Queenie has an afro the size of a beach ball. It’s more like a head full of soft, fuzzy springs that wave back and forth as she moves. She also has an ass the size of a small car, which she manages to stuff into skin tight jeans. It’s not a pleasant image in the abstract, but her big smile and sunny, black lady disposition makes it work. People like Queenie. Even when she is bossy, which is most of the time, it is impossible to be mad at her, because she fills a necessary role in the only way possible.
It’s why she is the assistant store manager down at the market. This is the ghetto market where all of the help is black and most of the customers are black and Hispanic. There are some old honkies who never moved away that still come into the store, but that’s during the day when it is safe. The rest of the time the store is what one has come to expect from an urban ghetto. In order to keep libertarianism from breaking out, the store needs a strong authority figure keeping order. That’s Queenie. She takes no guff from anyone.
The two big challenges for a business in the ghetto are getting decent workers and keeping the customers from stealing everything. Often times, the employees will help the customers steal so there is a dynamic to the challenges. Queenie is able to run herd on the boys and girls hired to stock shelves and run the registers, because she has no illusions about them. They are knuckleheads, who have to be watched all the times, because to do otherwise means they will be knuckleheads.
That’s the thing with young underclass blacks. It is not that all of them are prone to crime and trouble making. It’s that they have so few good examples. Hardly anyone is around to impose discipline, so the worst habits become normal. A black teen working at the market is not getting respect from his peers. He will get status by letting them steal some stuff from the freezer case. In other words, the bad influences far outnumber the positive influences. The ghetto is nothing but temptation. It’s why so many get into trouble.
That’s not gloss over the biological realities of the underclass. High time preference, poor impulse control and a high propensity for violence are all biological factors that are common in the under-class. There are exceptions, just as there are children born with significantly higher IQ’s than their parents. Nature is a roll of the dice, but the math is immutable. Most of the people in the under class are there because that’s their nature and all the nurture in the world is not going to over come it.
Anyway, it has been an ugly spring, but it is now warm enough for the locals to get outside and do outside things. Unlike in suburbia, Memorial Day is not about cookouts and family get togethers. The Hispanics will have a party on Sunday night because they are not going to work on Monday. For the blacks, it just means a change in the normal rhythms of life. The market has weird hours. Some businesses are closed., The liquor store is open on Sunday. Otherwise, it is just another weekend.
On this day, I’m picking up a few items I forgot to get on my normal trip to the market. I see Queenie in an animated discussion with two garbage bags. Donald Trump has decided to import unlimited numbers of Muslims and they have to go somewhere. That means dumping them into the broken down cities and towns, often with a Federal check attached, so the local politicians don’t squawk about it. The greatest human experiment in history is taking place. Low-IQ Muslims are being dumped into urban American ghettos.
Queenie was built for running herd on the black workers, keeping an eye on the customers of all races and interfacing with the white world that could use many more like her. She is not built for talking to a black Grimace that cannot even use non-verbal cues to help bridge the language barrier. She has the exasperated black lady look when she spots me and waves me over to help figure out what the trash bag is saying. That’s the thing with blacks. They accept human bio-diversity at the visceral level.
A swarthy looking male shows up, probably alarmed that a white man was now standing near his garbage bags. His English is useless, but I manage to figure out what they want is to wire money somewhere. This is one of those strange underground markets our politicians don’t understand. Our banks make money helping migrants and illegals send money home. Most convenience stores in this area have a Western Union machine so the illegal Mexican laborers can send money back home without having a bank account or ID.
After the garbage bags leave, I chit-chat with Queenie for a few minutes. She makes the point that she has no idea how to deal with these new people. She also makes the point that she thinks the garbage bags deserve no help or respect. It’s not their customs that offend her, I suspect. It’s their non-person-hood that’s the trouble. Whatever you think about blacks or black America, people like Queenie have a purpose in life, a reason to get up in the morning. To her, those trash bags are just sacks of nothing.
On my way out of the ghetto toward home, I thought about how things will unfold over the coming decades. Black America is matriarchal. How that is going to work with highly patriarchal Muslims migrants is going to be interesting. Throw in the clannishness of the Muslims being imported by Donald Trump, and it looks like a powder keg. Then again, Islam thrives where hope is thin on the ground so maybe the result is the Islamification of the ghetto. I can’t imagine Queenie in a burka, but I never imagined a burka in the ghetto.