Monkey Business

I've had some pretty wack experiences with white people. As a toddler, I was jumped by some white classmates at school. That experience lead me to steer clear of white folks for a long time. In the sixth grade, a group of my friends and I were egged by some white kids as we waited to get into a gym on the "wrong side of town." A year later, my black team went into a white town for a basketball game. We had to be escorted out of the gym because a couple of players and their parents didn't like losing to a "bunch of niggers."

My high school years were relatively quiet on the racial front. I define that period of my life as "Whitey's Redemption." The healing actually started in fifth grade when I joined an afterschool program that was founded and directed by a couple of white men. From that point through high school, they unknowingly did a lot to restore my faith in white people. They were genuinely good people who never asked me for anything in return for their generosity. I also developed friendships with a few white classmates who helped me broaden my view of the world immensely. The same can be said for my white U.S. History teacher who taught me the true meaning of critical thinking.

By the time I got to college, I learned to deal with people as individuals. Unfortunately, one really bad experience brought up all of the aforementioned memories. It didn't take long for me to see that colleges were teeming with extremely ignorant people. What saddened me about this is that these students, many of whom came from very sheltered backgrounds, were preparing to become the "leaders of tomorrow." One morning as I was having breakfast alone in the college's cafeteria, some white dude (Scruffy) who lived on my floor randomly sat next to me.

Scruffy was from Vermont. Earlier in the year, he had an embarrassing situation occur where he accidentally urinated on a pile of his white rommate's clothes after a long night of partying. Unlike his fellow freshmen, Scruffy didn't roll with a crew. He was either with this Ghanian cat (who wasn't a man of many words), or his girlfriend (she was the hottest girl on our floor). Even though we were cordial, I was kind of surprised that Scruffy took a seat next to me in the caf.

Scruffy: Can I ask you a question?
Me: Sure.
Scruffy: Why do black people like bananas?
Me: What? I don't understand. Do you see a banana in front of me?
Scruffy: No, but I'm just curious.
Me: Bananas? I don't follow why you're asking me this.
Scruffy: Yeh. I mean, do you think it has something to do with your African roots?
Me: I'm lost right now.
Scruffy: I just noticed that black people like bananas, so I thought I'd ask.
Me: What the fuck do bananas have to do with Africa?
Scruffy: You're clearly upset right now. It's just a question.
Me: Yeh. I am upset. You're asking me about bananas and my fuckin African roots! Really?!? 
Scruffy: Dude. Sorry. I'm not a racist. My best friend here is black. You know that. I just wanna know why black people like bananas. That's all.