Clinton-Jackson Flap Over Rapper

Sister Souljah’s lyrics have fired like a shotgun. The spray of anger has caught many innocents in the cross fire. Here in the white middle class I lie wounded on the floor pondering this unexpected impact.

I try to escape. I press the remote control and watch the end of a “Combat” rerun on television. Vic Morrow and company shoot Germans with machine guns and rifles. I find no comfort here, so I pick up and read an article denouncing the “Green Line” contract with a Japanese company. No good; let’s check on recent Supreme Court decisions: “CIA may legally kidnap Mexicans, Panamanians, etc.”

I struggle to my car and drive to Manhattan Beach. A police officer writes a summons for an African-American drinking beer on the beach. I decide to go to a free concert in a Manhattan Beach park. California wine bottles crane their necks out the top of $50 picnic baskets. Mostly white people. No police. No summons. I must be getting close to my own back yard.

I invite myself to watch the heavyweight championship fight at a co-worker’s house. She tells me she lives in Watts. I say, “Uh um, uh maybe I can’t make it for the fight.” Still recoiling from Sister Souljah’s “Booya!” (gang term for the sound of a shotgun), I’m forced to acknowledge my own ugly fears and prejudices.

The pen is very mighty.

ALAN GUTTMAN

Gardena