I’m White. Or “white”, not capitalized. Or AM I? I am actually a light soft olive tangerine complextion. But if I say I’m olive tangerine, you might say I’m a gay martini and I don’t wear a feather in my hat. Who the HELL keeps calling me WHITE. We “white” folks prefer to be toe-tagged “Caucasian”. All these “racism police” can go back to where they came from. College.

     I haven’t lived 39 years to have someone tell me to be careful when I talk to a black man. Don’t anybody ever FLAPJACK-flipping tell me to be careful when I talk to a BLACK MAN!!!!! Augh!!!! Augh!!!! What? Why? On and on. PC means “personal computer” now. Don’t anybody tell me he’s black. Son of a bitch racism police preaching in churches. Don’t you tell me, born in the 1970s, long after the Martin Luther King movement that it has nothing to do with ME!

      Hypocrites! I am a contributer artist to the people of Sudan after Al Quada assassinated black people. I’m sorry. No. They were “African Africans”. Is than damn Pee Cee enough. I LOVE Africa with my blood. I am up to speed on Sudanese refugee children. Sound far removed? I have met a white army ranger who had to shoot teenagers shooting at him AND living a half mile away I met a Mogudishuan ex-child-soldier and he was open arms to me.

      Why? Because Planet Africa is troubled. Mother Africa has many afflictions. In Congo- where my very very very dark-skinned phlebotomist begins drawing my blood with the “life-silence” of one who has seen murder. “Your accent-“, I joyfully prod, “What country. No smile. “Di Congo”, he whispers.

       “Ahhh,” I say, like a white 7up man, intuning a Congoese flick to my voice to word with him. I say, “Long ago it is the Congo… then the Zaire…  then the Con-go a-gain?? Hahahah.” And I say, “So HOW… ARE… THINGS… THERE… NOW…”, in a delicate tone like a brother, deceptive that I know him from life but we rule together in heart for Emmanuel de Congo is Christian as I.

     He fumbled the needle and had to repoke. Phlebotomists don’t simply make mistakes. He pulled the needle. But I HAD MORE BLOOD for him… in more ways than one. You see, when you ask someone from Congo, “Do you miss your family” like I was about to, you are being family, giving blood to him more painfully than a needle to listen to the burden he was about to rest on little white brother’s shoulders to consume with his strong lordsome obsidian, ebony heart.

         “Our people,” said Emmanuel, “They have disappear into a cave and no out like so…” and he laughs. I probe, “Disappear? They lose (kill) them in labor (forced, manipulated to mine a mineral that is in cell phones)?”

      “Yes.” He says. He takes time to extend brotherhood of his worry of East Congos current military controlled (junta or soldier of fortune style) business by writing a You Tube word. I don’t have that word in front of me. That is Congo’s infrastratural problem that is solvable only by their gov’t. Also, not all is mined in Congo. In Congo, cell phone = blood. You can google that.

           So back to my American African brothers and sisters- I implore you, I have every right to ask you tactfully if you know your tribe. Mine is Norse Viking, French Knucklehead and mostly Vodka swilling (past the Caucas Mts.) Caucasian Russo-Asian. AKA White Boyyy. I don’t know why the electricity is assumed to be untrustworthy between a black hero and “3 white girls and a baby” as he pulls them from a Mexican dungeon.

      Wow. I guess I better shut up. I can’t talk to black men because… oh let’s see… because I NEVER HURT A BLACK MAN. I was attacked by a black man once. He was high on meth. Broke into my apartment. Threatened to kill me. I made the ungrateful son of a bitch a sandwich. When he threatened to kill me I screamed at him like my daddy screamed at me, “Don’t you DARE THREATEN TO KILL ME. GET OUT!” He was 6’6″. Do you think I felt scared. Yeah. Plenty.

     So he is manic and kookoo. Says he hates my white skin. I made hotdogs for his black skin. I was LIVING IN HIS SKIN. The power of God was let to subdue him. Not for his salvation but for mine. Such an intrusion would warrant two to the chest, one to the head, but I don’t pack. He left with some of my things and $5.

       So black people- I have learned NOTHING about black America from THAT guy. Certainly there is an inner city subculture of black people doing black things in black houses going to black churches marrying very few white people. I think segregation stuck and JUST IS now. I married out of my race. I would’ve married an ebony wonder and acquire possibly 4 knuckle-cracking bro in laws, but Lebanon bought my hand.

      So I love people. I don’t have to use special words or need brain-impaired counseling from political scientists to tell me how exactly to describe anyone’s appearance North of Klickitat street. Kiss my buttery biscuit.

     I’ll talk to whoever I want. Especially the shoulder-chipled because they probably would like to get an up-close view of my red and white farmers tan.