Let’s start with the fact that he doesn’t screen his tenants. There hasn’t been a single tenant in this building who wasn’t some kind of asshole. You’d probably respond to that with, “Everyone’s got a little asshole in them.” and you’d be right. Hell, I’ve got a lot of asshole in me. I ain’t too proud to admit that. But the people who have lived here really take the cake.

Don’t believe me?

Assholes #1: These two were relatively quiet when they lived in the downstairs rear apartment, aside from the occasional kerfuffle and rare car wash days (when he cranked his POS stereo), but we’ve all got those days. Imagine our surprise when they moved into the apartment beneath ours and almost rattled the pictures off our walls by body-slamming each other around the house every three days like clockwork. Then we discovered he was a crack dealer and she was a conniving cunt who blamed all her bullshit drama on everyone else. They moved out on their own after an argument with the landlord over how our parking lot was plowed.

Asshole #2: This lady really wasn’t so bad. The only really annoying things about her were that she is a complete feminazi, a little racist and didn’t take care of her cat in what I would consider the best way an animal should be cared for. But those things can be mostly overlooked. She moved on her own when she realized the landlord was never going to do anything about the cookouts A#3 were throwing in our parking lot. Which were never anything more than a normal cookout: a bunch of people hanging out, playing cards, tossing back a few beers and talking.

Assholes #3: This couple was nice most of the time. But Jesus, would they turn on you on a dime. They got money off the rent for taking care of the grounds, but they’d complain because no one else took the garbage out to the road. And every Saturday and Sunday morning the radio would start blaring at 8am. Around noon it would go off. They moved on their own because he had to have hip surgery and couldn’t do stairs for a while. For about five minutes, this place was quiet.

Assholes #4: The Crackhead and her crew. There were drug dealers and johns (who were often the same people) running in and out of our shared hallway which was our only exit. And if it weren’t for the guy who walked around our building with a sledgehammer screaming about smashing all the windows in the place, or the one who was constantly leering at me and making disgusting comments as if I were one of The Crackhead’s other crackwhore friends, or her creepy stalker who almost got into a knife fight with A#3, I probably wouldn’t have cared. Eventually they’ll kill themselves and the world will go on a better place without them. But it became painfully obvious that having them here put us in danger when they started having knife fights in the hallway. Course, the landlord only evicted them because she was late on the rent.

Asshole #5: An older gentleman, probably in his forties or fifties, moved in with a sob story about hard times in his marriage and his wife living in Syracuse. It wasn’t long before it became obvious that the reality was he was a crackhead, fresh from some program, trying to show his wife he could stay sober. Then he met The Crackhead. He moved out on his own when he realized how far down he’d fallen. The last time I saw him, he’d been gone a month. He was back here trying to score some crack.

Assholes #6: A girl in her late teens, early twenties moved into the apartment we live in now with her boyfriend. She was pregnant, overdue and had an inducement scheduled for a couple weeks after she moved in. Two days before she went in to have the baby, she was in The Crackhead’s apartment. Naturally, when she took the mandatory drug test the state gives every mother about to give birth, she failed and lost the baby. Once the baby was gone, the party started. Then the boyfriend left, and the party went somewhere else. While a 200lb pitbull was locked in the kitchen. Sometimes for weeks at a time. Guess who cleaned up that mess? Once again, the landlord only kicked them out because they didn’t pay the rent.

Assholes #7: These folks were a couple young guys. I’m not really sure if they were lovers or friends. There’s a girl living there now with the one who’s been evicted but has yet to move out. The front window’s broken because they got into a fight and he put her head through the window. The landlord hasn’t fixed it. It’s been at least two weeks. The sheriff has yet to come to follow through on the eviction. It’s been at least a month since the landlord started the process. So he’s not getting paid, and he’s not really making any effort to get rid of the guy, either.

Assholes #8: A girl and a guy. I think. As far as I know the rest of the people who’ve been there are just visitors. But, dude, seriously? Who the fuck goes to someone’s house and helps them fuck with someone they’ve never even seen, so much as met, and can’t possibly have an issue with them?

The first time they were too loud we thought, “No big deal. It happens.” But then they got increasingly worse. Apparently, not calling them on their bullshit was an invitation to be assholes. So finally, after spending a night listening to their insane antics that swing sharply from one extreme to the next, we called the landlord and complained. Two weeks later, they got (what we thought was) out of control, only this time, they paced the house screaming “I don’t give a fuck who has a problem with my music this loud. I’m gonna listen to it how I want.” for an hour or so. Later, they were yelling about how they were going to blow the building up and kill everyone in it.

The landlord’s response? “Call the police. They’ll do something.”

Well, we called. The first night we called less than ten minutes after we made the call, they turned the music off. The second night we called, the same thing happened.

Last night, they didn’t turn their music on. Not once. Instead, they literally bounced off the walls and the floor all night long. So hard that the ceiling showered us with plaster powder and our pictures (including the sand painting M brought home from Africa when he was thirteen) rattled so hard I thought a frame cracked. Around 4:30 this morning, his company left and we thought we’d finally be able to go to sleep. But our bedroom door makes noise when you open and close it. And every time he heard the door open, he’d jump from one end of the apartment to the other for twenty minutes. He finally stopped around 6am.

There is no doubt in my mind that he is intentionally torturing us.

This morning, after hearing him talking to more company (that was here pounding on the back door so loud it was rattling our windows at around 10am) and telling them he’d intentionally kept us up all night, M called the police. Who said there is nothing they can (or will) do. They won’t even give the guy a ticket for violating the noise ordinance. They called it a “quality of life” issue and said it’s far too low a priority to send an officer to address the situation. “But file a report, and get it on file. That way if something happens we know who to look at.”

Gee. Thanks. So if the guy kills us, you’ll have a suspect, and our deaths might be avenged. That’s a huge load off my mind. I’m so glad we called you.

On Tuesday, I’m calling every housing authority I can find a number for. Tenants Rights, NYS Housing Authority, Code Enforcement … whoever I can find. If the police won’t do anything, and the landlord won’t kick him out, maybe we have some civil recourse against the landlord. We could own this building! But you best believe we’ll be selling it if the judgment does come out in our favor.

But I really wish there was something that could be done about the police’s picking and choosing of which laws to enforce. I mean, I get it. With an average of one teenager being shot a week, someone being loud really isn’t that big of a deal. But the problem is that at this point it’s not just someone being loud. In any other situation this would be considered an attack. The more we complain, the worse they get, and the more threats we hear them screaming over the music.

It’s an attack on our sanity, if not our physical well-being. Though many more sleepless nights and it’ll be an attack on our physical well-being as well.

And this is how violence in the ghetto starts. Person A harasses Person B for some perceived offense that may or may not be real. Person B tries to get law enforcement to do something about Person A but law enforcement refuses. Then finally, at his wits’ end, Person B loses control and does something to Person A. And the cops blame it on the neighborhood, or the drugs, or poverty when the reality is they refuse to step in until the situation has erupted into violence, and someone’s hurt or dead.

I am not now, nor have I ever been, politically correct.

I don’t get the need to be. I’m not interested in getting it. And I’m not going to pretend to be PC because that’s the way we’re “supposed to” be here or anywhere else. 

I know the reasons people give. They claim to be anything less is to be discriminatory. They feel being PC avoids hurt feelings and unfair situations. Or something. But I’m of the mind that if we stop attaching “good” and “bad” to things that are neither, we’ll see the human need to classify things isn’t as disparaging as we originally thought.

Occasionally, people take my obstinate refusal to conform to a mold I neither fit nor understand as bigotry. More often than not, though, the problems my lack of PC-ness cause are with people who simply cannot fathom a world that not only allows labels, but embraces them as just a way to classify something and not something to be seen as good or bad. Usually a straight white cisgender person who’s full of so much guilt over their privilege that they see discrimination all around them.

I live in what’s considered by most to be the ghetto. There are definitely worse places, but my neighborhood is impoverished, crime-ridden and dismal. The people are predominately black, followed by people of Spanish descent, then white people. I couldn’t tell you in which order, but after white people are the Guyanese, Indian (dots not feathers) and Arab folks. And we all classify each other by race and nationality. In some cases, it’s racism or mistrust. In others, it’s just how we tell each other apart. “The black girl who lives in the blue house” or “the Puerto Ricans on the corner” or “the white lady at the corner store”.

So often, growing up, I heard that it’s wrong to see color. That classifying people is dangerous. That it not only hurts our country’s ability to be a community, but it hurt’s the feelings of the people who are being classified. And I always thought, “Why does it hurt someone’s feelings to be who they are?”

And here’s where I delve into dangerous ground. For all intents and purposes, my minority status stops at being female. You can’t see bisexual. I don’t dress or act the way most people expect tree-hugging pagans to dress or act. My Native American heritage is not visible in my appearance. And since I wear my hair long, and occasionally don makeup and “girly” clothing, the most anyone ever thinks of me is that I’m a “tomboy” which is acceptable in most corners of U.S. society.

They’d be correct. I’m not transgender. I know I’m a woman. I’m comfortable with being a woman. I don’t want to be a man. I won’t say I “feel like” a woman or I “don’t feel like” a man because I really have no idea what that means. Whether because of how I was raised, or by sheer luck, my mind and body are in agreement about what gender I am. I just happen to enjoy aspects of life that have been, for much of history, considered to be interests of the males of our species like sports and beer and things with motors and jeans and t-shirts. I also enjoy female aspects of life like needlepoint and skirts and strappy sandals and cooking.

Some say that being a white cisgender woman in a heterosexual marriage takes me out of a position to be able to say what I’m going to say. I say my being a white cisgender woman in a heterosexual marriage doesn’t change the reality of the situation.

There’s nothing wrong with being black. There’s nothing wrong with being gay. There’s nothing wrong with being transgender or Vietnamese or white or bisexual or obsessed with Pokemon. Okay, if you’re over 14 there might be something wrong with being obsessed with Pokemon depending on what level you take it to.

I refuse to be afraid to say someone is black or gay or obsessed with Pokemon because it might hurt their feelings. I’m sorry that it hurts your feelings to be those things. I empathize with you. I have tons of things I’d rather not be. Like fat and loud (mostly due to issues with background noise and not being able to hear myself speak) and (technically) mentally ill. But the sooner you accept you, the sooner everyone else will, too.

I’ve stopped trying to keep up with the newest LGBT lingo. If you tell me you want to be called something specific, I’ll go with it if I can remember (and apologize profusely when I forget) but I’m not gonna go into a long list of letters that I can’t even remember every time I talk about LGBT issues. You’re lucky I remember LGBT.

I’m not gonna refrain from asking you about it, either. I ask the people around me from New York City projects what their lives were like growing up. I ask the Indian couple who runs the store nearby about their religion. I ask Mel about his cock. If I’m curious about your sexual persuasion, and the conversation turns to it, I’m gonna ask. Simple as that.

I’ve known people from all sorts of walks of life. I have a genuine curiosity that burns deep within me when I meet someone “different”. I like to get to know “different” people. To understand what makes them tick. Not always out of a desire to befriend them so much as to study them. Learn about them. Sometimes friendship happens, sometimes it doesn’t. Either is fine with me. I like being liked. Who doesn’t? But if I don’t click with someone, I don’t often take it to heart anymore. That’s just the way things are.

I can honestly say there are scant few people I dislike who haven’t wronged me or someone I care about in some way. And even then, I am the queen of second chances. I know I’ve fucked up a lot in my life and I’d be nowhere if it weren’t for second chances. So I try to give people the opportunity to redeem themselves.

I’ve never in my life judged a person by their nationality, sexual persuasion, religion, gender. I’ve never understood why people do. Explaining racism to me when I was a kid was like trying to describe a Monet to a blind person. “But Mom, it’s just their skin! Your skin’s got nothing to do with your personality!”

I do, occasionally, make wisecracks about people of a particular nationality, sexual persuasion, religion or gender. Usually with someone who falls under one of those labels and people who know me well enough to know I’m busting on them. Never with malicious intent. Because they make them, too, and we all think they’re hilarious, and I’ve never been one for the whole “You can’t tell a black joke unless you’re black.” thing. Everyone tells blonde jokes! I know on account of I was blonde till I got pregnant the first time and people were constantly telling me blonde jokes.

How do you know a blonde’s having a bad day? She can’t find her pencil and her tampon’s behind her ear.

How do you kill a blonde? Put a scratch-n-sniff sticker/mirror at the bottom of the pool. Or spikes on her shoulder pads.

How do you know a blonde was the last one to use the computer? There’s White-Out all over the screen.

A smart blonde, Santa Claus and a redhead are in an automobile accident. Only one person survives. Who is it? The redhead. The other two don’t exist.

I’ve been accused of being racist on occasion. I think my inherent need to classify everything around me is often perceived as something it is not. People assume there’s an ultimate “good” and “bad” bin at the end of every classification I make because either that’s how they are, or that’s what they’re used to. But that is not the case for me. I don’t even classify people I do and don’t like as “good” or “bad” people. They’re just my kind of people or they aren’t. And not being “my kind of people” just means we’re too different to get along. “Different” is not synonymous with “bad”.

I do classify people according to physical and personal characteristics depending on why I’m talking about them. Having lived so many places growing up and throughout my early adulthood, and having dealt with so many different kinds of people, I learned early on that who a person becomes has much to do with the culture in which they were raised and the people who raised them. However, there comes a point when people decide for themselves which path they’re going to follow. Beyond that point, who they are is on them.

I’m rather firm in my belief that we, as human beings, can’t fully know what’s right or wrong. We just sort of have to go with our gut. What we’re comfortable with. What feels right to us. And that’s obviously subjective.

But I live in the ghetto. And labels here, in our neighborhood, are just labels. They’re not who you are. Unless they are. And then that’s your problem, not ours. And really, I think that’s as PC as anyone needs to be.

I wasn’t really allowed to watch much news.  My parents tried to censor as much of the violence and hatred in the world as possible from my sister and I.  So often, my father would “help” me pick a news story from the newspaper, if they allowed me to participate at all.  Back then, it wasn’t unusual for parents to keep their children from witnessing violence both in the media and on television or the big screen, so no one questioned it.

But there was one thing I do remember about the news.  It was the one place you could be sure that, if you went there, you’d learn something.  I’m sure there was opinion injected into the media back then, too.  It’s almost impossible, even for someone who tries to remain diplomatic, to not let your opinion bleed into your writing.  So, being an opinionated writer, and knowing what I know as such, I can look beyond that.

What I can’t look beyond is the constant grammatical errors, misspellings and actual attempts from the newscasters to draw in the younger generation by using popular slang and, in some cases, Ebonics.

The news shouldn’t be about ratings, first of all.  Let’s start there.

While I understand that there is huge competition between all the stations, papers, and magazines, “talking down to their level” isn’t going to win you any popularity contests.  Frankly, it’s insulting.  Because in most cases, it’s obvious you think the people who use these terms aren’t as intelligent as you.  And I’m here to tell you that’s just not true.

I’ve had more intelligent conversations with people who speak mostly Ebonics, in some cases, than with people who are well educated and in positions of power.  I’ve heard more compassion and understanding of the way the world works come from the mouths of men who dropped out of school in second grade, for one reason or another, and have had to make a life for themselves on the street. 

But let’s ignore all that.  Let’s pretend you don’t think they’re stupid.  Let’s pretend you really are just trying to relate to a group of people you don’t understand.  We’ll give you the benefit of doubt.

But Jiminey Cricket, get a better editor!

There’s nothing that infuriates me more than to go look at one of my local news stations – Or sometimes, even CNN! – and find something like, “They went to there local congressman…” or “You two can have whitened teeth in a matter of five minutes!” or “Your going to love this guy!” Repeated words and misspelled city names and sentences so mixed up you can’t make hide nor hair of what they’re trying to say.  From the news!

And that’s another thing… What’s up with all these major news stations having advertisements for scams on their front pages? Why are you, my news station, trying to sell me shit that you, yourself, probably wouldn’t even try? Selling it to me as if you know for a fact it works! Stop it!

I know you know that Americans look to you to tell them how to act.  We shouldn’t, and we’re idiots for doing it.  Especially now, with how much opinion is allowed to bleed into newscasting.  But we do.  And while I realize corruption is prevalent all over the U.S., I’d hoped that at least the places we’re supposed to go to learn about this corruption would be what they’re supposed to be.  An honest portrayal of the bullshit going on in our government, in our streets, and in our lives.

You wanna know how to be more popular?

Stop running more stories about celebrities than real world conflict.  Tell us the truth.  Don’t sugar coat it, or pander to our delicate sensibilities.  Don’t censor it.  And don’t let the government shut you down.

If we all stand up, they can’t beat us down.  Stop helping them hold us down.  Help us stand up! Because you know what? Once they’ve beaten us into submission, you’re next.  And then, you’ll be nothing but actors on a screen.  You’re not much more than that, now.

The news is supposed to have more integrity than that.  Live up to your potential.

1. Her idea of happiness involves a lot of spending
2. At heart, her show is a gawk-fest
3. She fat-shames
4. She created the monster that is Dr. Phil
5. Her perceived infallibility
6. O: The Oprah Magazine
7. She treats celebrities as medical experts
8. She endorsed The Secret and other pseudoscience
9. She popularized the word “vajayjay”
10. Retiring from her talk show will only make her more popular

I’ve never watched her show.  I’d never even looked at the cover of one of her magazines until I read that article.  I don’t know much about her, to be honest.

I’ll admit, I hope if I ever do publish a book, she puts it on her list.  Can you imagine how much money it would make, then? The royalties would be endless.  I’d be able to use them to start the nonprofit organization I want to build.  That would be so incredibly awesome.

However, Oprah’s reputation precedes her.  On both sides of the spectrum.

Honestly, I do have a problem with her tactics.

I appreciate her motives.  I realize that she, on some level, honestly believes she’s doing good.  And her “every woman” persona has definitely done wonders for some women.  Regardless of what anyone thinks of her, or the way she goes about things, that is fact.  I know because my mother is one of them.

For all the bad she does, there is some good in her.  She often puts her money where her mouth is.  She regularly uses her celebrity status and reputation to help amazing causes.  She gets involved.  Even if she does only do it for publicity, she does it.  That’s more than can be said for most of us.

I’m not saying she deserves the almost cult-like following she’s got.  No human being deserves that.  And I’m not saying that you shouldn’t hate the way she does things, or her opinions, or even her.

I guess I just don’t like looking a gift horse in the mouth.  Even one that occasionally bites the hand that feeds it.

But, if you have any disillusionment about who Oprah really is, do give that article a look.  It’s a good read.  There were some things in there that I didn’t know.  Which isn’t saying much since, like I said, I don’t know much about her.