Joining the Brotherhood

November 16, 2009

I had coffee with my second-youngest brother today. He’s in the process of moving here from Toronto as he recovers from that little accident he had earlier this year. You may remember me talking about it: he was hit by a train in the face, and lived. He looks better now than he did during the summer, although his facial nerves haven’t quite healed and he looks a bit like the Joker. The Jack Nicholson version, I mean.

Anyway, we were sitting in the coffee shop where they filmed that stupid movie Jumper a while back. In a strange twist, my brother worked on the post-production audio for that movie, and I was an accidental extra in the background of a Samuel L. Jackson scene, which may or may not have made the final cut. I don’t know, because when I watched Jumper I spent most of the film mostly thinking about hockey.

After we talked about how shitty Jumper was, my brother told me a funny story. He’s been living in a pretty crappy neighbourhood full of what appear to be members of a skinhead gang. They’ve been eyeing him for a while, as he’s big, tough and tattooed head to toe, and as a mixed martial arts fighter (currently on a break due to face-meets-train), he often carried his gear around with him.

I should point out that my brother looks like Vin Diesel in XXX. See, we’re African-Indian-Irish-Scottish, but it isn’t obvious, particularly to stupid people, that we’re a wee bit ethnic. Most people who do notice think we’re Italian or Arab. That’s what makes this work.

One day, one of them came to his door. This was the conversation:

  • Nazi: “Hey, man, nice tattooes.”
  • Bro: “Thanks.”
  • Nazi: “Boxing gloves, eh? You a fighter?”
  • Bro: “Yeah.”
  • Nazi: “You ever fight any fags or Jews? Any niggers?”
  • Bro (long pause): “I’m a fucking mulatto, asshole. You want me to fight you?”

The guy ran away. Ran. And now the gang steers widely clear of my pumped-up, tattooed and facially freakish brother and his boxing gloves.

Sometimes he makes me really proud, that kid.

Moral: Racists talk a good game, and they do a lot of damage in numbers, but one on one, they’ll run away every time.



  1. Twice this week at work (the manufacturing job, not the bakery) I was meet with the great conversation opener of, “I’m not a racist, but…” Sigh. Both of those people, by the way, are total white trash.

  2. Meanwhile, I joke with my friend Jamal about Somali pirates and how we need to make a movie making fun of the Somali experience in the USA. My Allah bless those who are capable of laughing at themselves!

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