Mean Mug City

I cannot tell a lie: my day was terrible. It was so terrible, in fact, that I have no coherent idea what to write about at this very moment.

The one piece of advice I can lend anybody, right now, is that meanness on your part will come back to haunt you. There have been people who were very mean to me, just this past year, who desperately wish to this day that I were still aiding and abetting whatever lifestyle they led.

Atlanta, sometimes, comes across to me as a mean city. The archetypal Southern friendliness shows itself every so often, but then again, so does the archetypal Southern racism. In my experience, that goes in both directions. Just as some black MARTA riders take a single glance at me and go out of their way to avoid sitting next to me, and some black police officers won't file a report on my behalf, a few black friends and classmates of mine have found it difficult to get an apartment or job in Buckhead unless they call using a white-sounding name.

Also, one always has to be on one's guard in this city, wherever you are. If one isn't avoiding a mugger, they're avoiding a red-light runner or a cop looking for a parking space.

I find that, to break through a climate of meanness, one must take a flying leap and extend one's kindness beyond their comfort zone. Revolutionary actions, whether they entail a military coup or returning a lost wallet to its owner, are never comfortable.