literature is a beast

PC-ism will be the downfall of Western society.

In my Cultural Anthropology class we had a discussion about PC-ism; in particular, the controversy surrounding the removal of the "n" word outta good ol' Samuel's writings... In light of this recent occurrence, I'm really surprised to see that my literature book is chock full o' "n" words, as well as other "colorful" words, and I live in Texas. How the hell did that happen?

I do not profess to be a writer of any worth; despite my ineptitude, I do enjoy spinning a yarn about events or circumstances from my past. Some of those writings even made their way into local newspapers, not that I think local journalism is a shining example of what one should attempt to achieve with the written word; however, at times I have received feedback from people who's intelligence and writing ability I admired... enough so, to fuel my random blathering.

At any rate, the class discussion made me think of someone from my past who I had worked with and highly regarded, leaving me with the sudden urge to tell someone about the time he and I initially came to know each other.

It was in Kemah, Texas, during the mid-eighties, and I was working in the kitchen of a popular restaurant along with a bunch of Mexican illegal aliens, an alcoholic white man of Irish decent, and one very-old Southern black man who went by the name of "Blue." In the spirit of full-disclosure, at the time, I most closely resembled your typical white-trash-much-too-young mother. Truth-be-told, on the inside, none of us were what we seemed on the outside.

Back to Blue...

Late in the evening, during the closing cleanup when day-long static orders transformed into loose banter and bull, Old man Blue told me about the origin of his name. He said: "You know why they call me Blue?" He grinned exaggeratedly, making a point of showing me his teeth and gums. I didn't understand at all.

"Look, you see how my gums is blue? Back in the day, white man called all us niggas, 'blue gums,' and that is how I came by my name."

From my point-of-view his gums were darker than mine, but they didn't seem blue at all.

I liked ol' Blue, he was steady as a rock in the kitchen. He was the force that kept everything running smoothly no matter how crazy a rush was. He had the air of a sage and he never wasted his words; there was no telling how old Blue was or what he had gone through in his lifetime. His close-cut hair was grey and his eyes had long-turned from brown to steely, and you know how black folk don't show the passing of time until they are really, REALLY old. I think they have superior genetics that protect them from things like the sun, and stress.

Everyone in the kitchen stayed out of Blue's way and no one fucked with his tools - that is to say everyone respected him. He was after all, the master chef. When the restaurant closed at night, and the rush was over, he smiled and everyone in the kitchen smiled with him. Even the owner, T-Bone, would come back with us and tell a joke, or pour us a pitcher of beer to share while we scrubbed.

I worked hard in those days. I felt like I was living the immigrant dream; you work hard and honest, and prosperity will shine right down on you.

If I was to be a shit-shoveler, I would be the best damn shit-shoveler you ever saw.

I was working toward emigrating to a better life. I think everyone in the kitchen in some way or another was doing the same, except maybe Blue. Blue gave the impression that he had pretty much seen all of life he needed to, and he was on the "easy" side, butterin' his bread and biding his time.

One night as I was slinging meat into the smoker after a particularly rough day at work, Blue grinned at me from across the kitchen and hollered so that everyone could hear: "Girl, I don't care what anybody tol you, you got nigga in you, and thats fo sho."

That was the best compliment i have ever received from anyone. I recall his smiling words near' every time I face adversity.