Me and Billy Poop were on a mission last week to mow a lawn. And we tarried at the Rocklyn to purchase petrol. Whereupon Poop, a fast-mout’ed fellow if ever there was one, accosted a waiting young lady thus: “This white man like he want to talk to you.”
The damsel looked me over with critical eye.
“I know Mr Hoad could handle me financially,” she observed, “but not physically.”
You hear that, David Comissiong? The same racial profiling you’ve been talking about. Tell that United Nations human rights woman to come down quick and snort some more.
Profile: white men have money but are sexually inadequate.
You’d be surprised how many times we get the former. The misconception arises, no doubt, because we don’t waste money.
In which connection let me thank the mysterious donor who put a proper saucepan in our garbage bin this week. Since only two of our current collection still have handles or knobs, and we’ve never had one with a glass cover before, this is a godsend indeed.
The sex thing is true in my case. But may the Lord help her if she ever makes that mistake with some white males one could mention. No examples since I promised not to put brother-in-law Paddy in the column. Although he was, and probably still is, “pee farthest from the kitchen steps” record holder at Three Houses.
Racial profiling comes naturally because colour is easy to describe: “Bajan white”; “Trini”, “pass for” or “B.C. white”; “high-brown” and so on.
And we judge people accordingly. Even by voice.
If at 2 a.m. I hear a broad “Help muh out hey, skip!” that is a Bajan and I oblige. Any other West Indian accent and I’m peeping through the flaps and calling the police.
Unless it’s a Trini. A Trini in Bim would only stop to hose a mud spatter off his BMW. Although, to be fair, not all our Trinis drive BMWs. But since I don’t (and probably only Ridley Greene does) know the plural of Mercedes or, for that matter, Benz, let me stick with BMWs.
Racial profiling cuts all ways. There are well known cases of black serial killers being arrested and let go because serial killers were believed to be always white.
I am ashamed to admit that racial profiling has benefited me. I could never understand why the Government goat farm at Greenland sells milk at giveaway prices.
Why would a cash-strapped Government do this? Officers there will tell you their milk sales don’t even cover feed costs.
There can be only one explanation: affirmative action in support of the white minority (me). And it’s working. No small, black goat dairy producers have been able to come into the market and survive competition from Greenland. I can because my overheads were covered during my cow dairy days.
Racial profiling extends into the column-writing field. We take one look at the name and picture of the writer and decide where he is coming from. The great Oliver Jackman, for instance, once lambasted me, not only for what I had written, but because I was the “scion” of a wealthy white plantocrat. A lie, by the way. My father never owned house nor land.
That is bad, and for the longest while I’ve fought THE NATION to keep my picture out. You can’t win against women, however. And they’ve found a picture, could be me, could be Edward Seaga, and stuck it in.
It is also unnecessary. We writers have our broad trademark agendas. My distinguished neighbour has faith in CARICOM and the Treaty of Ignoramuses; another pushes casinos (and by extension brothels), converting sugar lands to gated communities for wealthy foreigners; another, futile forays to save grammar and failing diction; two more, the homo and anti-God point-of-view.
And so on. Sanka handles horning; I do smut. While the Coot is the Coot and the Coot is Wild.
Why shouldn’t we enjoy anonymity like Market Vendor, Blabbermout’ Babsie or Dear Christine?
And why a picture of one’s face? Surely if a fellow is doing salacious stuff, the ladies aren’t interested in how cute his face is, but rather how agile his pen is.
My wife sees that picture differently: “If the column seeks to amuse, they sure didn’t choose the right part to use!”
By the way, tickets still available for Verdun Choir’s concerts tonight and Saturday night at the Ursuline Convent.
You might get to see Guataka’s lovely Michelle Sambrano do her inimitable dung-basket routine in “This is so not me!”