Bass ≠ Race

The streets outside the office are busy.  Not New York busy, but not deserted either.  From time to time, we get our windows rumbled by passing car audio systems.  I don’t really think too much about it other than asking myself what kind of hearing damage it’s doing on the inside.  

I love bass.  I love how it sounds and what it adds to music.  I love how it feels in my chest and how, after long enough exposure, I can feel its absence.  I love having everything blocked out by all-encompassing 808.  I know it’s all ridiculous and usually a waste of money and a big middle finger to good taste.  But I still love it.  I know it brands me as being from my particular suburb.  That’s my excuse.  “Oh, you have a super-loud system in your car?”  “Yeah, man.  But don’t worry.  I’m from [my suburb].”  “Oh.”

So when one drove down the street today, before I could think, “I bet those are 15s,” John leaned over the half-wall between our cubicles and asked, “Can I make a racist comment?”

I knew where it was going.  Obviously.  It doesn’t take fucking Kreskin to see that one coming.  I chuckle and tell him I suppose so.  “I bet it’s a black guy,” he said. 

I said, “That may very well be the case.  Or he’s white trash.” 

“Yeah, a whigger,” he added.  “You wouldn’t find guys like us playing music that loud.” 

I raised my hand.  “Actually, I had a very loud system in my car before I got a new one.  I still have it I just don’t have it hooked up.”  He couldn’t backpedal fast enough.  I agreed that it is ridiculous and cannot defend something as earth-rattlingly loud as what we had just heard, but I think I got my point across.  You cannot pin me down so stop trying.  I don’t fit your molds so stop shoe-horning me.  I’m not a snob, I’m not trash, I’m not white bread and I’m not cutting edge.  I hate “men” and I’m embarrassed of my whiteness.  So only judge my book by what I put on the cover, not what color the leather is.