This weekend my community association threw our annual BBQ. Normally it’s a pleasant bit of community socializing: the kids run around, jump on the bouncy thing, throw frisbees, and play drums. Happy people chow down on grilled food: hamburgers, veggie burgers, salmon. We feast, we enjoy ourselves, and us organizers all pat ourselves on the back for a job well done.
But not this year.
It started with the delivery of pre-sliced fruit and vegetables. Melons looked extremely round for being pre-sliced, and at first I wondered if we had ordered some newfangled GMO melon with a quick-zip function enabling one quick knock to let it fall into perfectly sliced wedges. Turned out my fanciful daydreaming was just that, and I had to whip out my trusty chef’s knife instead to tackle oranges, onions, and other ovals. Some folks take life’s little lemons and make lemonade; I took a pile of lemons and created an attractive display worthy of Martha Stewart.
Other chefs fired up the coals, popped open the tops of ketchup, unscrewed pickle jars, and started laying drinks on ice. Burgers are laid on the grills, and the tantalizing odor of freshly cooked BBQ wafts through the air.
Which was apparently too much for your self-control, assholes.
I walked out of the kitchen holding my fruit tray, and I didn’t even make it to the table before it was gone. Gone! I can’t even begin to tell you how many hands and feet smashed into this bowl I was carrying. A lesser man would have dropped the fruit and run screaming, but I think I was stunned into incredulity. All I can remember is blur of hands and feet that looked like a Jackie Chan film in fast-forward flashing past my eyes.
10 minutes slicing fruit, and it vanished in 10 seconds.
Empty-handed, I retreated to the kitchen to regroup, and venture forth once more into the chaos. It was worse than 'Nam.
A buzzing, whirring swarm of people surrounded the condiments table. I didn’t think that the burgers had started cooking that long ago, and I was right. Two dozen people were stacking their plates with tomatoes, onions, and then squirting mustard on top, with nary a burger or bun in sight.
I saw one man empty a jar of relish on his plate. He then grabbed his fork and started to dig in. This wasn’t coleslaw, this wasn’t a couple of pickles, this was green relish available in little impossible to open packets at greasy spoons around North America, and this mouth was shovelling it in like he’d found a golden trough of liquid ecstasy.
The coolers were empty, except for some stray tomato slices that must have fallen out of someone’s mouth in a mad rush to grab something that was only lukewarm because they hadn’t been in ice for more than 5 minutes. “I am not bringing out more drinks for these heathens,” I thought.
But the real battle was around the grills. Lineups of hungry beggars stretched to the horizon. Choking clouds of dense smoke couldn’t drive them back from their goal, and it actually seemed to inspire some assailants to dubious heights of courage. I spotted one little old chinese lady sidling up to the grill, and when the chef’s eyes were blinded by tears she lashed out with a wrinkled, fireproof hand, clutched a medium rare hamburger to her bosom and scampered off at a quick hobble on arthritic knees.
And then came a cry that curdled my blood “Where’s the bread?”
“What,” I said.
“I would like some bread,” said someone with heavily accented English.
“Well, wait in line and you’ll get a bun with your burger.”
“No, there no more bread,” said this vagrant, and he was right. The cases of buns were gone, vanished, on the lam. I asked one of the chefs what happened to the buns, and he looked down.
“Holyshitwhathappenedtothebuns! Wheredtheygo! There was two dozen bags right at my feet when I put down this line of burgers, and now there’s nothing. Nothing!”
That’s when I spotted people running away with bags of buns like they were bags of money that fell from an armoured truck. One blink, and they vanished into the crowd.
It was madness. Families were scarfing down dry buns, and complaining that they didn’t have a burger. Families eating burgers without any buns, sending up a cry of “where’s bread? Can we have bread?”. Toddlers stoned on a diet of relish, onions, and mustard, zooming around like mobile fart machines. Wizened matriarchs stuffing cans of soda up their shirts and trying to walk nonchalantly home.
And through all of these, my neighbours are screaming at me demanding more food. More free food, I should add. People coming up to me and screaming in a language I normally don’t understand that I’m an idiot. People coming up to me and screaming that they want more, more, MORE. Children pleading with me for a popsicle, and all I can see is some grandfather who snagged two boxes and is holding them above his head while he wades his way through a crowd of teary-eyed children.
Where the hell were all you old people coming from anyway? This is a housing block that is owned by the university, and it’s designated for students and their children. I’m no expert in demographics, but last time I checked the average student was under 40. One third of the people I saw were retirement age.
And the scams you tried to get more food. “Please please,” said the elderly woman in the sari. “I’ve been waiting so long to get five burgers for my family.” Then 10 minutes later you’ve shoved your way to the front of the veggie burger line, and you’re saying the exact same thing!.
Did I mention the entertainment? The children waiting to bounce around a big inflatable tent? And the parents screaming expletives because their 10-year-olds aren’t allowed in with toddlers? How about the drum circle that happened indoors, and the parents who encouraged their children to try walking off with $300 drums.
Stealing from musicians, that’s always nice. Because if there’s one group in society that has more money than university students, it’s musicians.
I like my neighbourhood. I like meeting people who literally are from around the world. I like volunteering my time to produce a newsletter, and help out at these events.
But this was too much. The nice, orderly people who waited in lines, and encouraged others to wait in line, were trampled where they stood. Those who obeyed the one-drink, one-burger rule were left hungry, while those who demonstrated a complete lack of the manners that are expected in this society made this a miserable afternoon for everyone.
And what I found totally, absolutely bizarre, was that for the first time in my life I noticed a racial distinction between how people acted. I have always been colour-blind. I grew up in a multi-cultural neighbourhood. Had lunch with the Indian kid next door every chance I could because your mom’s cooking was better than my mom’s. Played soccer with the French kid next door who barely spoke English. Wrote and performed a play with the black kid in class about the battle between Mr. T and Droopy. Ran for the bus too many times to count with the Sri Lankan. Traded comics with the Chinese kids.
But this weekend, all those civilizing aspects broke down completely along racial lines.
So here’s my rant.
Fuck you for making me feel like a racist.
Fuck you, because every time I pass you in the hallways I will think about how you took advantage of my goodwill in order to stuff your face.
Fuck you, because I will now faced by lingering clouds of guilt and wonder if everyone who immigrates from your country is like you, or if you’re just a complete fuckwad.
Fuck you, because I’m the son of immigrants, who work hard and do their best to make their home and their community a better place, and I was doing my best to continue that legacy, and you give all immigrants a bad name.
Fuck you, because next time I hear some asshole utter some racist comment I might let it slide, or even agree with it, when until now I’ve never let a racial slur go by without condemning it, no matter the source, and more than once had to back up my views towards tolerance with a jab to the solar plexus.
I hope you all die from a gut-busting explosion induced by hemorrhagic bacteria.