fear of a black rex

One of the great things about being adopted is that my ethnic origins are mostly unknown and therefore subject to a bit of creativity. I’m mostly white, obviously, and I know of some Scottish ancestry, but there is no one to say that some of the unknown branches in my family tree aren’t black, Asian, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, or Chippewa. In fact, there were a couple of regrettable binge drinking episodes in college when it was later recounted to me that I engaged in diatribes against whitey for stealing my land and then segwayed into discussions of themes for my Casino.

No, I’m not quite sure that any race would want my representation either.

Anyway, there was another incident a few years back when a Mexican janitor told me that I was a black man on the inside. I hesitate to tell the story since I found out later that the man was a bit of a fraud and that…

Ah, when did you find out that he wasn’t really a proctologist?

That’s a different story, Captain Howdy. Anyway, I discovered later that the Mexican janitor was actually Honduran and that he was simply a coworker who liked to sweep the hallway in his spare moments. I don’t know why. I never got to know him that well, but he was sweeping by my office one day when he was drawn in by some Howlin’ Wolf playing on the stereo.

“You like this music?” he asked.

Now, I rarely pass up the opportunity for a good sarcastic remark, but the plight of the sanitation worker deserved a bit of respect, I thought. Also, he had a crazy look on his face.

“Sure,” I answered.

He came in closer, leaned down toward me, pointed to my chest and said, “On the outside you are white, but on the inside you are a black man.”

I rarely remember the specific wording of things that people tell me. However, my brain took a moment to chisel this one out for posterity. It then took another moment to peripherally scan the desk for something that could be used as a weapon with which to defend myself.

I nodded politely, awkwardly answered him with some bit about wishing that more people could see the black man inside me, and then breathed easier at his exit.

He didn’t work there for long, and we never again discussed the black man inside me, but I was a bit troubled at the few conversations we had afterward, as they dealt mostly with his distrust of the actual janitor who he was convinced was a Gypsy out to curse him and steal things from him. The janitor was actually Serbian. I had never feigned being a Gypsy, a Serb, or a janitor and was therefore not personally offended.

Now, did the fact that a Honduran Gypsyphobe found me to be black man on the inside cost me the Tennessee senate race?

I’d like to think so.