31. The Day After...

It was obvious to me that the guy who tried to kill me was not going to be captured. So I turned my anger towards the NYPD. I wanted to sue them for their inaction. It was the early 90s, and the big thing was "Hate Crimes" and "Bias Attacks". I figured that with the proper support, I'd get justice, if not at least satisfaction. Boy, was I naive.

First I tried to follow up with the police. As stated in chapter 30, I was informed that I was not the victim of a bias attack because my attacker was black and I was Puerto Rican. I guess we all look alike. Nigger, spic, it's all the same to us whiteys.

So I called the Hate Crimes Hotline of New York State. They were going to help, until they found out it was a black guy who tried to kill me. Since blacks and PRs are the same thing, it was not a racial attack. So then I called Channel 9 News, thinking Help Me Howard or whatever could help. They were ready to send a camera crew to interview me and get my story on the air... until they found out a black guy did it. I was put on hold for 20 minutes. When they came back, I was told there was no room in the news segment for my story.

What about tomorrow?

We'll get back to you.

I did not hold my breath.

So then I thought, call Arnold Diaz of Channel 2. He's Latino; he's my pipples. He'll help! He talked to me for 20 minutes.

We'll get a camera crew down there! NYPD should have followed up. Describe your attacker. Oh, a black guy? Hold on...

You guessed it. It was only newsworthy if a WHITE guy attacked me. Black on black crime is not news. BUT I'M NOT BLACK!!! I'M PUERTO RICAN!!!

Okay. Let's try El Diario/La Prensa, the Spanish language daily paper. When I described how the cops let my attacker escape, and I could get no justice, the reporter said it was a travesty. NYPD should have investigated. They were going to put my story on the FRONT PAGE!

Describe your attacker... ohh... ¿fué un negro? Espera un minuto...

I knew what was coming. After being on hold for a while, I was informed that suddenly the editor realized that there was no room for any more columns in the paper, and they could not do my story. I asked, why were you interested until I told you a black guy tried to kill me? It wasn't about my attacker anymore. It was about NYPD doing NOTHING! He hemmed and hawed, and said it was a matter of physical space in the paper. Mierda de Toro. Bullshit.

So I figured I'd try the NAACP. I made sure to play up the lack of police involvement, and spoke with the women for 45 minutes, careful not to divulge the race of he who assaulted me. I tried to make it all about the cops. She contacted their legal department... they were going to help.

Describe your attacker.

Does it matter what he looked liked? The police let him escape and refused to investigate. That's what this is all about!

Yes sir, but we need to know the description of your attacker.

Okay, it was this big black guy...

Hold on please! Sorry, we can't help you.

Why, because it was a Negro who tried to kill me? You are the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. I am a Colored Person. ADVANCE ME!

Have you tried calling New York State, or a Spanish paper?

Now that's racist, lady!

Okay, out of options. One more try. The City Sun is a Harlem newspaper. I gave them a call. They were going to do my story. UNTIL...

Sir, we can't do a story on you being attacked by a black man.

Why not?

Because white people won't care. It's just not news.

At least HE was honest about it.

Victimized again and again. I lay there in pain, my head in bandages, my arms wrapped in gauze. In the words of my "good friend" Herbie Quiñones (Where are you, you dreadlock bastard?), I looked like a man who had been in a scuffle. Yeah, I had an argument with a Monte Carlo and lost.

My buzzer rings. It is my sweet angel of healing, Debbie. She came to treat my wounds. My Good Samaritan. It took over a month, but her ministrations, her love, nursed me back to health, with barely a scar.

This is why I cry for her every day. Yes, and I weep for myself. Who in this universe would love me as she did? I am garbage in most people's eyes. I am held to an impossible standard. I could be an "A" student, but as soon as I get an "A minus", I am a failure. Just ask Quantricia. Weeks and weeks of communication and I am a wonderful person. ONE FUCKING MISSTATEMENT, ONE ERROR IN JUDGEMENT, and I am a piece of shit forever. No pressure.

In Super Max prisons, there is a special form of solitary confinement for their most incorrigble inmates: NHC. No Human Contact. This is the punishment I endure. I pour my heart out to this chick, and no amount of crawling over broken glass will get me past my ill-advised comments. Pages and Pages of e-mails. Hours of talking. Destroyed forever by two little sentences. Man, I must really be garbage. I must have been a serial killer in an earlier life to warrant such punishment. Yeah I'll meet someone when the time is right. You know when that time will be? Why, when hell freezes over, of course. Or perhaps when swine become airborne. I'm a dead man writing...

Next post will be about Debbie and her Punishment for marrying me...