 Once again we came out low man on the
pro-verbial totem pole. Orto be politically correct, in
the past election campaign we rated a plus minus in the
pre-vote grab bag, where goodies flew to some of the
country's most dis-harmonized vocal chords. The squeaky
wheel-gets-the-grease has become more than a farmer's
adage. It al-ways has. This being the case, where were
out voices? Were our leaders drowned out from the squeals
of larger machines, or were they playing the polite game
of lets-wait-and- see? We did not hear from Matthew Coon
Come or Mercredi, but we clearly heard the voices from
Manitoba singing, "Poor old Elijah" as he got
flooded out. In Elijah we lost a strong voice, not a
timid one. He squeaked well.BIG
BROTHER
Black people have felt its sting and
malaise for years. The feeling of being watched and
followed. At a mall on the fringe of downtown Vancouver
having brown skin is a charging bull to the security
force. Upon entering the mall it soon becomes apparent to
the shopper that their movements are being closely
watched. It is a feeling. Regardless of age, dress or
gender people of a darker hue are subject to a closer and
longer scan. The shopper, in most cases, has become the
victim. The victim of a severe form of encroachment. Has
the security in our malls become a form of stalking?
Maybe not. However, the ugly feeling that is thrust upon
a certain segment of shoppers is the same.
SAYING IT
He did not look odd or appear any
different than you or I. His clothes were casual,
midscale, clean and pressed. He had walked out of a side
street coffee shop; the nineties kind, small,
neighbourly, where caffeine activates and enlivens.
Assuming that the exiting customer was served, the brew
had quickly awakened a rare, primeval urge. As a friend
of mine would acidly say,"It must have been a strong
mix". In the middle of the street the ex-patron
dropped his pants, bent over, and shook his white, bare
bottom vigorously in a stripper's parody. Hum? Colombian
or Brazilian? It also stirred up a few uncaffeine
thoughts. Was he saying good-bye, hello, or just butting
out? The customers inside and sidewalk bound, sip on
their mixtures and gaze glassy-eyed.
ARRIVING
Most of our people drive new or near
new cars today. Not that long ago an old, rusted beater,
smoke-tinted windows (if any) and belch-ing black clouds,
were the proud symbols of an 'Indian car'. Today, those
same types of vehicles are driven mostly by whites. But
just yesterday one was seen puttering through Vancouver
traffic. Inside, four or five blackhaired heads were
rhythmically bobbing and weaving to the jolt of tired
shocks. They looked like kids heading into an amusement
park, smiling and waving wildly, their eyes wide in
innocence. The observation that we were moving up the
economic scale and into newer cars was about to explode
until it was pointed out that the people in the beater
were 'newcums'. 'Newcums'? Whaa? New comers to the city
was the answer. It was a moment to rejoice! We do have
our own form of rap talk.
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