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Is it just me, or are people getting crazier?

Well, at least here in New York City that seems to be the case. There’s no shortage of it, and I realized this with more clarity than ever when you, angry black man in the dingy sweater, glasses and cap, called me everything but a child of God in public last night. For anyone reading this (but said unstylish angry black man), I know what you’re thinking: What did you do to warrant such a response?

Giiiiiirl, that’s what I’m trying to figure out as well.

One minute I’m walking with my colleague on 125th Street, and as we turn the corner to the train where we usually encounter the “Let me braid your hair! Good price!” women, I remarked on the fact that she had taken her braids out and I hadn’t realized it. Next thing I know, as we laughed and moved down the stairs, I hear “Move ho!” The remarks were so out-of-the blue, rude and random that I didn’t think you, angry black man, were speaking to me. And then I looked up, and you were right in front of my face saying, “MOVE B***H!”

I wish I could say I was big and bad and it took everything in me not to reach forward and send you flying down the same stairs you had just come up from, but I was so confused and horrified by the disrespect I encountered, now ruining my good mood, that I was silent. My silence should have been grounds for you to leave me alone, but you kept on. “B***h! … F**k out my way” you said as you turned to get away from the stairs. And if that wasn’t enough, you then proceeded to take an empty Gatorade bottle sitting on the station rail and pushed it at me. The bottle hit me in my chest before my boss saw it fall and said, “Oh my God!”  As you walked on, almost out of my sight, my blood began to boil, and as the young people and hair braiders on the corner looked and spoke with a mix of shock and a side commentary of “Oooooooh,” I said the first thing that came to mind:

“GET A JOB YOU UGLY BROKE A** B***H!”

Really, Vic? That’s all I had? I’ve had better comebacks in my time, and I thought about quite a few as I took a shower late in the night.

“I should have said, ‘Oh shut up with your ‘ol snaggle tooth, scoopball head, busted and disgusted a**!'”

Or how about this one I thought of as I washed off my makeup?

“I think you have me confused with your mother! [laughs deviously]”

I’ve come up with a lot better…

But in that moment, on those train station steps, full of rage, something willed me to stop. Stop talking. Stop looking like a victim and take my behind on home. If all it took was for me to be standing in your way to make you call me out of my name, you probably would have no problem putting your hands on me. If I can at least control that outcome, then I know that it’s best to walk away.

I could blow off your comments and just attribute it to to your possible insanity, as my boyfriend encouraged me to, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been cursed at by a man in New York City for doing absolutely nothing but walking. Like the time the taxi driver in Bed-Stuy decided to turn left at a green light, even though I had the walk light and literally hit my thigh because he wasn’t paying attention. Because he was turning, he assumed that I should be the one to stop, or at least that’s what I assumed when he rolled down his window as I threw my hands up in disgust, only to hear him so eloquently say the following:

“F**K YOU! GET OUT OF THE F**KING STREET!

My reaction was much quicker that time, as I cursed back like a sailor with quite a bit of vitriol in the middle of Atlantic Avenue, and proceeded to kick his tire as the last part of my comeback. This was before I was saved, ya’ll…

And then there was the man who yelled and called me ugly because I ignored his request to stop and let him “talk” to me “for a second” the way he wanted me to. And who could forget the guy who followed behind me for a block at 12 a.m. to get my number before I turned around, freaked out, and said, “STOP FOLLOWING ME!” In response, he yelled too, but he also cursed at me. Thankfully, he did all that as he walked away from me in the opposite direction.

I don’t know what their problems were, nor do I know what was wrong with you, angry black man, when you acted the donkey on 125th and St. Nicholas, and I don’t care. And while I could say something like “Don’t let me catch you in the streets!” (because that would sound bad a**), I just want to let you know that I’m praying for you and hoping that you will get your mind right and your life together so you don’t curse out any other unsuspecting woman because life has dealt you a card you don’t like. It’s quite sad to know that just standing in front of you for a few seconds could push you to such rage, but clearly you have something bigger going on that only Jesus can help you with (I would say, or a good butt whooping from a man a little bigger and bolder than you, but did I mention that I’m saved?). Woosah, angry black man. Woosah.

Oh yeah. And if you’re so big and bad, use that same mouth to spew some of that same foolishness to a man. I’m betting you’ll walk away from such a situation with a few less teeth…Just be thankful that I have some sense (even if it’s just a little).

 

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