Walking Through America

It is not Mr. Rugby's fault, but I hate him anyway. Today I do. Today I'm in the funky battle of being down in the dumps and Jack and Guy are nowhere around - it's just Anonymister.
Yesterday my fucking wallet was stolen - stolen! - by little fingers right out of my expensive fancy leather briefcase at school. A 4th grader is the culprit, but I don't know which one. It saddens me greatly because I love the kids, as a whole; I just hate the individuals.
Anyway, this is the kind of shit that presents a battle for me in life - hell, much of life is a battle, honestly - because the tendency is to get into fetal position and nurse the victimization. That's the thing when one has their car broken into, or they're mugged, or their tasteful wallet is swiped from their fancy leather briefcase: you ARE a victim. If you feel like you've been victimized it's because you have been. The tricky part for someone like me is avoiding the wallowing like a piggy in a muddy puddle in it.
To my credit, I woke up to take a walk and get the heart rate going. I need this because (1) My heart is heavy with sadness and anger and (2) I ate a box of ice cream sandwiches last night. Also, my acupuncturist was feeling around for some meridian or qi spots (they're not like G-spots) under my ribs and I felt mortified because it seemed like he was moving through Jell-o.
So walking through my neighborhood, I look at people. And I think of all that I need to be happy. Oh, if I only had a boyfriend who understood me. And gave good head. And: Oh, if only I could could go visit Europe for a month. And: Oh, if only I had nice curtains for my bedroom. But back to the people.
I see the white dad with his little girl who has her red hair flowing out of her hood because it's windy out today. What an intense conversation they are having; what a serious child she must be.
There's the Asian couple (I'm sorry, I don't know if they're Korean or Chinese) who come down the steps of their building ready to go jogging. I wonder if they're American born and raised or if they're immigrants. Do they have accents?
There's the interracial couple - black and white, woman and man - crossing the street - engaged in conversation. They're in their late 50s, early 60s. Have they been together a very long time? Did they battle extreme prejudice to be a couple, or just slight prejudice if they're a recent couple?
There's the homeless older black man who hocks and spits whilst walking in front of me. Does he have tuberculosis? Did I close my mouth quickly enough so that his saliva didn't get into my mouth and infect me in case he has it?
There's the little Latina girl, jumping out of the car, excited to run to the door of her grandmother's house, her blue dress chasing her as she runs up the steps to ring the doorbell.
There's the young black man basking in the sun eating breakfast, his eyes a brilliant hazel color from the solar light. He doesn't respond when I say hello.
And then, in the home stretch, there's the white rugby player. He has a fleece with his college name and RUGBY printed on it. He has a Siberian Husky with pale blue eyes. The dog has a kinder manner than him. The dog is more curious than he is. The white rugby player is a heterosexual male, tall, blue eyes, thick brown hair, athletic, handsome. He walks smoothly through this world. He's never self-conscious. He's a WASP. He part of the power culture: straight, white male. He's never doubted that he will be okay in life. Things will come to him and he is entitled to them.
I hate him for this. Today, I do.
Usually, I find people like this boring. I am generally drawn to people who have suffered in some way because I believe it makes them interesting. I just think that, and usually I am right. In fact, I will stand by this because it is my experience.
Today I am not going to judge myself for being angry at Mr. Rugby. I am also going to acknowledge that I am glad that he has that security in the world. I wish that for all people. It would be fair and equitable if we all had those feelings of security.
The thought occurred to me that I have frequently enjoyed my neighborhood because I have believed it was a microcosm of society: black, white, Latino, Asian, straight, gay, students, professional, families, etc. I don't think so. This may be a hodgepodge of urban east coast society, but it is certainly not American society.
I hope that Mr. Rugby and his big titted girlfriend have a nice day and forgive me for my assumptions.