The Nigga Moment

Okay get this; I recently was attacked for being black. Not by some racist skinhead white boy with Nazi memoribelia tatted on his arms. Not by some red kneck looser with a wad of chew in his lip and an IQ of 20. No I was attacked by another Black Man. Not some low level street thug, or by some wanna be Hip Hop thugsta, but by a Black Man who claims to be a member of the Nation of Gods and Earths, a 7 percenter no less. Okay I am as astonished as you are dear loyal reader. This Man, I refuse to continue to qualify his race, pretty much told me that I was less than a black man because I don't walk around with a chip on my shoulder holding a grudge against every white face I see. Damn, imagine that. Me the man who belives that 33.3% of the human population should be destroied out right does not hate the herd enough. I should instead narrow my general dislike of mankind, and the things they do, to a hatred of one particular race. Imagine that.
Let me tell you all something before I continue. My father is a Rastafarian from Jamacia. Not an American dred fashion statement. This man was there during the civil rights movement in Jamacia, he told me the tales of blood shed for all people, not just the Black people, there. He told me the truth of Holy Selassie's teachings, he gave me peace in my knowledge of my own struggle as a Black Man in America. My mother was a Black Panther during the civil rights movement in America. Not a woman that wishes she would have been, but a woman who stood shoulder to shoulder with other Black Women strong enough to fight for her right, her childrens right, to be recognized as Americans, to stand and be counted as Americans and for our right to live our lives as we please in America, she fought. She told me of the struggle as she saw it. She told me the truth of what Minister Malcom stood for before the movie came out. She told me what Mumia Jamal used to say, she told me about solidarity in revolution before I had ever heard of Angelu Davis, Marcus Garvey or the Honorable Allija Mohamed. I know my history better than most and I am proud of it. I am Honored and Humbled to be a Black Man today in America because I know that my generation is mostly a joke compared to those before us. We don't truly know what struggle is, we don't truly know what hard work and pain is all about. If you think you do take a step back and look. We are a spoiled and lazy generation.
Where are the Black men who have made it without Sports, Music or Politics? They are out there believe it. They are the ones who have set aside the lime light to follow their dreams and succeed as Entrepenures equal to and greater than any others this country has ever seen. Believe it. Never think to narrow down men to categories perpetuated by modern media and popular cultural myth. If you do you, are as useless as the rest of the herd and you join the 33.3 in my book. I am a Black Man in America who has choosen not to hate my fellow man because of the color of his skin, but instead I hate my fellow man for the lack of intellect, the lack of honor, the way of his words, the stupidity he perpetuates, the lies he tells and the degree of his loyalty. I truly believe that if you look you will find the world, and possibly yourself lacking. Join the 33.3 percent.
So I asked this man, the one who thought he knew me if he did indeed know the man I am. He said he knew my type, he knew unequivocably that I was lacking. I tend to not make any attempt to sway someone from their belief in me, for good or ill. It takes something away from a man when he feels he must justify himself in the eyes of another man. So I cut to the chase, I asked him if we should go ahead then and have us a Nigga Moment. Cuss and scream, shoot it out in the streets, one of us dies one goes to prison. Continue the cycle because you don't agree with who I am. Or because you scuffed my brand new Nikes?
He paused, looked at me for a moment, and politely declined.
Point made I think.