The Last Racist Joke

Or at Least the Last One Anyone had the Balls to Tell Me

Warning: This essay may or may not contain a racist joke. I haven’t decided at this point if I’ll be able to type the thing, although Trena is insisting that I include at least an overview. She claims it’s important for the story.

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So let me start off by telling you that, if I’m without Trena on my arm, some might assume, based on my appearance alone, that I harbor racist tendencies. I’d tell you that I don’t, that I do indeed have black friends, but we all know how much water that argument holds. What I can say in my defense is that I’ve been married to a black woman for almost twenty years, and I’m usually the only white guy at Christmas dinner.

And speaking of Christmas dinner, we celebrated at Trena’s Aunt's place in Indianapolis last year. As always, it was a good time. The food was amazing. And the karaoke contest, while competitive, only devolved into one awkward drunken argument, or rather misunderstanding, when my mother-in-law found herself a little too deep into the brown liquor and got worked up because her sister was singing the wrong parts.

Mom was the one singing the wrong parts; in fact, her drunk ass was singing the wrong song entirely.

Aside from Mom’s karaoke fiasco, the most interesting part of the day was the Indianapolis PD having the whole block on lockdown all afternoon. Apparently, there had been a bit of a mass shooting two houses over at about the same time Trena and I were pulling up, and the cops had yellow tape and patrol cars blocking the street before we were done with the hugs and handshakes.

Now, let's get to that joke I kind of promised in the title, and along the way, I’ll do what I can to make the Christmas dinner story relevant.

First off, the thing wasn’t really all that funny, but maybe because of how it was told, it stuck in my head. It was the early 1990s, and it fell out of the mouth of an old hillbilly, in true-to-life overalls and a dirty white T-shirt. And the words came like a conspiracy. He swiveled his head every so often, making sure there was no chance the wrong people would overhear.

The joke starts, and remember, Trena insists that I tell it, with a redneck hired to clean out a bowling alley. Getting the balls to his truck proves to be a problem, but on one of the trips, he spots two black kids pushing a bike with a flat tire across the parking lot. He comes up with the brilliant idea of offering to get their bike fixed if they help.

This obviously takes place before Stranger Danger became a thing.

The kids agree, and soon the pickup is filled to overflowing with bowling balls. And the redneck heads off to the dump with the kids and their bike on top of the pile.

Again, it was a different time.

While I work up the nerve to tell the rest of the joke, let me tell you a little more about that Christmas dinner.

Late in the afternoon on Christmas Day, everyone was getting kind of restless. A lot of food and liquor had been consumed, gifts had long been exchanged, and the house seemed to be quickly shrinking as evening approached. We all needed to go, do our own thing, in our own space, so one of the uncles said he was going to see if the cops would let us leave.

His offer was met with a lot of resistance in the form of “The hell you will,” or “Stay your ass in the house,” and best of all, “You keep your ass away from those cops.” This particular uncle has a bit of a mouth, and people were concerned that things might escalate.

At this point, I offered to be the one to go out and talk to the law. When there was no pushback, I found myself asking right out loud, and here the place became oddly silent, if no one cared if I went outside because my skin was on the pale side. This question seemed to bring on some discomfort. Although one of the aunts did cut her eyes in my direction with a grin, I would describe as mischievous, slipping across her lips.

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The Family. Don’t we look damn good?

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I think that’s enough sidestepping. Let me get to the punchline.

So, the redneck pulls up to the gate at the dump and is quickly met by another hill jack waving his arms and frantically yelling, “You can’t dump those here.”

“Why not?” our hero, the first hillbilly, asks.

The two go back and forth for a bit until the gate hill jack pulls a radio from a pocket, keys it up, and says, “Hay boss, there’s a guy out here wantin’ to dump a truckload of N-Word eggs. Two of the things hatched, and they already stole a bike.”

Disclaimer: Just the act of typing that has my butt all puckered up, mainly because of how some of you might take it, but I’m puckered up just the same. You should know that Trena laughed hard enough that her gum about popped out of her mouth when she forced me to tell it to her. Like I already said, I don’t think it was that funny.

Here’s where I’m going to, at least try, and draw some correlation between Christmas dinner and a truckload of bowling balls.

A long time ago, someone told me the best way to rid the world of racism was to have a lot of interracial babies. Trena says it was her, in which case, she was probably just saying it to get some. I do think the sentiment is right, but I also think we all need to be more comfortable being uncomfortable around each other.

In an odd and unintended way, that joke is almost profound. The punchline shows an exaggerated version of the lack of understanding most of us have about other cultures. I mean, really, black kids are born just like everyone else. Aren’t they? On some level, we think we know, and I don’t mean where black babies come from, but do we really? Or is what we know just based on stereotypes and pop culture?

And this is what I mean about being uncomfortable around each other. When you spend time, like Christmas dinner or a funeral, with people and you let your guard down, it’s hard not to see the humanity in one another.

I’m in no way recommending that you retell that joke around a mixed group of friends, or anyone, for that matter, but I do believe we all need to be a little more of ourselves when we’re together. Even if it makes things seem awkward.

One last story to demonstrate what I’m saying.

Trena and I were on the phone a while back with her auntie from Atlanta. The one who dated O.J. Simpson in the seventies, and she said something along the lines of, “You know how white people can get all weird about things.” Then she remembered and got tongue-tied and uncomfortable.

Note: I’m not arguing that white people don’t get all weird about things, I mean, you all are a mess, but that’s pretty much true for everyone.

What I am getting at here is that it’s in those moments where we forget our differences and realize we're all just family, where the things that kind of bunch up between us can get ironed out.