Unsafe New York: Part Twenty Two

BITCH, HOE, HO YOU, YO:OR DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO SPELL?
It was November 21st. I was standing on the corner of 25th and 5, waiting for my scheduled interview to happen (about 30 min wait, I gave myself extra time). I was bored but not for a long. My ear was caught by some enticing music. I listened and started to enjoy the lovely lyrics and the enticing beat of a local corner music store. For the extent of that time (full half an hour), the gentleman responsible for the music arrangement (a boombox standing by the store, and put on "max" sound level) played about 6 songs, all of them theming: "GET THE HOE", with a lovely couplet: "BITCH, BITCH, BITCH." The tone of the music was very angry: no bitch in specific was mentioned, just The Bitch, and the necessity of getting her, stripping her and hitting her. The Bitch must be put in her place. The song promised that once you get the bitch, and punish her, all your problems will magically become ok. The singer sounded hopeful. The music played on as I hung around on the corner and waited for time to pass.
As time went by and I got bored, I listened in to the lyrics some more, and realized that it was the theme of every song and that not a specific woman was called out for her heinious crimes but a woman in general: fucking whore (because a woman), stupid bitch (because a woman), and a ho (because a woman). That woman seemed to be a cause of discontent, because she...was a woman! The streets shook from a high base and my subconscious slowly got infiltrated and then imbued with a vageu but certain sense of guilt, a sense of worthlisness and despair I never felt before. I looked at the guy who was enjoying himself and singing along. His lips were pressed tightly together, and he hi-fived the passer-bys, many a decent looking guy, mostly black or Hispanic in origin, all of whom nodded to the music and darted angry looks at the passing by females. Their eyes bespoke such hatred, I shook inwardly and did not know why. The wave hit me a couple of times as well. I swallowed and listened on.
The music played on and on, reviving the ancient deep hatred of our race, invoking thoughts of murder and oppression in the passing by males. Each and every female that passed by was very uncomfortable, some looked at the guy with a plea - turn it off! the plea of a human being to stop promoting hate and violence against their innocent little person, and were ALL met with his despising hateful eyes. A few times he whispered something incoherrent and spat. Some tiny asian female got pushed over by a medium sized guy in a business suit; she and her little dog were harshly swept away by his strong hand to the curb, her little dog the woman hid behind her leg, little dog pressing its paw to itself, out of evil's way, but the guy still stepped on its tiny paw. Now the little dog was making a tiny sound and pressing to itself its small paw. The tiny woman was distraught. She was dressed smartly and her hair was in order, it was obsvious she took great care to look and feel the best, she was young and proffessional. Her lips started dancing and my heart fell. My sister, my sister was being abused right in front of my eyes, and there was nothing, nothing I could do right there and then. The guy peered into her face 'till she humbly smiled and put her head down. I shook inside and felt my small fists: What could I do? I watched the guy watch her and smile with great satisfaction. The hoe got her share, eh, bro? He walked away after tossing a glance over to the music guy. The woman stood, then patted her dog, and the two slowly veered off.
I went up to the guy and asked him what was the name of the performer. "Dazy" he said with great pride, massaging the cover of some CD. "Dazy?" I asked. Often people are confused by my English knowledge and assume I have assimiliated all the nuances. I have not. Enlgish is a tough cookie and I still get thrown off by it. The American accent is not natural for me and I wouyld rather not do it. And now, I had no idea how to spell that. "How do you spell this please?" I asked him. He looked at me in shock. He stood there gapping at me for an extent of a few minutes. "?"!"
-"I am not from here originally, and don't know how to spell this correctly." I explained. The crooked smile came over the man's face. "Hmm, you don't know how to spell?..." He measured me up and down. There was some CD laying on top of the boombox. I looked at it. There was some name of some DJ on it. It was written in script, graffitti like, and I could not quiet make it out.
-"Perhaps this is the spelling," I inquired friendly, yet again, straining my foreighn eyes that often were reminded that they were not born in this country and therefore should not be here...to see the writings. The genlteman leaned over me. He was looking at me with utter despisement. "That, that?" he pointed a finger to the name I was suggesting to be the name of the performer. "Is that it? he demanded, pressing on me, intimidating me and pushing me into the corner. "I, I don't know." I was scared. "Is that how you spell "Dazy"?" he demanded. "I.." He grabbed a CD out of my hand and made the sound louder. "Could you please tell me how to spell it?" "No." The guy refused. He spat and measured me up and down. Did he really work there and did he really mean that? I stood there and wondered what to do. I just now got insulted and mistreated.
First, my gender.
]Then, for my nationality. Perhaps, the color of my hat? And under it, my shaved head? Why did he act this way with me? Why is it justified to act this way with any stranger who makes an inquiry? The women are cheaper by a dozen, and an insult to us is no biggie.
I sadly walked away to my interview. What if I played "that nigger" or "that spik" or "that kike" or "that guinea"? What is I made a song on a "faggot" and played it? What if I mentioned a couple of factual national or racial traits in my song? What would happen to me then? And women? They can be abused, spat on, and sang indecent and promoting violence songs, about?Are my people, there in God's world only for you to make money off of them and associate them with things you hate? We did not throw baby boys into the Ganges river, burnt the widowers on funeral pyres, and bound men's feet, made them do triple work for single underpay and in all possible ways humiliated them and made them feel worhtless pieces of meat. And it is we that are at fault? How is that you violate us and then accuse us of violating something? When do we have time? When do have the strength? When do we have the resources? We are still making it from the undercurrents of Ganges...
What is it that you have to make us believe we are such bitches and hoes and we have not done a single wrong thing?