Rolling in it... again!

A couple months ago, I shared the precious gift of money that my grandmother gave me. I still haven't hauled that booty to the bank, by the way. I'm waiting for just the right time -- when I'm reeeally hurtin'. I stopped in last weekend for another visit and as usual, there's not a dull moment.

She just had to tell me how annoying her evening was, since one of the women that "doesn't have any marbles left" fell and badly hit her face. It was annoying, of course, due to the fact that all the hubbub that surrounded the incident caused my grandma's dinner to be late................ .......!!

Then I asked her if she new anything about the funky house that is being built across the street from her residence. (It is seriously cool. Not sure if it fits with the surrounding properties, but cool nevertheless.) She just waved her hands away and groaned, "Pssfft, probably a couple of queers moving in."

As we were eating, the chef came out to greet the residents and their guests; he's East Indian. As he walked away, my grandmother yelled, "My god, he is black, black, black... in't he?"

She was on a roll, people.

Speaking of rolls, after lunch she winked and handed me another present before I left. It looked like this:

Within our family, she is quite famous for these packages. Usually, they contain already opened boxes of crackers that she decided she didn't like, or buckets of yogurt that will be expiring within the next 24 hours, or even bananas.

Oh, sweet Jesus... the fucking bananas.

Let's just say she doesn't pack them inside those phallic yet effective travel containers. A few years ago, I put my foot down with the banana donations. Even with this package -- the fact that she put that note on it is a good indicator that it contains something that I'd likely not want to take home with me, but I have to be honest, I was totally expecting bananas.

So, like the obedient grand daughter that I am, I waited until I got home to open her mystery package...

Toilet paper.

And not just any toilet paper - stolen toilet paper from her residence.

I called her to question her motives, "Grandma... really? What's with the toilet paper?"

She giggled, "Well, you can't tell me you doing need that. Everyone poops, darling."

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Update. Just got off the phone with her today (Tuesday) and she hopes that every time I wipe my butt, I think of her....
Not. Fucking. Kidding.
Oh, this woman ;)
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What's in a Hoodie?

It's been a while since I've done a good rant, so please bear with me on this one... and of course, contribute your opinion as well. I feel I need to say a few words about the tragic shooting of Trayvon Martin - in a round about way. Before I get on my soap box to what is really pissing me off, I want to first and foremost say: Yes, it is a tragedy. Yes, I believe Zimmerman is about as crazy as a schizophrenic fox on peyote, and he should have been arrested immediately. And yes, I believe he had been absolutely itching to shoot someone and he, himself, has been essentially a loaded gun for quite some time, and Trayvon was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Tragic.

OK. We good? Good.

What has my panties in a knot are these continuous tirades about young black men wearing hoodies and how it's negative stereotyping and racial profiling... blah... blah... blah...

I don't want to sound like I'm anti-American, but it's not always about race and not everything is about America. Yes, in THIS case, I believe it WAS an issue - but it was a personal issue that Zimmerman had. We all know that The States loves to think that they are at the apex of every issue, but here's the thing - hoodies have already been a HUGE fucking problem in the UK for more than a decade and it has absolutely nothing to do with race.

ZERO.

What it has more to do with is smart ass teenagers of every colour commiting crimes with their hoodies covering their faces so they cannot be caught on CCTV cameras. Kids are dumb assholes, regardless of race! It has gone so far as they had put in place an "Anti-social Behaviour Order" (ASBO) when I was living there in 2005, where youth that were purposely hiding their faces with hoodies (among other offences) would be faced with a fine, whether they are committing a crime or not.

Am I saying that I agree with this? No.

Not entirely, anyway.

By having the government telling us what we can and cannot wear certainly does infringe upon our rights, buuuutttt... I've also been on the other side of this when I was walking my dog alone at night, and 5 teens in hoodies approached me. I'll admit that they could have, for all I know, been the starting line up for the national basketball team, but it didn't matter; I was absolutely terrified.

It's because their faces were hidden.

And there is no fucking way that some one could convince me that (mostly) teen boys don't wear their hoodies up over their faces for practically no other reason but to look tough... unless it's hailing. Of course that's why! It's an "image"; it's a fashion statement that says, "Look, I'm bad ass." 

Just like when I was going to University in the late 90s and I lived in a part of town where I was certainly the minority. There was a fashion trend for young men to wear nylons on their heads. I remember the first time I saw it I was absolutely floored. Isn't wearing an item that its sole purpose is to hide one's identity DURING A ROBBERY in fact helping feed into that negative stereotype? I mean, come on...

It's like if I walked around wearing a shirt that said 'Cheap White Trash' (I totally have that, btw) and then get offended when someone calls me cheap white trash. I can't expect to have it both ways, and neither should anyone else!

So please, I just cannot stomach seeing this horrible incident being the catalyst in creating some racially-filled mountain out of a non-denominational mole hill.

Hoodies have had negative connotations for quite some time. I don't give a fuck if it is part of your volleyball team's uniform, it is the truth. Just look at executioners in the 18th century, or those horrible white-hooded rednecks on horses... and don't even forget Little Red Riding Hood; she was one sneaky bitch, for sure.

Can you honestly tell me that you'd be OK with leaving your Mercedes unlocked with these fine young (Caucasian, I'll point out) gentlemen hanging around it? Not. Fucking. Likely.

CHAVY NEDS

Dumb White Girl? Here!

Shhh... we’re not supposed to talk about it.

During University, I had a good friend, Deron. We lived together for a semester – and I never even had sex with him (I know… shocker!). Deron and I got on really well and we had some good times together; we shared the hobby of making fun of other people's work in our program behind their backs. I guess we both had minor “artistic god complexes”, so our friendship was a good fit... for the most part.

He was from the Bahamas and had been coming to Toronto for school since he was 13. He went to a swanky private boarding school during high school and then attended U of T for four years. His parents bought him a car in both countries so he would always be able to “get around”. In addition to his vastly expensive wardrobe directly from Ralph Lauren's catalogue and various techo-toys, he let it slip once that he had 5 servants on his family estate in the Bahamas.

Now, would you say that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth? I would say a big fat “YES!” and that’s fine… good for him and his family… my issue arose with his artwork.

Every. Single. Piece. that he created had to do with being an oppressed black man in a white society.
Are you fucking kidding me? 
In reality, he was an over-privileged, sheltered private school boy, and on canvas, he was an angry black man.

I would like to think that I’m not completely naive, but I just didn't get it. I confronted him about it once in a very joking, nonchalant way and he jumped down my throat spewing out remarks like,
“You have no idea what it’s like to be me!” 
“You have no fucking clue what it’s like to be black!” 
Hummm… please enlighten me, because from where I stood, his life looked pretty damn good!

I am aware that harsh racism does still exist in many parts of the world, 
and that is truly a tragedy. 

But Deron? He totally road the double standard highway. If I played Pearl Jam too loudly, he would complain that my “white music” was annoying him – music that is emotional and poetic – and he would try to drown me out with harsh gangster rap songs about drugs, violence and that's demeaning towards women. Could you just imagine if I called it “black music”? He would have signed me up as a card-carrying member of the white hoods if I said that. Good lord! I would NEVER have even considered spitting gas on THAT fire.

So, my point and question is simply that I get so frustrated by people that constantly dwell on the past… not even THEIR past… we’re talking two hundred years ago. People came (and still come) to Canada to escape racism. So, after years of over-coming oppression and being awarded the same rights and opportunities (if not more) than other races, why do some choose to dwell on the past? Or obsess over the colour of their skin?

{Credit: Viewaskew Photos}

I’m not saying forget it, but learn from it and be stronger for it.

Am I just been naive?

I’ll finish with the wise words of Hooper X from Chasing Amy, to whom I often thought Deron was similar to; although he wasn’t gay like HooperX, he was definitely a well-groomed, advantaged metro-sexual leading a stage personality in the name of A.R.T.

Hooper X:  I need to sell the image to sell the book. I mean, would the audience still buy the whole black rage angle if they found out the book was written by a... you know...

Banky Edwards:  Faggot?

Hooper X:  When you say it, it sounds so sexy.