Posts Tagged ‘black people’

Technology is great. It allows us to wash our nude bodies indoors with the light and provides the opportunity to watch others wash their nude bodies with the lights on.

Not all of technology is great though. Some parts are absolutely terrifying.

sandra_oh_a_l

(Terrifying in person form)

Take socializing for instance. There are way too many ways to be bothered. Between Facebook, Twitter, email, and texting, mutes have become our equals in terms of communication. While they still all have a distinct baritone voice only excused because they can’t hear themselves sounding ridiculous, the deaf have tied us listeners in getting the message across.

And this is a problem.

I remember going a whole summer without talking to anyone from school. I avoided the Internet like the plague or the same way girls did me until I turned 22. The only thing different at 22 was I now had thinning hair and eye bags which to women reminded them of George Clooney if he wasn’t famous. The only downside was when they found out my real age after not understanding any of their references to the 1980s.

What’s a gay cancer?

I don’t like technology because now I’m forced to be empathetic. When someone is sad I have to read about it. I can’t ignore the problem either because I have a kind heart.

However if you have cried for help openly and I don’t respond, it’s because I’m intimidated by how cool you are. I also don’t feel like reconnecting with another person who will just commit suicide in three months. I don’t even own a suit for your funeral.

zoot-suit-yellow

(Only a black man can pull off a suit that looks like my underwear)

Technology brings us places we shouldn’t be. Like work. Have you ever thought about your job? How important would it be in the apocalypse? Unless it’s oil salesman, road warrior, or cage dancer you’re replaceable. It’s okay because I am too.

One last thing to mention about technology: it keeps us alive longer. This is an awful thing, I think you’d agree, if you’ve ever met anybody.

You probably call them tart carts. I don’t. I’ll explain why later. Those short little buses where certain students ride on always capture our attention. They stand out despite looking more like a normal vehicle instead of a large stupid yellow bus. These automobiles are a strange thing. It’s wrong to call them tart carts. It’s one of the few things that offend me. Why? Because I rode on that bus.

To clarify, I only rode on the bus for about 2 months. I had broken my leg and my parents didn’t love me enough to drive me to school. A girl with cerebral palsy lived up the street from me, so it wasn’t that inconvenient to pick me up too. I was about to embark on a strange journey. A journey that few able minded children ever do. I was taking a ride on the short bus.

The first thing I learned about riding the short bus was that you shouldn’t look anyone in the eye. Those kids didn’t like that. They’d curse at me if I did. Here I was, sitting in a wheel chair, them having to sit on a sticky seat that matched their sticky hands. Put two sticky things together and you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

I don’t remember what the schedule was, but I do know that at some point I was the only one on the bus that went to my school. The rest went to a nicer school that had air conditioning. Maybe that’s why they didn’t want me looking at them. The sweat from my eyes might tamper with their 68 degree room temperature flesh. The kids that went to the other school were really mean. They didn’t bother me much, but they were not comrades. Not like the short bus riders that went to my school.

I liked the kids that went to the same school as me. They all knew each other. They had their little niche group. You think kids without autism are cliquey? Try riding a short bus with them. I had to remain silent for a month before they would accept me. It was terrible hazing. If you ask them, they’d say it was gentle ribbing. I knew better.

My most memorable thing about this clique was that they didn’t call each other by their names. They called each other by their street names. It took me a while to realize this too. I thought it was cool to meet a boy named Wolfgang, only to discover that his street matched his name. The short buses pull right up to your house so they all know exactly where you live. Maybe that’s why they all got along. If you pissed someone off, they’d take some goons and throw crayons at your bedroom window.

The day I belonged was the day that Fleetwood called me Overton. I was no longer Tim. I could throw away my slave name and go by my street name. My street name that matched the black guy from the UPN sitcom “Living Single.” Finally I belonged.

 

(Actor John Henton, whose character Overton was immortalized after the mayor of my town named a street after him, which I grew up on)

My leg eventually healed and I had to say goodbye to my new friends. The friendship was over before it began. Occasionally in the hallways I would still see Wolfgang, Fleetwood, Flock, MICHAEL CARGILL!!! ,Maple, and Route 33. They’d be going to their classes to learn and I’d be going to mine. I may have looked different now, no longer wheelchair bound, but to them I was still Overton. And always will be.

I wish I remembered more about my days on the short bus. It was brief and really for some reason has faded out of my head. Maybe it wasn’t as interesting as I remember it being. 10 minutes of everyday, trapped on the same vehicle as these other students might not be enough time to really develop into a great story.

Oh and for the record, I don’t care if you call it a tart cart. Coming from me, a tart cart alumni, I feel that my endorsement of the word makes it political correct to say. So go ahead and use it freely. We know we are. We’re whatever street we currently live on. You can’t take that way from us.