A Walk In The Park - Thanks To The Federalizing Of The DC Police, White People Tour The Inner City Slums

'Whatchoo doin' up in here, white boy?', shouted Pharoah Jones to Bob Muzelle, undying partisan of the black man who had always assumed that profound partisanship and support gave him a calling card to the inner city.  His credentials were impeccable - Freedom Rides, walking with Martin and Ralph across the Pettis Bridge, at the barricades when George Floyd went down, champion of Black Lives Matter, and outspoken progressive social justice warrior. 

Bob thought that his pedigree was his right-of-entry, so when he heard Pharoah's shouts from the tenth floor balcony of the Martin Luther King projects in Anacostia, he was surprised. He had paid his dues, done due diligence, and demonstrated his support for the less fortunate since his early days at Yale when, as a tutee of the Reverend Blakely Barnum, Chaplain and Civil Rights leader, he went South, was beaten by Bull Connor and his racist thugs, and left to die in  ditch like Schwerner, Chaney, and Goodman.  He, however, rose up with even more desire for justice and renewed his support for the black man. 

His seminal article, The Black Man, The African Diaspora, And His Heady Rise To The Top Of The Human Pyramid, was read widely and cited in both academia and the popular press.  

'The African' Bob wrote in The Progressive Journal, 'man of the forest, of primal sensitivities, of innate insights, native intellectual power, strength, and inexhaustible energy, is poised to take over modern Western culture.  His blackness, that ineffable, natural spirituality, will soon be the ethos, the meme, and the principle of modern times.'

So it was with this passage on his mind that Bob turned to the voice far above him, echoing in the canyons of DC's biggest public housing project, and wondered why the anger, the resentment, and the outright hostility.  He knew Pharoah as a reasonable man, so perhaps he didn't recognize him,  Once there was closer proximity, things would be back to a black and white, harmonious normal. 

'I don't give a flying fuck who the fuck you is, ofay. Get yo lily white ass up outta here befo' I have to come down there and make you,’

With that, Pharoah's crew assembled - great big, prison-tatted, bulked up, do-ragged, blinged, and hostile - surrounded Bob's car, rocking it, pulling off his windshield wipers, denting his fenders, and deflating his tires. 

'Yo, Lafarge’ yelled Pharaoh at the young man at the tires.  'We don't want the cracker to spend the night, muthafucka'.

Wounded, aggrieved, and lost, Bob turned his car around and headed back across the River. Yes, the ghetto was the black man’s home, and well it should be, so oppressed and marginalized had he been; but in the past the likes of Pharoah Jones had welcomed him -  a white brother - without question.

Then came Donald Trump and his federalizing of the DC police and deployment of ICE, DEA, Homeland Security, and the National Guard. 

 

'We are going to clean up The Nation's Disgrace’, said the President as he sent phalanxes of federal agents into the slums.  The police under Mayor Muriel Bowser had been told to be considerate, kind and compassionate, to give black youths room to expand, to achieve their potential.  Serious crimes were decriminalized, the police were defunded, and the city became a sanctuary city for its own residents.

Lance Harper and Reed Cunningham, young liberals who had admired Bob Muzelle's work, courage, and commitment but who had never had the willingness to cross the Anacostia into the heart of the inner city, now felt they could.  Thanks to Donald Trump, all streets in Washington were safe, secure, and crime-free, Lance said to Reed, 'Let's have a go.  'I've always wondered what the ‘hood was really like'. 

'Yeah', replied Reed, 'pimps, ho's, bling, grilles, and spinners in the flesh.

Now, the President may not have had these two fey Congressional aides in mind when he sent the troops out on mission, but a big net covers all - vandals and wannabees; and so it was that one Saturday evening the boys got it together to cross the bridge.

Now, as much as they proclaimed their political interest and cross-cultural adventure, what they really wanted was black pussy - forbidden fruit but which now was available. Yes, they could still get rolled while inside Black Mamma's House Of Pleasure but that was nothing compared to the mayhem avoided outside. 

'Let's do this thing', said Lance, and when they saw the phalanxes of Armored Personnel Carriers, half-tracks, and black Suburbans, they knew that the night was theirs. 

'Slum Tourism' was the catty name for guided tours of Soweto, the worst of the South African black townships, premium excursions to be undertaken after the game parks, lions, and Cape wines.  Pharoah Jones immediately thought of money to be made, and he told his constituents to stop moaning and groaning about racism, Trump, and white supremacy. 'We ain't got shit', said Pharoah. 'Walkin' around money is chicken feed compared to this'. 

Of course Pharoah had no takers, no tour busses, big spending tourists and investment in local travel infrastructure. 'A shit hole', said the marketing director of American Tours Unlimited who had been approached by Pharoah Jones, and went back to Fall In Vermont, in its final stages on the drawing board. 

Bob Muzelle, however, was not put off by news of the flat out rejection of Anacostia tourism.  He would now be able to visit the neighborhood and set up his free health clinics, methadone treatment center and 'Sex Workers United' a combined self-esteem supportive, management training program for young black prostitutes. 

'Fuck 'em', said Pharoah when he saw Bob's limo pull up to the curb and the white boy waving at him. 'Fuck him and his celery stalk white ass'; but Bob never heard it and got out of his car and headed over to D Block to facilitate the Inner-Outer City Conference on Racial Progress. 

Bob was  a black wannabe and always had been, no two ways about it.  This turning the deep black inner city into a place of civility and temperance took the juice out of the quest. OK, so he could go into the slums now, but they were not what they were - what he desired.  

Be careful what you wish for, he thought as he packed his kids into the Volvo headed up to the Cape.