I was lunching at Mrs Rigby’s Diner a few days ago, and heard the man in the booth behind me order his breakfast. French toast, side of sausage, orange juice.

And then he asked the waitress, “What’s your name?”

“Mary Ann,” she said. 

“I’m James,” he said.

“Thank you, James,” she said, and walked away.

There are no name tags at Mrs Rigby’s, but I’ve never asked an employee’s name. Nor have I ever volunteered my own name. What’s the point of that? You’re bringing me breakfast and I’ll pay you afterwards, but we’re not gonna be buddies. 

♦ ♦ ♦

There was no big dramatic incident that triggered this. I simply got onto a bus, and sat a few rows behind an old black man on the bus, stared at the back of his graying head as we rolled along, and wondered about his life.

He looked about my age, a little pudgy but not as fat as me, and I asked myself the metaphysical what-if question: What would my life have been, if I’d been black?

Give me the same middle-class parents, but they’re black. Gotta ignore, of course, the fact that very, very few black men were allowed the kind of white-collar engineering job my father had in the 1950s, so very, very few black families had anything approaching the suburban opulence of our house, our neighborhood, even the public schools I attended.

There was no explicit segregation in Seattle to my knowledge, but there was redlining, tradition, and there were many places where you simply never saw black people. There was, for example, one black kid in my grade school, and I don’t mean one kid in my class, I mean one black kid in the entire school. With two classrooms for each grade, K-6, that was about 400 kids. Lots were Asian, a few were native, and one was black. The rest were white like me.

There were more black kids when I got to junior high, and many, very many at my high school. I have no idea what nudged that quick demographic shift in the 1970s, but from my experience the black kids who beat me up were no more and no less obnoxious than the white kids who beat me up. Equality is the ideal, right?

After dropping out of high school, I simply lied on job applications, said I was a high school graduate, and nobody ever checked or challenged me on it. Could a black man tell that lie and get away with it?

Seems reasonable to wonder if black me would’ve been hired for my first grown-up job, in the all-white office of a high-priced medical clinic, in the late-1970s. Seems likely that a mid-30s black man would’ve encountered more difficulties than I did, when I lived in my van, and often had unexpected interactions with curious cops. Or when I packed everything into my van and moved to San Francisco, knowing nobody there.

Seems very doubtful that I could’ve made a living doing odd jobs for complete strangers, like I did in the 1990s, if I’d been black. Et cetera, et cetera.

When I went to protests, cops sometimes targeted the black guys, but they didn’t swing their billy clubs at me. Once, a cop pulled me over for having the wrong color taillights, though actually it was because of my bumper stickers, and we had a loud, heated argument, but he didn’t arrest me, didn’t even write me a ticket. Would a black man be allowed to drive away after that?

I’ve always been this “fuck off and leave me alone” guy, usually quiet but quick with the smartass remark, and I don’t think black me could’ve gotten away with that, all these years, all my life. There’ve been too many little moments that could’ve easily played out much more unpleasantly if I’d been an obnoxious fat black man.

I’m so white, I almost never have these thoughts about my white privilege. Mighty rare that I think about it long and deep enough to write even a few shallow paragraphs like this. Even that I think about it so rarely is telling.

♦ ♦ ♦

A new neighborhood of overpriced, oversize houses is under construction down the street, and the bus stop is right in front of the “model house” for the development.

A while back, I had wondered here about a small circle of cement they’d poured beside the model house. Turns out it’s going to be a very tiny park, with one odd but not ugly thing kids can climb up, and two slides coming down from the odd and ugly.

Today I stopped and looked at this micro-park for the first time, really, since the equipment was installed, and noticed that if/when kids ever play on this odd and ugly thing, when they come down the slides they’ll be dumped onto hard asphalt.

When I was a kid, slides came down to grass or dirt, not frickin’ asphalt. It’s a private park, probably they’ll add a fence to keep out anyone who doesn’t live in the development, and I guess skinned kneecaps will be the price of admission. 

♦ ♦ ♦

How World War I crushed the American left 

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Sacheen Littlefeather’s sisters say she wasn’t Native American

Why did they wait 50 years to say it, though?

♦ ♦ ♦

One-word newscast, because it’s the same news every time…

All cops are bastards, or they know who the bastard cops are and do nothing about it, which is the same thing.

• cops • cops • cops • cops • cops • cops

Republicans are the enemy of common sense, common decency, simple truth, and democracy.

• Republicans • Republicans 

♦ ♦ ♦

A story in eight panels 

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Tommy Lasorda assaults the Philly Phanatic 

♦ ♦ ♦

The weirdest roadside attraction in every state 

♦ ♦ ♦ 

♫♬  Mix tape of my mind  ♫

• “Goth Beach” by Walter Sickert & The Army of Broken Toys
• “Variations on a Theme by Erik Satie” by Blood Sweat & Tears

♦ ♦ ♦

The End

• Ivy Jo Hunter
• Bruno Latour 

10/22/2022

Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers akindness, along with anything off the internet that’s made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.

Tip ‘o the hat to Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf’s, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate’s Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I’ve stolen without saying thanks.

Extra special thanks to Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S, Wynn Bruce, and always Stephanie…

Cranky Old Fart

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