I am white. Like, really, really white. Some people say I look Asian, which is like being the white people of white people. I own several Polo shirts, tell everyone I know about the two weeks I spent one summer doing Crossfit, and get excited every year when October rolls around because Columbus Day is my favorite holiday.
I appreciate a nice, hot mocha and reading steamy romance novels while watching the 11 o’clock news just before hopping into bed with a heated blanket for extra comfort.
I also really enjoy using the phrase, “okie dokie” at least twice a day while texting my stockbroker.
My point is, I’m about as white as vanilla ice cream in a kid-sized sugar cone. Look at what I wore today:
White khakis, black Polo, gelled hair. I was going into New York City for an interview, but I just as easily could have been heading to Lowes to pick up a nice coffee bean-brown finish for the birdhouse I’ve been making in my spare time.
That’s a joke. I fucking hate birds.
I love stereotypes. They exist for a reason, and I think making fun of them, tastefully or not, is usually very funny. I obviously fit the “cracker stereotype” while strolling through the city today, and I’m fine with playing into that and any other stereotype.
So is the giant black guy who offered me drugs as I walked by the park bench he was sitting on.
“Sup big guy, want some drugs?”
“Uhhhhh, hahaha” was what went through my mind as I walked by, but I didn’t laugh out loud. Instead, I continued to play into the “cracker” role I was obviously doing a great job in already:
“No thank you sir, I’m good.”
I kid you not, that is exactly what I said, out loud, to a drug dealer in broad daylight in the middle of Bryant Park. It was surreal, to say the least.
As I continued on my way, I started pondering where the situation could have gone if I had, at the very least, perused this kindly man’s selection!
“Why, my good sir, yes! Yes, I would love some drugs! Let’s see what you have available for purchase.”
What kind of drugs did he think I was interested in? Was it heroin? Meth? Pot?
Or was he one of those hipster drug dealers I’ve been hearing about lately who are adamant about alcohol being a drug? Was I to be offered some black-market Budweiser?
I knew instantly that I’d be writing this piece later on the train, because I had never been offered drugs before—especially from a total stranger on a park bench.
I’d love to say that my years of elementary school experience in D.A.R.E. class came rushing back to me, but I don’t remember anything at all from those sessions.
Maybe it was all the drugs (haha, just kidding, Grandma!!!!)
The one thing I do remember from those hours in the media center with Mrs. Weinshell, who was best known for hiking her pants up to the middle of her ribcage everyday, was the lesson about online predators:
“When you’re making your first email address, make sure you don’t put any personal information in it! You don’t want strangers to know anything about you that could be used to hurt you or lure you in.”
So, my first email address was AdamJacobsOctober12th1992at13WintergreenDrive@gmail.com. I still use it for business to this very day, and have yet to receive a single message from an online predator! It’s pretty upsetting, to be honest.
Maybe I should start carving it into park benches.