The quote above is surmised from body language, head bobble, hand motions and posture on behalf of the small, wiry, middle-aged Dinduess I witnessed meet five police officers on the porch of the row home she shares with an elderly man. On my side of the street a lawn mower was roaring, blocking out all conversational sound. However, I heard her screeches, her snarky, irate babble, over the machine’s ear-numbing din.
Five police cruisers lined up in the street.
Three cops walked up the stairs and got into a C-formation to speak with her, on the 8-by-12 concrete porch, as she put her back to the railing, away from the open door.
The lead cop was a man with a note pad, conducting an interview.
The next cop was a young female brunette who sparked in my old loins a desire to be arrested—one-on-one, in a mud-pit, of course. Her presence, in the lead element, is a hint that this is a male call-in of female domestic violence.
The third cop was a short fit guy in backup role.
The woman remained irate as another cop stepped onto the porch and entered the house with the female cop.
Then a black cop, who looked like an NFL tight end stepped up on the porch and listened to the BT-900 rant and rave. After having an earful he went inside.
Minutes later, as the BT-900 continued her garbled rant, not a single word to be made out over the roar of the mower, the black cop stepped outside, shouldered his way through the white cops as the BT-900 backed into the corner of the railing angle like a rat and hissed at him like the witch in the movie Conan the Barbarian. The ebony giant then slapped the cuffs of patriarchy upon the wench and walked her off as if leading a crazed toy dog by a leash.
In the reality that claims us, black women are the passive, martyr mothers of a sacred race, either smiling or crying. Yet, in the urban reality in which I live, black women are dedicated to non-stop, savage aggression against any and all who would challenge their position as media goddesses—the 30 million Virgin Maries of our sick, universal, mammy state.
That was diplomatically done and some neighbors even gave a hand, all assuming that the kindly old black fellow that often sits on this porch had just been rescued by The Black Avenger Cop of the BCPD.
Imagine, though, if The Black Avenger had not been available, if he had been chastising some other savage Dinduess at the moment? Imagine if Whitey had laid his hand on this woman, this sacral vessel of American Media Values?
In our unbalanced world, where white is wrong, black is right, crime pays and honest people have no voice in government or media, even the blue-suited thugs with the guns have to balance every encounter in terms of how it will look through the scrambled mind’s eye of a nation gone mad.