The Nigga as Hero
"They just don't make men like they used to," said Jesse N., a manager at UPS, oh so many years ago.
And how, Jesse.
In the old days in Boston, if a guy wanted to hang around the seedy part of town, say he wanted to patronize a strip club oh, say, on the night before his wedding because, you know, that's a cool thing for a man to do, he'd have to go to a place called "The Combat Zone," because that's where the seedy places were -- and it will be understood that strip clubs are "seedy places."
If one were to venture into The Combat Zone for "entertainment," he went with no illusions about his well-being. How could he, when he knew he was entering a "Combat Zone?"
Of course those days are gone. "Combat Zones" are not the sorts of things that mayors and Chambers of Commerce are too proud of. Strip clubs are OK, mind you, but not "Combat Zones."
But should Sean Bell have been surprised that misfortune befell his self-gratifying little soul when he was paying girls to strip (and who knows what else) for him while his bride-to-be was presumably trying on her wedding gown for the big day? No, of course not.
But he got shot to death, and that's the sort of thing that happens when you go to seedy places.
And the City Council just named a street after him. As if he were a hero. A guy goes to a strip joint the night before his wedding, and gets shot to death. It so happens that Sean Bell was black, and the shooter was a white police officer. And in places like New York City, that's all it takes to get a street named after you, just like The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
And how, Jesse.
In the old days in Boston, if a guy wanted to hang around the seedy part of town, say he wanted to patronize a strip club oh, say, on the night before his wedding because, you know, that's a cool thing for a man to do, he'd have to go to a place called "The Combat Zone," because that's where the seedy places were -- and it will be understood that strip clubs are "seedy places."
If one were to venture into The Combat Zone for "entertainment," he went with no illusions about his well-being. How could he, when he knew he was entering a "Combat Zone?"
Of course those days are gone. "Combat Zones" are not the sorts of things that mayors and Chambers of Commerce are too proud of. Strip clubs are OK, mind you, but not "Combat Zones."
But should Sean Bell have been surprised that misfortune befell his self-gratifying little soul when he was paying girls to strip (and who knows what else) for him while his bride-to-be was presumably trying on her wedding gown for the big day? No, of course not.
But he got shot to death, and that's the sort of thing that happens when you go to seedy places.
And the City Council just named a street after him. As if he were a hero. A guy goes to a strip joint the night before his wedding, and gets shot to death. It so happens that Sean Bell was black, and the shooter was a white police officer. And in places like New York City, that's all it takes to get a street named after you, just like The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Sean, if you'd have stayed home, your kid might have a dad, a real hero to look up to. But because you wanted to be a playah, all he gets is a freaking street sign, very warped legend, and a distorted view of manhood.
No, they sure don't make men like they used to.
No, they sure don't make men like they used to.
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