By JIM CLAYTON/ Staff Writer
Editor’s Note: This piece is the first in a new Patriot Talon column called “Gen-X Jim Presents.” We hope you like it! Let us know in the comments below.
Okay, so here’s the story.
I’m sitting down in one of the 2.7 million Whataburgers in this state to eat “breakfast.” I’m moody, because it’s only 7:30, and I’ve already been driving for 5 hours, with 4 more to go. My taquito tastes like it was made of greasy sawdust. The egg is cold, flat, and tasteless. The cheese is a dark orange at the edges and a dull yellow in the middle.
Inedible.
To my right, sit two Hispanic laborers. I know they are laborers by their work-worn clothes, boots, and hands, which are so deeply calloused they could pick up hot coals without being burned. These two men discuss their day, in Spanish.
Directly in front of me sits a table of 5 potato-shaped oil-field types enjoying their morning coffee. One of them, a 50-something man of some importance. looked at the two Hispanic men, and said, “Hey, (insert racial slur)! Speak English! That’s the language in this country!” The two Hispanic men immediately look down and stop talking. This pisses me off! I’m not going to lie. I detest bullies. Likewise, I detest racism and elitism.
Also, I have no poker face.
The same boss looks at me and says, “What’s your problem?”
Suddenly, my morning has become a “Choose Your Own Adventure!” book.
• Choose Path A!
o Have your manhood QUESTIONED by 5 peers in hard hats.
• Choose Path B!
o Have your manhood TESTED by 5 peers in hard hats.
Do I respond to this mouth-breathing oil field dullard? Do I antagonize the situation? After all, aren’t I also an oil field dullard?
Do I explain to this particular troglodyte that while we speak English in this country, depending on where you are at the time, we also speak Spanish, French, Italian, German, Hebrew, Russian, Chinese, Navajo, Japanese, Afrikaans, Arabic and a myriad of other languages? Some of us communicate with ASL. American Sign Language. That’s speaking with our hands, dude.
Perhaps I could follow that up with judgment and proclamation about how Woodpiles like him must embrace the concept of language, thereby improving the chances this country has of surviving the next century. On the other hand, I could ignore his comment, as well as those that are sure to follow, and take the high road. Be the adult in the room. Play nice. What should I do?
Well…about that…
A held court with Mr. Big Boss Man and his motley crew of miscreants. I very nearly became breakfast for this teeth-grinding pack of wolves (which is fine; it wouldn’t be the first time my mouth put me in this situation), and the manager came out and asked me to leave…pre-butt-kicking, I am happy to point out.
My point to this story is this. While I am happy to suffer for my moral code and sense of broken justice, what part of my contribution to this confrontation made ANYTHING better? If I had sat there and kept my mouth shut, how would the result be any different?
I’ve listened to and witnessed hardships across the spectrum of humanity all my life. In each instance, I wonder if the situation would improve, not just for the individual who suffers it, but for life in general, should another person intervene. It’s the kind of thought that picks at the scabs of social wounds that have not yet healed. We all have our difficulties, challenges, or miseries. Some are much worse than others, but hardship is measured in impact not dynamic.
I read a short essay recently by Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Junot Diaz, called “A Friend of the Mind.” In it, Diaz discusses the suffering and prejudice against various groups and ethnicities of today. It smacks of an underlying truth about our country.
We spend a great deal of time not caring for one another anymore.
Our society has become less and less conscious as to who our brother’s keeper should be. We are laser-focused on our personal problems, creating tunnel vision that prevents us from seeing the world around us. Diaz quotes Sixo, a character is Toni Morrison’s novel, “Beloved.” In this quote, Sixo, an escaped slave, describes the love of his life, the “Thirty-Mile Woman.”
“She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It’s good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind.”
That hits.
Here’s the conclusion I came to. Do with it what you will. We need to look to each other and be “friends of the mind.” We can never be afraid to stand in the gap for what is right and just in this world. People who have suffered the most tend to be the most generous and giving. They are that way because they know…and they don’t want you to suffer the same things they have.
We are, and forever should be, our brother’s keeper.
Until next time, remember the rules:
1. Be good to others.
2. Take care of yourself.
3. Don’t be a jerk.
