November 23 2002:
"This is a takeover!"
Young African-American man, maybe 20. Black leather jacket with silver chains; black jeans. Boom box, loud. Back of the bus: 5 Fulton, inbound during a workday commute.
San Francisco neighborhoods are among the more radically ghettoized in the nation. This is a dirty little secret the tourist board doesn't advertise. Instead they speak euphemistically of the "identities" of San Francisco neighborhoods being uncharacteristically "defined." The reality is that the black folks live in the Fillmore, but not Japantown across the street; the western suburbs are Chinese and Vietnamese; the yuppie neighborhoods like the Castro and Noe Valley are almost entirely white; the really rich places like Pacific Heights or Seacliff are entirely entirely white; and the areas where races mingle, such as the Mission or the Lower Haight, are violent.
MUNI is one place where races mix routinely. Which makes bus rides somewhat nerve-wracking for people who are prey to fears based on stereotype. The 5 Fulton runs from the Outer Richmond (Vietnamese) to the Inner Richmond (Chinese) through the Western Addition (African-American) and the project at Fillmore and McAllister (African-American) to Market Street downtown. You can sometimes see the white folks tense as the Fillmore approaches. Local TV news loves the occasional gang shootings there.
His friend is embarrassed for him. "Awe, c'mon man. Cut it out." Dig in the ribs.
"No brother. This it. Right now. 400 years of slavery lead to this moment. We draw the line right now."
They boarded at Fillmore and McAllister, the project corner which the suburbanites dread. Rap music on the box: bomp-da-da-BOMP da bomp-da-da-BOMP, an obscene political lyric about violence toward whites being long overdue. Uneasy glances among the nervous passengers: what's this crazy-eyed street thing up to? He's got a manic edge of electricity jolting through his lanky frame. The commuters avoid his glance, turn away. This is his moment, he seems to think. He pumps the volume to full, about deafening, ignoring his friend's embarrassed nags to quit. "No brother. This is a political statement. This is a takeover!"
You burst out laughing. Sorry about that, but, you do.
Street thing whirls around at you and shouts over the box, "What up motherfuck! You think this is funny?"
You sigh. "No," you tell him, full eye contact. "I think it's hilarious."
Street thing is taken aback. You elaborate. "This is the most pathetic excuse for a 'takeover' in the history of the world. There's no political statement here. You're just a rude crankhead with a box."
Bus full of wide-eyed white and Asian passengers hold their collective breath. Street thing's partner holds his breath. Street thing looks at you in wonderment. There's a long moment that passes. Then street thing breaks into toothy laughter, the real stuff, from the belly.
"Shit," he says. "Brother all dope. Brother all dope." Turns the music down, sits on the box. The three of you talk till New Montgomery, your stop. You shake hands with them both before leaving.
Fear as weapon. The fearsome myth of the violent oppressed, retribution dripping from bloodstained fingers. Rings a real melody in the psyches of those everyday good people who vaguely understand that they've profited from oppression, somehow or other, without really thinking too deeply about it. A clever operator can ride that fear like a surfboard.
Talk as a more dangerous weapon. It's when people bridge their differences that they become truly fearsome. But, not to each other.