wte 6

John Townsend
Writing the Essay Section
9/4/08
Exercise 6
I am afraid I might shit myself. I am one of two people riding an old, rickety E train downtown, six stops more stops until I’m home. Terror accumulates with each successive stop; the closer to home I die, the more tragic the irony. My traveling companion is a six-foot tall black man in a Tupac shirt. He could fit basketballs in his biceps and six baseball bats in each of his legs. A red Doo-rag covers his awful smelling Corn Rows (though I might just be smelling the results of a homeless man who forgot to go before he left the house). I am a white kid in a red American Apparel sweater and checkered Vans. I have a Jew-fro.
More than anything I try to avoid his eyes; I pretend to be studying at the subway map to my left, though really I have my peripheral vision working overtime on this man, vaguely chronicling his every move. This is the kind of man who tells you a long, detailed monologue before he kills you, a monologue with Biblical allusions that heavily involve sheppards. This man is the 21st Century black Travis Bickle. This man looks dangerous. The train finally stops at West 4th Street and I bolt.
I have only walked a block when it hits me: I am a Racist. Sure, he was a scary looking man. But after forcing myself to reevaluate the ride, I realize he was almost completely motionless the entire time; I doubt he even recognized my presence. And yet I still cannot deny the sheer fear I felt sitting on the same train as him. I am also puzzled by how in addition to fear, I had an overwhelming sense of fury toward this guy, as if I were really mad that he was forcing me to question the immediacy my death. Was I afraid of this man because he looked dangerous, or was I afraid of him because he looked Black?
A day later I walking to class through Washington Square Park, still worrying heavily about what kind of underlying bigotry might lie within me, when a “blast” from the past walks by me. He is about 8 feet tall: 6 feet of actually man, 1 foot of spiked green hair, and 1 foot of black platform boots. Chains circle his crotch and safety pins penetrate his skin. He is a pale white guy, and I am seriously afraid of him. He looks like he would tell you Anarchy is the only logical form of government, but then falls asleep every time he opens his copy of Anarchy in Action which he is this close to returning to his friend who works in a used record store. He is walking toward me. As he continues to come closer to me, I find myself not only getting more scared, but angrier, the same way I felt on the subway.