Anglo at Cinco de Mayo

Author’s Note: I’m going to be talking about my racial anxiety as an upper-middle-class White dude in this, and I felt really uncomfortable writing it, so if I offend anyone, I’m truly sorry.

Last Saturday I decided to check out the Cinco de Mayo festival on the Westside of St. Paul. Having never been, it seemed like the thing to do.

I took the long approach from the south on Robert Street, having been warned against the more direct route on 94 by my phone. From behind the wheel I watched the suburbs turn into the city, not really knowing where the change occurred. The inner-ring 'burbs look like the city used to. The poverty has expanded outward. (I didn't hit the newly-gentrified core 'til I got downtown.)

The somewhat-run-down, down-market stores probably weren't what the urban planners had in mind for the 'burbs, but I don't consider them a big comedown from the hollow suburbia of my 80's and 90's youth.

I saw people on the sidewalk, walking both toward and away from the festivities. They were mostly Latino. (Latinx? Sorry, I haven't been keeping up with this stuff.) There were tons of cars parked on the side streets, but I didn't take the hint soon enough to avoid getting sucked into the traffic jam. Like a moth to a flame, I just kept moving inexorably toward my doom.

The jam only extended for a block south of the festival, but it took forever to get through that block. I was listening to King Missile's The Way to Salvation album on CD, because that's what you do when you're a single, White 40-year-old comedy nerd. (Tenacious D is great, but King Missile is still my favorite comedy band, although I do give the D the edge in terms of songwriting and musicianship. For those who wonder how I could still prefer King Missile, you clearly haven't heard the lyrics and delivery of the great John S. Hall.)

It didn't feel like I was on the way to salvation though. It felt like I was getting sucked into the same old vortex of inertia, isolation and ennui, the triumvirate of my personal maladies. I almost turned off the engine while waiting for the light to change for the last (5th? 6th?) time.

While I was sitting in traffic, a fight broke out on the near left corner of the intersection, which was a surprise. In the olden days, that might've convinced me to skip the festival, but it didn't bother me this time. It was quickly broken up by people in fluorescent crossing-guard pinafores.

I continued through the intersection and didn't find any parking until I was several blocks away. There were some lots there, but the only price I saw was $10, so I kept going across the next bridge over the Mississippi, where I was suddenly in downtown St. Paul.

As a former Minneapolitan, I fully admit to an anti-St. Paul bias, but St. Paul is geographically strange. The streets aren't on a grid, West St. Paul is actually south of St. Paul, South St. Paul is southeast and the Westside is actually on the southside.

I turned around and doubled back in search of cheaper parking, but with the traffic it took forever, and I wound up using that $10 lot I had initially disdained. I'd wasted enough time looking for parking, and the time investment added to my resolve to attend the festival, parking costs be damned.

So I finally got out of the car and walked south on Robert St. to the “Westside.” I crossed a bridge that passed over a junkyard with a sign that said "Beware of Dog." My reaction was, "Really? You really have a junkyard dog?" That was a little thrill for me, since I followed pro wrestling in the 80's, but I didn’t see any dogs.

Once over the bridge, I was in the Westside, and, to be honest, it could use some urban renewal, in the meaningful, not idiomatic sense. It's certainly not as run-down as a lot of ghettos, but it has seen better days. I felt a bit anxious as the only White person around, walking by Black teenagers and 20-something's (I'm guessing), trying to keep my cool.

I find it easier to do that now than when I was a minority living in Chicago’s Rogers Park right out of college. I wasn't scrupulously avoiding eye contact like I used to, just going on my merry way. The old middle-class injunction for traversing Black neighborhoods ("Don't make eye contact!") didn't seem like a good approach in this situation.

I negotiated the sidewalk without incident and made it to César Chávez Street, along which the festival was taking place. That’s where the crush of people was thickest. Chavez runs at a northwest-southeast diagonal to Robert. I stayed on the west side of Robert and walked northwest on Chavez.

The first tent I passed was of the Crazy Christian variety. Middle-aged White dudes encouraged us to repent our sins, but they were pretty polite about it. They dished out a Minnesota Nice version of fire and brimstone. One wonders how they got a spot at a Cinco de Mayo street festival.

Other than that, the fare was pretty much what you’d expect: Mexican food, soccer jerseys, t-shirts with the Virgin Mary, local non-profits. I turned around and headed back up Chávez, crossing Robert with a flotilla of fair-goers when the light turned. The festival extended much farther southeast of Robert.

There were music stages set up in restaurant parking lots with bands playing Mexican and American styles. A band in the street (with mic’s and a sound system) played South American pan flute music. There was one parking lot concert dominated by White folks, but otherwise we were outnumbered by the Black and Brown.

That’s when I thought, “It’s good to be a minority sometimes, just to remind yourself what it’s like.” Of course, I knew the police, government and social power structure had my back, so I still don’t know exactly what it’s like.

There seemed to be the potential for violence in the crowd. One short Black guy followed a big Black guy, spoiling for a fight. He probably knew the big guy wouldn’t take him on with all the police and security personnel around. There were also guys in community group t-shirts apparently attempting to keep the peace, on the lookout for troublemakers. I didn’t feel unsafe, but I tried to keep my distance from the dudes who looked like bad news.

After wandering for several blocks, I reached the southeast tip of the festival, where the lowriders were. This is where I tarried. I was intrigued by the old, pimped-out cars. I’m not a car guy, but I do enjoy looking at classic automobiles. There’s just something about the aesthetics I find irresistible.

I turned around and headed back down Chávez. This was mid-afternoon. It was in the low 80’s and the sun was out, so I was kinda sweaty and walked along the southwest side of the street to catch some shade.

I wasn’t hungry, so there was no point in indulging in the cuisine. An hour was long enough to just walk around and get a taste of the scene, so I headed toward Robert St. to get back to my car. But, after managing to keep it in check, my racial anxiety was now peaking.

I’d walked along the west side of Robert to get there, and now I was on the east side, where there were a lot of Black kids. For the first time, I had the feeling of being on their turf. The festival crowd had offered a sense of protection, but now I was the only White person in a smaller group. It felt like, if there was gonna be trouble, it would happen here on the periphery of the event.

I would’ve had to wait for the light to change if I wanted to walk back on the west side. But I didn’t wanna be a fucking wuss, so I set off down the east side of the street. Spoiler alert: There was no trouble. I was just uncomfortable for a while.

I cut through pockets of Black kids and kept my cool-as-a-cucumber vibe as best I could. There was also a bunch of police around, so I probably shouldn’t have been so worried. Now that I think about it, I wasn’t really worried about getting assaulted or mugged or anything like that. I was just worried about getting harassed, maybe bumped or bullied. Just high school shit.

I guess the lesson is: This is what POC’s deal with daily, albeit on a (hopefully) less-intense basis. I hope that was worth all the discomfort of writing and (presumably) reading this. Don’t get me wrong: I think the PC Police have done a lot of good in making sure the language that refers to oppressed groups is cool with those groups. We privileged folks should be mindful of how we talk to and about people from marginalized communities.

But they’ve gone too far when any mention of race, gender or sexuality produces extreme anxiety. How can we get over these prejudices if we can’t even talk about them? What we need is a bit less sanctimony and a bit more humility from the SJW’s, a group whose class privilege often eclipses that of the people they harangue. Instead of pointing out other people’s faults, take a look in the mirror. This essay is my attempt at doing that.

Body-sculpting

I shall be my own Michelangelo,

carving my ideal shape out of this block of sludge.

It seems so easy sometimes,

just to lop off the offending portions of my body (mainly the belly),

leaving only my True Self,

the Herculean form I was meant to have.

Sculpted from marble,

I would stand in rough-hewn glory,

bestriding the earth like a Colossus.

I can’t let go of those old dreams of perfection.

They cling to me like a vestigial wing.