Take it Back

You can’t.

“The word unspoken is the word uneaten,” my older brother preached to me at age six.

Jojo is being castigated for his use of the word “boy” in recent remarks. The thing is, he was using the term boy, not as a racial epithet, but a generic term of familiarity. As in homeboy, homie, you get it.

But no, those wearing the red ties are all up in arms about it.

The following is a true story that, truth be told, I am not proud of. It has to deal with taking things back and here is what happened.

I was a successful contractor with crews working all over the city of Toledo, Ohio. When my company grew big enough, my day was consumed with acquiring contracts, scheduling crews, and personally inspecting every single unit before I submitted an invoice for the job. It was at a large apartment complex that we typically produced five to ten invoices per week that I walked into a unit called into me by the crew as “ready to inspect.”

One of the problems of any business that grows TOO fast is getting consistently quality employees. As I entered the apartment, my jaw dropped. When I received a “go” on a unit, the new tenants should be able to move into the apartment. I looked at several soda cans, McDonald’s wrappers, and painting supplies. That was just the front living room area. I was so mad, I could barely write, and TO THIS DAY I regret scribbling down very hurriedly, ”Clean this fucking mess up. It looks like a bunch of niggers tore through here.”

The next thing I did was call Joe, my foreman, to get the boys and supervise them cleaning up the unit and show them what “move-in ready” looked like.

Then he let them go.

I didn’t think about it at all until about three months letter when I received a summons from the Unemployment Insurance people for a suit brought against me for wrongful firing.

You guessed it.

The two numbnuts painters we let go.

Damned if the little assholes didn’t save that incriminating note I left.

They thought they had me; they were gonna take me down and teach the hotshot Mexican from California a badly needed lesson. They were all smiles as they sat across the table from my attorney and I.

I thought they did too.

To make matters even worse, the Arbiter entered the room.

A black woman.

Not good for me.

At that moment, I am sure I wished I could take it back, but, as the woman studied the note, I did some fast thinking.

She put the note down and asked me why she shouldn’t just close the case and award the defendants?

I am from East Los Angeles, and the neighborhood I lived in was not the best. We used the term “nigga” as one of familiarity, a generic replacement for friend, brother, you know…”

She bought it.

I still wish I could take it back.

Stay well.