The Blaa..african Americans!

I was strolling through Times Square the other day. A gentleman was selling some standard New York ware on the sidewalk, probably a cruise or a standup comedy show or a carriage ride or some other commoditized touristy service. He had a sales pitch routine like any good salesman would. Not that I’ve met a man in my life who’s both good and a salesman, but I guess that’s how they say it. All in all, he was the usual salesman you’d see anywhere with one exception – he was black. And that, as they say , is a paradigm shift. For, with the usual salesman you would expect persistence. But that persistence is usually motivated by the desired closing of a deal. That motive is not necessary in a black guy’s case.
And it came to pass that a family of white people were strolling through Times Square at that exact moment on that exact sidewalk but on the opposite bank. While any prosperous looking family is a good target for a good (sic) salesman, this family was special for our man due to the presence in it of a young man, of gigantic proportions, of ample girth and a heavy walk. The moment the aforementioned gentleman spotted the young healthy man, he abandoned his post and with fierce enthusiasm and an aggressive bearing, set himself unto just one mission – to call out to him.
An ordinary person would take extra care not to refer to the addressee’s physical characteristics. Not the Black New Yorker. Purportedly to make a sale, the black salesman presented his sales pitch to the young white gentleman in the following words:
“Big Daddy! Hey, big daddy. You lookin’ at what I’m sayin’, bug daddy? I’m talkin’ to you, big daddy. Big daddy? You listenin’ big daddy? I’m gonna show you, big daddy. Big daddy? Big daddy? BIG DADDY!!”
Fortunately for the peace in Times Square, big daddy couldn’t hear a word of this and slowly rolled away into the crowd. But it told me somethin’ about ‘em black folks. They ain’t afraid of nothin’, and they ain’t stoppin’ at nothin’!
Blacks are my favourite people in New York. Strangely, they really are the antithesis of the whites. They talk loudly, they sing loudly. They talk to strangers on the road and in the subway. They have a hearty, uplifting laugh. Their very manner of speaking has a specific, for some reason sitcom-ish tone.
Like when I passed these two black women on Brooklyn Bridge who were seemingly discussing one of their friends: “How’s the bitch doin’ it? Ain’t she broke?” Now being broke, at least where I come from, is not exactly an everyday activity.
Or when I overheard another healthy black woman saying to her friend: “Now Aye don’t get these people. Its rainin’ and they’re runnin’, it’s eleven o’clock in the night and their runnin’, they’re runnin’, they’re runnin’”, obviously referring to the white New Yorker’s obsession with ‘doing miles’.
Or when on my last trip year I was carrying my newly bought iphone with a wide smile on my face and the black doorman said to me: “That’s a damn good tool you got there.” Thank you very much, sir! Thank you for sharing the joy with me.
I don’t want to get into the sociology of America here, but I did feel a little sad yesterday after getting off the bus. The bus I rode on my way to the museum. I could’ve walked, but I took the bus because it was raining, and I didn’t want to get wet. My camera was getting wet too, but I hadn’t noticed it. The lady who handed me the plastic bag did notice it. I had hesitated before taking the bag because it was sudden, and it’s become an instinct even for me, a visitor, to become wary when one of them addresses you. But I did thank her profusely when I had the chance to regain composure. “You don’t carry no fancy camera like that if you have no bag”, she said. She didn't have to help me, but she did.