So the other night, LJ told me that a couple of the guys were coming over to watch the game--Marcus and John. I've seen them both before, but--another manifestation of my apparent name-recall problem--I couldn't have picked out which of them was which, or distinguished them from any of LJ's other friends. When they came in, I recognized Marcus--he's the one who always smiles at me and asks, "How you doin'?" Cute, kinda; not as fine as LJ, but then who the hell is??
As usual, I went upstairs almost as soon as they arrived; it was late, for one thing, and LJ has told me before how much he appreciates it that I leave the guys to their own devices and don't try to hang around. Plus I had a ton of laundry waiting to be folded, so I ducked up the steps and went into the bedroom.
I was watching TV, folding laundry, just puttering around; and suddenly I heard one voice downstairs get much louder, and the other two get correspondingly quieter.
"Who the fuck was THAT?" said the voice.
Pause. "I said, who the fuck was THAT who answered your phone?"
"Your what? Bitch, has you lost your muthafuckin mind? That's my crib. I pay for that shit, and ain't no way no other n****a is gonna be up in my shit, that I pay for......"
"Kisha! Stop talking....Obviously you ain't listenin' to me, because you keep sayin' that same....I said, stop talking! I'm over here, and this n***a come over there and come up in my shit, which I pay for, and answer your...."
"He's your WHAT???? Bitch, just let me get in this car--Oh, so he's your 'husband' now....Is you playin' me, Kisha? Is THAT it? "
"Okay, then--now I know. But just let me get up out of this crib here and get in that muthafuckin' car--and don't let me get there and find some other n***a over there, 'husband' or no husband--bitch, I will put my foot up your ASS!"
There was more, of course; the diatribe went on for a good twenty minutes, and at the end LJ came upstairs and told me that Marcus said to tell me that he was sorry for getting all loud like that in the house. I said to him, "Don't worry about THAT--and by the way, I'm sorry I ever compared you to your friends..."
He didn't get that, I don't think; he looked vaguely perplexed, but in a way I think he did get it, because he gave me that smile of his. And then I went downstairs and there was Marcus--the same man who had just sat there for the better part of half an hour, detailing the fifty-eleven ways he was going to beat hell out of this woman--here was Marcus, sitting here watching the game, seemingly content.
LJ told me the next night when I got home that we were going to have company--Marcus was coming by. "And he's gonna have a friend with him," was the oddly-delicate way he phrased it. Then, catching my quizzical look--"No, not the one he was yelling at last night..."
"I was gonna ask, would I know her from the foot up her ass?" I told him.
This whole episode made me question a lot of my beliefs. First things first: I don't believe in domestic violence. I've made it crystal-clear to every man I've ever dated that the first time they raise a hand to me, they better kill me right then and there--because I will fight them til I can't fight further, and then I'll bring the law. And I don't condone it even when it's against some OTHER woman, someone who's not me.
But here's the thing, see; there are some circumstances when it's understandable. Understandable, not excusable. And this was one of those times. When David found out about me and JP, he told me later that he'd followed me to the apartment and if he'd found me there, he would have beat the hell out of me. And while I still find that perfectly illustrative of his asshole propensities, I have to admit--I understand it. I can understand the rage of finding your partner with someone else--finding that you've been betrayed. Hell, I've BEEN there--the night I walked out into the living room and found CR peering at me from between Bertha's tree-trunk thighs, for one. So I can't condemn Marcus completely...especially since, to judge from the evidence, he didn't actually go and beat on the other female. (Though somewhere in the conversation, I got an impression that he HAD beat her in the past...)
And there's a harder question inherent here, as well.
I tried to think this situation through as though it were another man speaking--Tim, for example, or David, or some other white guy--and tried to imagine how I would react to hearing them say the same sort of thing. And oddly enough, I have to admit: I'd be much more repulsed, much less tolerant, if it was a white man.
I think that's because I have such contempt for 75% of them to begin with--I just seem to run into too many assholes like the guys who rode with me on the Red Line this afternoon, who were more than happy to flirt and charm some woman because she had a Wrigley Field employee pass around her neck and they thought they could get her to comp them in--but then one of those same guys wouldn't even stand up to let me out of the seat; he just moved his leg one bare little bit and assumed I'd squeeze past. I'm not saying I assume white guys are assholes just from the jump--but I will admit that I'm usually ready to interpret their least little rudeness or obnoxiousness as proof that they are assholes. Somehow I'm only that way with white men, though--and I'd like to say it's just because I've dealt with too much of their assholery and too many of their unfounded judgements based on how I look--but that doesn't explain it completely. I don't know what does.
This is a prime example of one of the following two propositions: either a)the world is a complicated place and every belief must be evaluated in shades of gray, or b) Gladys is a wishy-washy hypocrite. As of this moment, regarding this situation, I'd have to call it a tossup.
(An update, 6/6/04--LJ came home tonight and told me Marcus was in the hospital. Figuring the worst, I said "What the hell happened?" I thought he'd been shot, of course. LJ just laughed. "We were playin' around, boxing and wrestling and shit, and Marcus dislocated his elbow, or broke it or somethin'." (You can say what you want about women--and I usually do--but say what you will, the fact remains: we don't usually injure each other, especially not while "playing".) I told LJ "When you said he was in the hospital, I thought maybe ol' girl's 'husband' beat the hell out of him. Or maybe ol' girl herself.")
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