Indians? It’s just plain racist.”
David regularly bragged about the fact that he had won four national debating titles during his senior year at Stanford, and he loved verbally sparring with anyone who unwittingly wandered into his web. But when in the hell did he become so politically correct? And why was Jefferson taking him on? I needed to find the proper entry point to cut the conversation short.
“Man, you’re way off base!” Jefferson was talking as loud as he did when he was playing dominoes and talking trash with his boys. “I went to Gardena High. We were the Mohicans and we were proud of that. We weren’t disrespecting the Indians. The image of an Indian is a warrior, somebody powerful. We were giving the Indians their props.”
I nervously placed my arm around Jefferson’s shoulder. “I see you’ve roped my husband into your little debating fetish,” I said, glaring at David.
Jefferson ignored me and continued. “And you need to double-check your facts, my man. Not all teams have animals for mascots.”
“Name some?” David challenged, clearly trying to put Jefferson on the spot.
Jefferson didn’t miss a beat. “The Dallas Cowboys, the Tennessee Titans, the Oakland Raiders. Is that enough? You want some more?” Jefferson taunted, scooting his chair up closer to the table.
David waved his hand dismissively. “That’s different.”
“How?” Jefferson demanded.
“The mascots you named aren’t races of people.”
“Really?” Jefferson replied with a belittling laugh. “What about the Vikings? They’re Scandinavian, aren’t they? You don’t hear no Scandinavian people demanding that Minnesota change the name of its football team.”
David stuttered for a second, then recovered. “They haven’t been annihilated like the Indians.”
Jefferson leaned across the table and got right in David’s face. “Oh, so
now
you’re changing the rules,” he said with a taunting smile. “It’s okay as long as they haven’t been mistreated?”
“You’re missing my point, I—”
“Aw, man, you don’t have a point,” Jefferson said. “Your argument is weak, man. And anyway, there ain’t enough Indians left for it to even matter.”
The room went silent and everybody at the table stared at Jefferson.
I opened my mouth to speak but my brain wasn’t quick enough to come up with some snappy one-liner to ease the tension bearing down on everybody in the room except Jefferson. O’Reilly finally came to my rescue.
“Okay, time out,” he said, holding his hands in a T formation. “David, it looks like you may have to brush up on your debating skills. I think Jefferson just scored a few points on you.”
David scratched the back of his neck and laughed uncomfortably along with everybody else while Jefferson glowed with satisfaction.
CHAPTER 16
T otal silence filled the car during the first fifteen minutes of our ride home. Jefferson hated it when I gave him the silent treatment. I knew there was no way he’d be able to make the entire trip home without saying something.
“Okay,” he said finally, “you want to tell me why you’re trippin’? Are you mad because I showed up that white boy tonight?” He glanced over at me sitting in the passenger seat of his Chrysler 300. He was one of those drivers who needed to make eye contact with his passenger when he talked. I wanted to tell him to pay attention to the road before we crashed.
Instead, I continued staring out of the window, ignoring his question. We were headed north on the San Diego Freeway. Even though it was almost ten o’clock on a Friday night, the traffic was still fairly heavy.
“If you’re pissed off, at least tell me why,” Jefferson prodded.
Even when Jefferson was upset, he was usually willing to talk things out. I, on the other hand, closed up like a clam. If we had a serious argument, it could take a good week before I had cooled off enough to say a civil word to him. The last time we had a big
David regularly bragged about the fact that he had won four national debating titles during his senior year at Stanford, and he loved verbally sparring with anyone who unwittingly wandered into his web. But when in the hell did he become so politically correct? And why was Jefferson taking him on? I needed to find the proper entry point to cut the conversation short.
“Man, you’re way off base!” Jefferson was talking as loud as he did when he was playing dominoes and talking trash with his boys. “I went to Gardena High. We were the Mohicans and we were proud of that. We weren’t disrespecting the Indians. The image of an Indian is a warrior, somebody powerful. We were giving the Indians their props.”
I nervously placed my arm around Jefferson’s shoulder. “I see you’ve roped my husband into your little debating fetish,” I said, glaring at David.
Jefferson ignored me and continued. “And you need to double-check your facts, my man. Not all teams have animals for mascots.”
“Name some?” David challenged, clearly trying to put Jefferson on the spot.
Jefferson didn’t miss a beat. “The Dallas Cowboys, the Tennessee Titans, the Oakland Raiders. Is that enough? You want some more?” Jefferson taunted, scooting his chair up closer to the table.
David waved his hand dismissively. “That’s different.”
“How?” Jefferson demanded.
“The mascots you named aren’t races of people.”
“Really?” Jefferson replied with a belittling laugh. “What about the Vikings? They’re Scandinavian, aren’t they? You don’t hear no Scandinavian people demanding that Minnesota change the name of its football team.”
David stuttered for a second, then recovered. “They haven’t been annihilated like the Indians.”
Jefferson leaned across the table and got right in David’s face. “Oh, so
now
you’re changing the rules,” he said with a taunting smile. “It’s okay as long as they haven’t been mistreated?”
“You’re missing my point, I—”
“Aw, man, you don’t have a point,” Jefferson said. “Your argument is weak, man. And anyway, there ain’t enough Indians left for it to even matter.”
The room went silent and everybody at the table stared at Jefferson.
I opened my mouth to speak but my brain wasn’t quick enough to come up with some snappy one-liner to ease the tension bearing down on everybody in the room except Jefferson. O’Reilly finally came to my rescue.
“Okay, time out,” he said, holding his hands in a T formation. “David, it looks like you may have to brush up on your debating skills. I think Jefferson just scored a few points on you.”
David scratched the back of his neck and laughed uncomfortably along with everybody else while Jefferson glowed with satisfaction.
CHAPTER 16
T otal silence filled the car during the first fifteen minutes of our ride home. Jefferson hated it when I gave him the silent treatment. I knew there was no way he’d be able to make the entire trip home without saying something.
“Okay,” he said finally, “you want to tell me why you’re trippin’? Are you mad because I showed up that white boy tonight?” He glanced over at me sitting in the passenger seat of his Chrysler 300. He was one of those drivers who needed to make eye contact with his passenger when he talked. I wanted to tell him to pay attention to the road before we crashed.
Instead, I continued staring out of the window, ignoring his question. We were headed north on the San Diego Freeway. Even though it was almost ten o’clock on a Friday night, the traffic was still fairly heavy.
“If you’re pissed off, at least tell me why,” Jefferson prodded.
Even when Jefferson was upset, he was usually willing to talk things out. I, on the other hand, closed up like a clam. If we had a serious argument, it could take a good week before I had cooled off enough to say a civil word to him. The last time we had a big
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