By Andrew Padula

A couple of days after the election last year, I attended a foreign policy seminar in downtown D.C. I had really been looking forward to this opportunity to rub elbows with international political and business leaders while enjoying one heck of a free lunch buffet. Unfortunately, the most memorable part of this day was my commute on the pride of our nation’s rail system, the Washington Metro. Three or four stops had passed by on my trip home. I was sitting quietly by myself in the center of a car that was about 1/3 full. As we pulled into the station, the overhead speaker chimed “ Doors opening”, and suddenly we were overwhelmed with the raucous outburst of a large contingent of Black school children piling into the car.

They were partaking in what was a familiar exhibition for about two months last fall, a cadence chant of “BARACK(clap-clap)… OBAMA (clap-clap, clap clap)”. The chunk of the group that situated themselves around me consisted of seven kids. Four were nerdy looking 11-12 year olds, and three 14-15 year olds who decided to stand in the aisle. One of the older kids was a loud and obnoxious Rasta Rockstar wanna be. Eyes bleeding out of his head, his pants hanging halfway down his backside, and an ipod blasting gangsta rap loud enough from those tiny earbuds to be an annoyance throughout the car. I was riding in one of the seats that face backwards. To watch the stations pass, I had to look out the window past these darling children.

“BITCH! what the F*** is wrong wit chu! Didn’ yo mama teach you it roote to stare an’ shit. Didn’ she teach you no manners… keep playin’ and I teach you some manners..” the mighty mini dread pee-on barked at me.

He puffed his chest out and raised his arms in an awkward bird like manner shaking his contorted face to and fro in what could easily have been mistaken for an epileptic fit. Then there was the obligatory round of laughing and high fives for this punk had just told off me, Mr. Whitey. A couple more minutes had passed and we were approaching another station.

As I glanced over, Spanky leaned into the line of my gaze. “ Are you trippin’ ? What is wrong wit chu? Ain’t you never seen a Black man before?” he blurted while rubbing the exposed skin on the back of his hand which he held a few inches from my face. “ You wanna step off the train here an’ I’ll teach you some manners Mr. Businessman!” invited the little idiot while playing the fake punch, scratch the head game.

I calmly looked him in the eye and replied, “Why wait, I’m here right now…”

Part of me wanted to end him. Another part of me said, “ Hello.. you are in the district… the cops will be Black, the Judge will be Black, no matter how this goes down it will never be self defense and you will be the face of racism on the front page of every paper in the free world.”

“Move over mother f*****, you in my seat !” he commanded as he proceeded to sit next to me and slide across the seat forcing me up against the window. “I’m goin’ with my new pal here to his stop to teach him some manners”, he declared, throwing his arm around my neck. ‘You are in my seat, move over you stupid McCain ass lookin’ mother f*****… “ he grunted as he jammed his elbow repeatedly into my ribs.

“You know that is assault and battery… keep it up.” I informed him.

“Yeah, I bet your stupid White ass voted for McCain too, didn’ you !” stated the brat as he stood for a round of squeals and high fives from his compatriots. “Dumb bitch, this is our time now”.

As I glanced around the car, I noticed an elderly Black gentleman two rows across from me and a Black woman about the same age who sat opposite from him in one of the handicap seats. Both hung and shook their heads in obvious disapproval.

As he reaches over and yanks on my tie he proclaims for all to hear, “ Look at you Mr. Businessman in your fancy suit, you ain’t shit… I’m smart, I gonna be som-bot-ty! I’m goin’ somewhere! “ .. and the high fives repeated themselves.

“So Mr. Businessman, where we gettin’ off so I can teach you some manners?”

I looked over and without expression informed him that, “As soon as we get to the station and have a chat with the Metro Police you are going to jail for that bag of grass in your pocket”.

“You trippin’ an shit! I ain’t got no druuhgs” he retorted with indignance as he pulled the empty pocket of his jacket inside out for all to see ( *ahem, don’t mind the Backwoods bag in the other pocket). “Now, that don’t mean d’ere ain’t a little sumpin’-somfin’ when I get home..aaaugh!” declared this little angel as he slyly grinned from ear to ear, his chuckling moronic accomplices rocking back and forth with their hands over their mouths in awe of their new champion.

Banging his fist into his hand he defiantly declared, “Yo, you don’t know me… I .. I.. I’m smart! I’m an on-tapanuer.. I’m gonna go to college, and start my own business, and I’m gonna be rich!”.

“Not with a ju-vey record your not.” I replied.

“I ain’t got no ju-vey record! “ (yep, he was too stupid to understand the inference) and he declared again, “ I’m an on-tapanuer… I am somebody.”

Then with a cruel expressionless gaze as cold as an executioner, I looked him dead in the eye and said, “ You are nothing more than a statistic.”

His mouth opened and his face went blank. “Statistic! What’s that supposed to mean?… What because I’m Black… huh? statistic, you trippin’… ain’t nobody ever called me no statistic… what the hell is that supposed to mean?”.

With a continued cool gaze I muttered, “You’re so damn smart, you figure it out.” He pointed at one of the younger kids and asked, “ He’s Black, is he a statistic?”

The wide eyed little kid was wearing a dress shirt buttoned to the top, his feet dangling just above the the deck of floor, an oversized book bag sat on his lap. He looked to me through his glasses with fear as if he were awaiting some final judgement on his soul.

“ No, he isn’t.” I replied. He pointed to the kid next in line and queried, “ How about him, he’s Black too!..”.

The kid cracked a nervous smile which revealed the bright shine of braces. He wore a rugby shirt, well pressed dress pants and polished loafers. He was sitting with his book-bag over both shoulders comfortably as if he were accustomed to it being there.

“Probably not.” I again replied.

He didn’t get it. It wasn’t about the color of his skin, it was about the temper of his being. He had an attitude problem that unfortunately had solidified beyond reproach.

For the rest of the train ride he sat mumbling to himself, “Damn, ain’t that some shit.. ain’t nobody never calt’ me no statistic before”.

We got to Takoma Park where he and the last of the kids got up to get off of the train. The stunned youngster turned his head towards me and uttered, “You lucky Mr. Businessman, I’m gonna let you slide this time.” and then like a wisp of smoke, he disappeared into the crowd on the platform, never to be seen again.

Him getting off of the train at Takoma Park was very telling. Either his family had the money to forgo the best public schools in the country and send him to a private school in the district, or he lived on the D.C. side of Takoma Park and was attending a charter school. Although Takoma Park has apartments and duplexes in numbers to match single family homes, he was far from living in a ghetto. This isn’t Compton, Patterson, or Anacostia, it is the urban edge of the suburbs. He has access to outstanding libraries, clean parks, the worlds finest museums, after school jobs are plentiful, and he is in one of the most culturally diverse communities in the nation.

There is no one to blame if he does become a statistic other than himself. In a moment of stoned stupidity, this child was willing to potentially risk everything, including his life, over a baseless and nonsensical argument. Hopefully, I got through to him, but I doubt it. I just pray that his path to self destruction takes no one else along for the journey.

Contributor Andrew Padula observes racial issues from an unusual perspective. Andrew is a white, politically conservative, socially Libertarian, blues musician who’s been teaching and touring the U.S. and Europe since 1993. He can be seen with blues legend Bobby Parker on B.E.T. Jazz Central as well as on Carlos Santana’s recent DVD release “Montreux Blues Summit”. But lately, Andrew has moved into politics. In 2008, Andrew ran a Congressional campaign for a Republican candidate in Maryland’s 8th district. More recently he ran for office himself. Andrew’s point of view is critical to our mission facilitating intercultural conversation. And as Andrew says: “You gotta turn the topsoil to plant a crop!”

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