Hold on. Wait a minute. Let me catch my breath, my feet are tired of having to run up them damn steps and get in the front door safe and in one piece. I have tell you like Fannie Lou Hammer said, “I am sick and tired of being sick and tired,” of all this shit. What’s the deal with all the creeps, lame no game having men in their cars all over Anchorage? I am so over all the gawking and honking car horns every time I walk down the block. I know I am a jazzy local celebrity, but this shit has to stop.
I guess I was about nineteen years old the day I walked in the house on a day like today, highly frustrated, to find my auntie sipping on a cup of coffee. She looked me over and situated me in the right frame of mind. She asked me what was the matter, and then I went all-in with my rant and chatter. “It’s not that I’m out walking in a scandalous outfit with stiletto heels, but I am always getting harassed when I’m walking down the street.”
“I’m sorry baby, but there is no love for a decent lady. I know, it’s crazy, but that’s why we called them honkies. And that ain’t got nothing to do with them being white, either. Black and Latino men are flirtatious and nasty, too. You have to be careful and always alert because some of them will try to hurt you if you give the time of day.”
So I follow her lessons, read the signs, and have participate in the stop sexual harassment protests sessions from time to time. As I was saying this shit ain’t right, just like the other day, off Northern Lights. Just up the block and around the way, I am girl just trying to get to my house. Now, you know me, I am in my own muthafucking zone with my headphones on bopping to the beat of my own drum. This guy pulls alongside in his old rickety no muffler loud-ass car. I was surprise he could still start it and get it to run. “Hey Hey there Hun!!!” with his lustful eyeballs popping out of his head. His left arm dangling and waving while his right had steadied the jalopy’s steering wheel. “Oh Lawd . . . not today!” is all I could think of. I was not in the mood and definitely could not feel the fact that I caught a glimmer of his wedding ring. I told him he needs to leave me alone and go home to his wife with his undercover nasty behavior. And then I thought, well, more like I prayed, “Oh God please don’t let this honky be my neighbor.” My auntie taught me right, so I reached for my razor in my purse and slyly grabbed a hold of my mace. If he came any closer, I was ready to cut him deep and spray him in the face. He was gonna learn the hard way not to F with me. I watch T.V. and see all the newsreels; I was not about to be another transgender woman victim killed, sliced, and diced up on the side of the road in a trash heap, left for dead. I don’t tell many people what goes on in my head, but I practice running in my heels and taking them off quickly to use the pointy part for a jab to the jugular of the rapist, stalker, or mugger.
This man and his slimy dick had no need to stop just cause he saw my fine sexy black behind walking down the street. Using peripheral vision, my head steadied the course ahead while I said, “Just keep on keeping on you creep!” Well . . . I didn’t add the “creep” part but I made it clear that whatever he was selling I was not in the market for buying. He was horrid and just as old and crusty looking as his car. Even on a good day, he couldn’t get far with me. Girrrrl, I didn’t even give him an “E” for effort for trying.
This shit happens all the time to me, I ain’t even lying. However, it don’t stop there, I got mad stories to tell of similar situations and other encounters in different outfits. Take last Sunday for instance, I’m on my way home walking the distance from church and here comes another honky slowing down on the hunt with a sinister lurch. I was strolling down Spenard and 27 in my Sunday best, hoping I will still make it to heaven with swaying hips, switching from side to side. I know I’m not supposed to be cussing on a Sunday after receiving the message of the Good Lawd but, “Aww Nawl!” this nasty muthafuka broke my stride, “Hell Nawl!!, I Don’t Want A Ride!!!” If you had seen this honky, you would have thought the same and nearly died from laughing at this all too real, Lifetime movie scenario. He didn’t have a car, just one of those bone-chilling-kidnapping-dark-gray-pick-up vans with an eight-track player for a radio. The only thing missing was a “Free Candy” decal sign to lure in some innocent naive child with his nasty plans. He was so morbid looking; he could be mistaken for the Addams Family’s Uncle Fester. His real name probably was Chester the Child Molester.
Yes, I’m being prejudice and judgmental, but a girl has got to have her wits about her self if she wants to survive the strife. His creepy ass could easily have been the rapist with no respect for life. Either that or he was going to go home that night, drink a six-pack of cheap beer, kick his dog, curse his children, and beat his wife. All because he was mad that I told him, “Hell no you can’t get with me. Leave me be or regret it. I don’t play, so forget it. I quit kindergarten because they had recess. So keep on keeping on if you know what’s best.” You could see the disappointment and disgust on his face. As he sped off I got a good look and wrote down his license plate. Just in case he gets lucky with his evil smile and there is report about another missing child.
My auntie’s words ring true; black men can be some low-down dirty honkies, too. Now this brother on 36th and C Street, last week, was actually nice looking but had no game. He had a nice car, but his rap was lame. Nevertheless it was more of the same, when he didn’t get a response to his call, “Hey baby, what’s your name?” while I’m walking home all classy, sassy, hips swaying again as I switch. “Oh it’s like that . . . you Black Tranny Ugly Biaaatch!!!” That was it, the camel’s back was broken from the last straw, I was not even playing or joking when I stopped my track, grabbed my razor and went back.
“Look here, you on the down-low nasty bastard. I am not a fag. I don’t care if you are hot bothered and mad. I don’t know what you think you are seeing, but my mama is a human being and didn’t give birth to no bitch. Maybe if you knew how to talk to a girl and didn’t have a wack rap, you could get with this. Yeah . . . I know it is a given. I look good and work at Being Jazzy for a living. But I’m fed-up with all you honkies, white, black or whatever. Just keep on keeping whenever you see me walking down the street. I don’t buy green bananas cause I don’t have time for some creep!”
Yeah, my friend, I get tired of all the honkies, gawking eyes, and twisted necks; but the one that tickles me the most, the one I can not forget, is the skinny scruffy looking Latino dude last night on his bicycle. If I’m lying, I’m dying, it was such a bad approach I actually had to stop and give him the E for effort. Girrrrrl, can you believe, he was passing me by and had the nerve to repeatedly squeeze his little horn at me on his funky bicycle, “Olá Sweet Mama Sita.” He was charming, yet ludicrous, ratchet, and ridiculous, so I gave him my name and digits. Okay . . . to be perfectly honest with you . . . to tell the truth, since he wasn’t a jerk I brought his scruffy, bicycle-riding ass home and did him good like homework.