phone number: me, a nineteen year old white girl, and him, a 50 year old black man. I said no, and he didn't proceed in the same direction we had been walking; he walked back where we came from.
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