It's when you go to Spanish Harlem, or parts of Washington Heights, or Miami, or to a ¡Fiesta Latina! that you really get a refresher and a reminder that you live in a dominant White Culture; one that gets to make all the rules about faces and languages and values placed on same. Because in Harlem, everything from the man's face on the Tanqueray billboard to the girl's eyes behind the counter of the Burger King, to the bus driver and the people walkin' down the street says Brown, says African American (or "Black"); says This is what is Right; Being Black is what we reinforce and recognize; Being Black is Who We Are, Here. Granted, with Columbia U and since Clinton's move, and given the overall gentrification happening because White Manhattanites are running out of room in "decent" NYC, this is becoming less true. But get off at the 125th street stop and do some walkin'. You'll see what I mean.

Yeah. Or do some walkin' in Miami. Do some walkin' in Southern California. Then do some walkin' in Upstate New York. Or Virginia. Or Indiana. Do some walkin' in Oregon. Do some walkin' in Maine. We can go on, can't we? But we don't need to. I'm just saying. YOU try living in a culture that constantly devalues you, that constantly reminds you in the most subtle non-actionable ways (you can't file suit or call someone on it easily without first educating in the agenda of media and the subtleties of internal colonization) that you are a shadow of what's important. Or worse! A culture that tells you are filth. Only worth picking up after the Master Race; only worth doing the work they don't do...before you go on home, now. I know many white people don't see it. I know it's easy to be lulled to sleep by the appearance of normalcy. Especially when the normal eyes you see are yours, when the Normal skin you see is yours, when the ads are for You.

What were Crayolas like when you were young? Did you have a crayon named "Flesh"? I did. Did it match your flesh? Mine didn't. [update: I remember having the crayon. Which is odd, as I've since learned it was discontinued about the time I was born.] What does this teach? What is a child to think their arm is made of, if not flesh? These may be some of the things you don't think of so much when so much of the art, so many of the moviefaces, so many of the TVfaces, and so many of the catalogfaces match your own. When the words and the names and the comparisons base the standard on Your Image. White people can immediately be made to understand what this might be like by visiting Harlem, for one thing. Or by coming along to a Latino march or fiesta.

Much anger on both sides comes from a misunderstanding, among other things. Sure, I think there is wilfull ignorance, taught fear, and malice. But I don't think many people mean to be racist. However, regardless of intent, there's a constant potion bubbling; a constant miasma of vantage point infecting the dialogue. I know to many Whites, my talk, or any pro-brown talk, or any anti-hypnotist talk, or any anti-Manifest Destiny talk or any anti-Colonialist thought talk sounds paranoid, extreme...unnecessary. But consider that you may just not smell the stink because it's your stink. You like it. It smells like you. For others, it may just be stink.

Sometimes, for those who know what I mean, there is something to sweep away the stench and bring some fresh air. That was this short, but important time for me at the fiesta. That may be living in Harlem for you. That may be living in South Central LA. That may be living in Miami Beach. That may be pro-immigrant parades. But wherever it is, be it in rising census numbers or in a part of town where you may just be lucky enough to get the benefit of the doubt, you can breath again.

Later that night, El Grito could be heard booming from the speakers. Of course at this point I was sort of "stuck" in the cotton candy line. I had wanted to be among the crowd for that part! It was a choice. We're not big cotton candy lovers or anything--in fact, it's pretty much the perfect example of what I do not eat--but we had decided on a few things. For the fun of it. For deciding on things' sake. We got a few ears of big, juicy corn (mine had sour cream and cayenne pepper and grated cheese on it) and a terribly-guilt-inducing-and-nutrionally-vacuous cloud of spun sugar syrup. But the latter prize required a rediculously long wait. When El Grito began--a seque from the spicy, rhythmic, brassy sound of the band--I was next in line! To leave then would be....well, madness.

But I grew a bit misty there, watching the chubby, bored, vendor fella (telling him Uno, por favor because we shared one) wrap up a cone of pink refined poison web and listening to the music and the cheers and the thunder behind me the whistling of the fireworks and ¡VIVA CHILE! ¡VIVA PERU! ¡VIVA LATINOS! ¡VIVA MEXICANOS! ¡VIVA MEXICO! VIVA MEXICO! ¡VIVA MEXICO! and the crowd cheering as one, back to him ¡VIVA! ¡VIVA! ¡VIVA!....it made the hairs on my neck stand up, tears come to my eyes. Made that wispy, sugary, crap in my mouth taste like nectar. Or maybe that was just drool.