New York
I crossed the river last week and went into the heart of darkness. Unlike Conrad’s hero, it took me about 15 minutes by train, and there I was, right in the midst of a city bloated with squalor, oily storefronts, dilapidated tenements, vacant courtyards, and trash-strewn lots. I was the only white man in the station as I watched the arrest of a black hobo by two humongous black police officers. As the hobo was being led away, he screamed at me, ‘Give me a hundred dollars,’ and then broke up in hysterical, drunken laughter. It was three in the afternoon, and I had gone to Newark to watch my judo coach, Teimoc, compete in a ju-jitsu tournament, one from which he emerged a winner.
Walking up towards the site where the competition took place was an experience. I was, again, the only white man on the wide boulevard, lined with people going about their business, many just hanging out talking jive. Not for a second did I feel threatened. I made a point of asking directions from the toughies loitering about, and they obliged — mind you, after a glare or two; some were downright polite. In front of a derelict old cinema palace, I spotted a white guy, obviously down on his luck. ‘Got 75 cents so I can take the bus home?’ he ventured. He got a dollar for his trouble. Funny, I thought to myself, the only one to ask for money was a honky.
Something positive seems to be taking place in the long-running war between the races, at least around these parts. It’s the blacks who are coming round — whites came round 30 years or so ago — and no thanks to black leaders like the arch race hustler Al Sharpton, either.
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