Let me set the stage—I have a car now—it works—I have a valid
license—I have wheels. Otherwise, I can take an Uber, a Lyft, a taxi. I have
multiple friends and a roommate who will drive me wherever I please (I have no
idea why). I can teleport and astral project. On a full moon, I turn into a
centaur and gallop across the southern suburbs of Atlanta. I can shapeshift
into other animals and crawl, fly, slither, or saunter to my destination and
then re-assume my human form. I can even, during the Spring of the year, turn
into a spore of a dandelion or similar flower and then float upon the wind to
the closest convenience store, restaurant, or entertainment venue. However,
when I CHOOSE to walk in my neighborhood, in Douglasville, Georgia, I am
verbally and otherwise sonically abused by passing drivers. If this were just a
one time or ten times thing, I would not bring it up; however, I decided to try
to analyze this in front of you today after a minor incident just occurred.
I have written about this catcall culture in another blog
here, so I am sorry if this is redundant, but I decided I would try to just
figure it out on a deeper level. Obviously, if I were wearing fatigues and
jogging in military boots, no one would disrespect me. If I was just in
work-out clothes, no one would mess with me. I know this sounds like I am
whining, but I am not—I just think it brings up an interesting sociological
question as it pertains to where I am currently living. If I were walking in
downtown Atlanta, no one would howl maniacally from his car.
All that happened today was someone rode by with their
windows down, in a large truck, and honked the horn multiple times while
whooping at me. Maybe I should take it as a compliment?
I was wearing Nikes, jeans, a button up shirt under a black
sweater, and a crocheted skull cap (black and silver-striped). This, as I
walked down highway 5 in front of a wooded area, elicits a hoot and holler
response. I think it is a basic form of bullying—“Hey, Ime in mah truck and you
gots da walk places look at my penis whooooooooooohhhhhhhh!”. Yet, I started to
think about it a bit further based upon the small town I am living in—it’s even
more complicated than this.
When I was recently in New York, I stayed for two weeks in
Astoria with my friend, Ang. She gave me a key to her place, and I roamed
freely for days, by foot and by subway and had an amazing time. No one seemed
to give a care about how people got around—they just cared that they got there
relatively on time and safely. Just yesterday, a terrorist rammed a truck down
a bike path in Manhattan killing several people, so this is one reason I am
writing this blog entry.
I think that the adult walker who looks like me on the
average Douglasville, Georgia road represents a type of terrorist to the
surrounding populace. It’s like an attack on the entire economy. How dare you
walk places when I am making car payments, hitting drive-thrus to slowly kill
myself, going to work, paying for gas and car maintenance, and even if I am NOT
paying for these things, how dare you have the audacity to just stroll on by
like the cock of the walk, like you are special or something? It’s as if you can
only categorically walk upon a treadmill, in a park, or in some other
designated areas, in the minds of some of these Redneckotards, and if you
overstep those boundaries, you should at least be hollered at. Stay off our
public streets you sweater-clad bastard!
Also, maybe it is just fun to scream at someone from your
vehicle while they are in quiet contemplation just to see if he or she will
jump or acknowledge you. That makes is acceptable.
What I am saying is this—there is an impetus in the person
who hollers at the stranger that comes from a possibly sociopathic place. I
also think that this place is generated by any sense of the “other” that might
permeate the space of people who have fear of “The Walkers”. The WALKING DEAD
series has popularized this term, sure, but people like me see the walkers as
mindless, soul-less consumers, and people like the hoot-and-holler-truckboy see
them as anyone who looks different from him. It gives him an opportunity to
feel superior than. The current culture itself, with white supremacist animosity,
sexual abuse scandals, intense government corruption and litigation, etc. is
enough to split us all into radical factions. Still, there should be common
decency among citizens in general, but now I sound like some kind of utopic
asshole just popping out into the world as an idealistic embryo.
Look, I am a middle-aged, heterosexual, white cis-male, so don’t get bent out of shape that I am sounding “victimized”. I don’t feel victimized. I just don’t get it? Why would a white guy be messing with me anyway? I probably taught his mom or girlfriend the Odyssey online last week for all he knows. Hell. I might end up teaching him in the future. The culture of aggression is growing while the culture of education has long been gradualized into no child left behind outside of a pick-up truck.
There will always be fratboys hazing nerds. I just like
walking to my store, getting my coffee, talking to Mike about weather and
business, and walking home with my Alka Seltzer, Powerade, pork rinds, a
lottery ticket, and the occasional boiled peanuts. Can you imagine if I screamed,
as a walker, at every car that rode by me with its windows down on my daily
stroll? How soon would Douglasville’s finest be questioning me with handcuffs dangling?
I do think, however, if hoot-and-holler truckboy and I ever
played pool together, drank together, or went bowling together, and if he knew I
was from Alabama and have always been country and poor, that he would calm down
a bit. He’d be hollering with his left arm around my shoulder and his right arm
lifting a beer in some sort of salute to “Dixie” that he does not even
historically or culturally really understand. I would be able to talk all day
and night to him about what it is to be white trash—I know that world—I was
forged in it. Could he talk to me all night and all day about Baudelaire?
Blake? Joy Division? Matisse? Chuck Close? Waylon Jennings? Do I crave or want
that affirmation?
Hell to the power of infinite no.
He would end up wanting it more from me. That’s why he
screams at me from his vehicle. He has absolutely no idea what he wants or who
he is, and he can tell that, by the way I walk, I know exactly who I am and
where I am going.
He can also tell, and this is why he howls, that he could
never walk my paths.
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