Rok Shall Overcome

You know me, good people—I am not one to bitch and moan. No, wait, I'm confusing myself with my wife Arvelyn, which explains the odd choice of high heels this morning. I am one to bitch and moan. So let's get cracking, shall we?

I have had one of those ugly perspective-changing experiences this week. I decided that it is time for me to move out on my own, away from treasured friends Lee and Camembert, away from the free rent of the apartment, off to live by myself at long last. I've never had my own house, all to myself, without a wife, family, anything of that nature. I started to think it might be a lot of fun, like camping out.

With that as my ambition, I said good-bye to Camembert and Lee, packed my troubles (and unmentionables) in my ol' kit bag and moved out to find a house. Fortunately, I have thousands of dollars left over from my investment in jumpsuits in the '70s, so money is no object. But I would advise all of you out there, money or not, to buy the house in the future before leaving your current residence. Did you know they never let you move in the same day? They have all sorts of inefficient background checks and nonsense like that, and they wait for your check to clear, which I admit is a good business practice. But don't talk to me about good business practices when your living in between the commune offices and Denny's for a good long time.

Though I wouldn't say I had misgivings about the house I bought, I probably rushed in a little quick. There were some problems with the roof, mainly it being absent from the house, and the windows and doors were also missing. Which was no real problem, I can buy new windows and doors, or learn to make friends with the animals and vagrants sharing the house with me. But the most unexpected part of it all was that I moved into an "urban" neighborhood. That's right, a %100 "urban" neighborhood, in the suburbs.

Can I say "black"? Just to quit playing coy. You got to at least give me "black." In my lifetime I've been through five or six words I get used to using and then can't use anymore, you've got to sympathize. So I'll just say "black."

Yes, this neighborhood was like something out of Roots. Not the Roots I saw, really, I mean there were no slaves and everyone basically worked as middle-management and had lovely homes and dressed very modern—but they were all black. Except for the Hispanics and Asians, but sometimes I could squint my eyes and confuse them for white people, so I'm just focusing on the black people in the neighborhood right now.

Don't get me wrong, friends—I love black people. At least the idea of black people. And I tried to get along with everyone, I surely did. The first Thursday night a bunch of my neighbors were having some sort of "big black jam" in their backyard and I, trying to be friendly, joined them immediately. For a while everyone just studied me curiously and smiled with feigned politeness, but eventually one racist—I don't think it's going out on a limb to say racist—came over and asked me to leave; that I wasn't "family," and his backyard jam was strictly limited to "family" only.

And as much as I hate stereotypes, these people get awful loud when they're watching their "black shows," like ER. They were so busy screaming at me to get away from their window before they called the cops that I couldn't even hear the diagnosis on the fat kid, though I guessed diabetes. Once I get my TV I'll be able to watch in the peace and quiet of my own white home.

So now people are moving out of the neighborhood. I mean, it's only one family, and they claim their house was sold before they moved in when I challenged them with it, but it's enough so I can take a hint. Maybe one day the Rok Fingers of the world and the… uh… well, you know, black people… maybe one day we'll sit down together at a table and share a mutually agreed-upon non-ethnic food. But until that day, I'm going back to live with Camembert and Lee. My white brothers.

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