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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Give Us Free!

I think we can all agree that it can be relatively tough being an immigrant – legal or otherwise – trying to live in the States. The language, education and financial barriers tend to limit a good chunk of them to what are essentially the jobs I’d do back when I was still trying to impress the masses with fits so expensive I could barely afford to smile. I’m pretty sure nobody who reads this shit would ever consider applying for the position of “expressway orange, peanuts and flowers salesman” now, right?

If anything, I can see past my skewed ideals on the art of fence jumping to the side to appreciate their beliefs and dedication towards attaining this so-called American Dream that Walter Younger foolishly thought was in the form of a liquor store. Maybe Wally was on to something, though: attaining one’s personal goals in life via poisoning their communities with a variety of inexpensive, liver-annihilating alcoholic beverages.

And here I thought I just had to worry about catching a bullet to the sternum.

While we can sit, bitch and moan about the state of affairs in regards to their Diaspora-embedded emigrants [1] coming over and snatching up all of our “jobs” – as if any of us would actually want to sell Granny Smith apples and churro sticks at a freeway entrance in the first place – but I for one am glad I don’t have that dubious honor of peddling incense sticks and black soap bars on Crenshaw and Slauson for a living. And I sure as shit don’t have to worry about getting yoked on my way to work in a car that costs damn near $40 to fill up because I have family members who happen to be doctors and lawyers. If things are so bad that even Mexican drug lords are strapped for cash, I may have to start thinking twice the next time I decide to let a silicone-enhanced stripper toss her chesticles into my face whenever I go to Tijuana. Matter of fact, I may never go back there again; fake breasts in my face are so not worth getting the shit shocked out of me for ransom money.

Not to mention, a good chunk of them have to literally demote themselves to do somewhat demeaning tasks like selling toy guns that spit out bubbles in order to provide sustenance for their family. Being a first generation Nigerian American werewolf in Paris (figure it out), I’ve seen my own uncles and aunts – many of which are well-respected physicians in Africa – push a taxi cab or slang pizza pies once they touch down over here because their education accounts to nothing more than “witch doctor” status out here. So needless to say, someone’s catching the wrong part of the shaft.

Besides, most immigrants are like mice; meaning they’re more scared of you than you are them. I figure this: anybody’s who’s willing to risk it all by floating on a car door to a Miami port deserves at the very least to be my local dry cleaner. Lord knows I can’t even swim, so that shit is something I’d never think of doing.

***
What does this have to do with rap, you may ask? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. When you’ve been listening to old-ass samples and reading the news on the Internets more than the two issues of King I inexplicably get in the mail every month like I have, you tend to not find or care about hip-hop stuff. Reading is fundamental, people.

[1] And no, I’m not only talking about the Blacks who were shipped like Fed Ex packages to become a cracka-ass Euro trash’s ottoman but now have to gall to call us out because we’re better than they ever were in sports even though we’ve been “bred” to inadvertently be that way, I’m referring to the Native Americans whose land was razed via polio-loaded corn and blankets who now find sustenance yoking Social Security payouts from the old jigs in casinos. But I digress.

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