Stuck at a Modern-day Minstrel Show
The other day, I was at a poetry and prose reading, one that, I must add here, almost always has terrific people doing great material, so I always know I'm going to hear something interesting. That evening's reading was no exception, except for the second reader (there were four), a middle-aged white man. He went to the microphone, and proceeded to tell a story in rhyming verse. After the first stanza, I was mildly disturbed. By the third I was insulted. Delivered in what this man must have thought was authentic "urban" English patois, he made every “am”, every “are” and every “is” into “be”. He dropped the “g” in “ing”, stuck in some urban crime, a few gunshots (the first loud BLAM startled the only other person of color in the back of room so much he involuntarily blurted out “Oh please stop!’) and voila . . . a sad tale of what sounded to me like Negro woe. A constant refrain that went something like “boom diddle diddle” or “boom diddy diddy” punctuated his stanzas