Oliver+G+-+A+Cruel+World

Blackie, Darkie, Bumper Lips, Monkey Boy, Blue Gummer, Tar Baby, and Nigger: all names that one obtains as a black person living in a white community. A hateful community. Why are we so different? What is it about us that makes us inferior to white people? The eternal questions that make their daily spin through my mind as I roll out of bed in my apartment in down town New York. Yawning and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I staggered sleepily into the kitchen. Do white people not eat breakfast like us black people? Do they feel no hunger? I dismissed the thoughts as quickly as they had come, my mind still too tired to rally a sufficient answer. Even in the early hours of the morning, the city was awake, and the noise of bustling people and impatient traffic could be heard, even over the clatter of the cereal as it hit the bowl. New York truly is the city that never sleeps. As I dazedly sat at the table, I noticed a bird fly past the window to land on the porch of the neighbouring block of apartments. It was a tall black crane, a graceful and beautiful creature. However, it wasn’t just an animal, it was living proof, I realised, that beauty does exist in black beings. This idea led me to think of other example – Black Beauty, the Black Panther, and the Black Stallion, all beautiful and majestic creatures, but why does this not apply to humans? Once again, the answer escaped me. As I stepped out the door a short time later, in my shirt and tie, I was hit by a sudden wave of sadness, almost depression. I couldn’t work out whether it was the sights of fathers hurrying their children inside whilst throwing threatening glares across the road at me, or the knowledge that today would be the same as every other day, and every day to come – full of hatred, spite, and misery. As I made my way slowly down the street, I noticed other people glaring at me, some looked away in embarrassment as soon as they caught my eye, but others just kept on staring, intent on making me feel small and powerless. I ignored the unwanted attention and the occasional insult, despite the churning mass of feelings and emotions that swelled inside me like a volcano waiting to erupt, and proceeded along what seemed to be the never-ending road of misery. Eventually, I reached the chemical waste plant. A small factory, just a block away from my apartment, which had provided me with work and a source of income for nearly three years now. It was a simple job – flicking switches, turning knobs, and reading dials. I had reached a position in the company that was higher up and more prestigious than the positions that most of the white people who worked with the company held, but still, I was inferior to them, a lesser person in all respects. As I has expected, the day was like any other. Nothing new happened, just the continuous droning noises of chemicals being recycled and loaded onto huge trucks, and the groans and sighs of workers as boredom tortured their empty minds. Gradually, the day wore on. Morning became afternoon and afternoon became evening. I was always the last one to leave, having been dumped with the responsibility of clearing up and completely locking the factory once everyone had left. No one ever stayed to help, I was a black man, and black men were only good for working and nothing else. I had actually been told this by one of my previous co-workers, whose job I had taken after he had been given the sack. It was 9:30pm before I was finally able to go home. I locked the front door and started to trudge back down the road, my arms and legs heavy from a long days work. As I walked, I listened to the nightlife of New York. Police sirens whined in the distance and people shouted and laughed as they relaxed, taking in the cool night air. I heard footsteps behind me, running and gaining on me. As I spun around in confusion, I was met with a bat, square in the face. Blood streamed from my nose and my mouth as I was pushed to the ground and beaten by three men, white men. They beat me with bats, fists and feet, furiously thumping at me with a sense of hatred and detest. Amidst the punching, the kicking and the insults, I managed to land a punch on one of the attacker’s faces, he fell backwards in pain and I grimaced as the attacking only intensified, the others becoming more violent until they had reached a frenzy of beating, intent on avenging their friend. I kicked out and caught another in the stomach and he groaned as he picked up a bat and hit out savagely at me with it. I began to feel the life seeping out from within me and I barely managed to stay conscious as I heard shouts and saw people running over to help me, pushing my attackers away and looking after me. The world went black as I fell unconscious into the hands of the people who had saved me. I awoke the next day in a hospital bed. Both of my legs were in casts and my left arm was cradled in a sling. It hurt to open my eyes and blood seeped from dry cuts and gashes on my face whenever I moved. No one came in to see how I was, no friends, no family, no one who cared, only the occasional nurse to check on me and to clean up my injuries from which blood continually flowed like a river of rich red liquid. I closed my eyes again, and fell into a deep sleep, dreaming away my injuries, the events of last night, and the discrimination against black people, to enter a world of love and peace where every human was treated equally and as a unique person, but I can only dream.
 * A Cruel World **