“That.” Angie, the Apache, an old friend of ours, doesn’t approve of Native men dating white women, so when she showed up to the lounge that night, Andrew said, she quickly ordered a drink, banged her glass against his with a welcome-to-town, ignored Erica, used the bathroom, then boomed out the door. In an instant, I saw in Andrew’s black eyes that a heavy thought clicked somewhere in his skull. Often enough the chick’s already taken, and has been since, like, high school. Still, I don’t know how he came to town or on whose dime, and I sure as shit don’t know how he met Erica, but Andrew’s sudden arrival meant something seriously bad went down back home – something he needed to get far away from. “Ma & Pa can’t handle my opposition to Thanksgiving, (Abraham) Lincoln, blind American nationalism and all that jazz.” “Bullshit! I assumed he stayed with Erica or begged Angie to let him sleep it off on her couch. Word is he’s home now, fat & happy and probably with somebody new.
I just don’t know what her problem is.” “Yes, you do,” I said. “Back home, in Colorado, when you showed up at the March Pow Wow with what’s-her-face.” At this point, Erica, wiggy and rheumy-eyed, was having her own conversation with a couple standing directly behind her, vying for the attention of the bartender, leaving Andrew and I to chat on our own for a bit. Dating Native women is fine and all, but goddamn it’s incestuous! Some dude they like has already dated some friend or cousin of theirs, and they say, ‘That guy has, like, four kids,’ or something.” This lovesick bastard, I thought. His mind was still with her, whoever she is, the heartbreaker. “I’ve had bad experiences with their parents, mostly,” I said. I didn’t hear from Andrew that night, and still haven’t. And the point of this piece is: don’t judge your friend’s date or preference or pals – or find yourself stuck in a newsroom-turned-studio with Al Sharpton at 6 p.m. These are all crippling things that will invariably warp your mind and chap your ass.
It wasn’t long before Jackson stabbed Caughman several times in the back with a 26-inch sword.
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Elephant Beach on India’s Andaman Islands was not where I thought I would have to justify my life choices.
Yet, there I was, feet dipped in clear water, staring into the horizon, trying to convince two middle-aged women whom I did not know that the man I was with was indeed my husband.
“My husband,” I replied after a while, snapping out of savouring my first-ever snorkelling session.
She then asked me questions about our wedding and everything that had led to it. I later kicked myself for having misunderstood their questions as friendly banter.
White supremacist James Harris Jackson reportedly shared the reason why he killed a black homeless man – to stop white women from dating black men.
READ Maryland Man Who Fatally Stabbed Black Guy Told Police He Wanted To Kill African-American Men During an exclusive interview from Rikers Island with the , the 28-year-old Army veteran spoke about his upbringing with “typical liberal” parents, being afraid of being killed in custody and regretting not having the chance to kill more African-American men.
I scan the newsroom to see if anyone else can mouth his scripted sermon, which has, at this point, grew so hackneyed that it’s like a good song gone bad with repetition.
I can get it.” “This is Erica,” Andrew said, gripping the lady at her waist.
But he’s also the kind to crawl into town unannounced with hardly a dollar to his name and a heart so obviously broken that all he can talk about is how good things are for him lately. He cut short his didactic screed today to shamelessly pitch his latest book. Too much ugly news coming through the wire, and far too much Sharpton.
Play.” It was 2 a.m., so I ignored him, rolled over and listened to more branches breaking until the sun bled through the blinds. I flung open the lounge door and found Andrew at the far end of the dim bar with two drinks and a plate of questionable food, laughing loudly like he’s known to do, and with a blond woman leaning into his shoulder, grinning, twisting his hair with her finger.
A lawyer whose services I was seeking for a few marriage-related formalities started by giving me a sermon on running a background check on the man I wanted to marry because “you never know how these s are.” I didn’t call on her again.