notraidenbutcloseenough

[notraidenbutcloseenough]

Everybody's an Asshole: Part II

I love Halloween. It’s simultaneously creepy and kooky, mysterious and spooky, altogether ooky, and generally a great day for telling your responsibilities to get fucked in the name of having a good time.

This year, in the spirit of mischief (and, admittedly, bolstered by some personal frustrations), I decided to dress in the most shit disturbing costume I could devise.

Officially, I went as The Criminally Underrepresented Demographic of Hispanics in the Fantasy Genre. Do you think my costume is racist? Do you have a problem with it? Come talk to me about it! Maybe you can tell me about a hispanic character in fantasy that’s not named Ingio Montoya! Maybe you’ll learn to think twice before assuming the worst in people! Maybe I’ll learn that, no, I actually am an asshole!

I wanted to challenge assumptions, subvert expectations, and foster debate on whether or not cultural appropriation is strictly a bad thing, particularly if it’s celebrating the culture in question. And I was legitimately excited to have these conversations.

How can I possibly be surprised that none of these things happened?

A couple passes by on a busy street early in the evening. “Look, he’s Mexican!” he says, attempting to hide his bemused contempt. “That’s not cool,” she grumbles before picking up the pace and power walking out of earshot.

A car speeds past, its horn blaring. “¡ARRIBA!” shouts a man from its interior.

An exceptionally tall man’s head rises prominently above the group of mummies, ghosts, and cat people surrounding him. His eyes light up as he exclaims a greeting considered reasonably appropriate under most circumstances. “¡HOLA!” He points to his own sombrero.

Halloween crew fully assembled, we reach our party destination and claim our drink tickets. It’s early. An OG Red Ranger takes our photograph, smirking.

After a couple of hours of party goers trickling through the door, the room fills near instantaneously at 11pm.

“Excuse me, my Mexican brother,” exclaims an barely intoxicated man in a powdered wig as he muscles his way towards the front of the drink line. He notices one of my compatriots’ eyes go wide and graciously offers to allow me get a drink ahead of him. I decline.

“GET OVER HERE,” shouts a significantly more inebriated man, confusing a serrape and sombrero for a gi and conical bamboo hat. “Oh, wait, you’re not Raiden, you’re Mexican. Close enough.” He laughs heartily as he walks off without waiting for a response.

An inordinate number of drink tickets later, it’s time to leave.

Halfway through a crosswalk, an admonishment. “YO, THAT’S RACIST,” exclaims Max from Where Wild Things Are while walking backwards. Not terribly sober myself, “there’s more to it than it seems, I promise!” is the best I can eke out before he disappears into the crowd across the street. I’m not sure if he heard me. I’m not sure if it matters.

A sexy cop enthusiastically dances her way across the floor of a moderately packed bar. Over the cacophony of merriment and X Gon’ Give It to Ya, she strains to yell “I LOVE YOUR COSTUME,” without a hint of irony. She dances away before I manage to drop the “oh, thanks” I’ve mentally slathered with sarcasm. One drink at this place is enough.

The second straight up Mexican costume - complete with fake moustache - of the evening. In case my choice of garb isn’t indication enough, I’m not the type to be offended by this type of thing.

Next bar. As the doors open, we’re greeted by the hilariously familiar sound of X Gon’ Give It to Ya. A shirtless man dressed as a cannabis leaf beckons us inside.

The night’s third Mexican sits on a bar stool, chatting up a disinterested blonde. Even if I wanted to be offended, I may have relinquished that right when I donned my sombrero.

“So do we have time for one more bar, or…” is the question that someone begins to ask as we make our way towards the door. Before our very eyes, Weedman is unceremoniously, and literally, tossed out of the bar onto his ass. “YOU TOLD ME IT WASN’T REAL” exclaims a furious bouncer, most likely referring to the oversized pipe gingerly clutched under Weedman’s arm.

The night was too weird to go home.

Approaching our final destination, I brace myself, fully prepared for X to Give It to Me once again. X does not Give It to Us, leaving a surreal sense of disappointment in the air. It is in fact quiet enough for Han Solo to explain the complex inner workings of a foosball table and repeatedly attempt to guess a cohort’s ethnicity in the midst of demonstrating a magic trick. He never succeeds (she’s Chinese). I won’t remember the magic trick. I’m drunk.

It’s time to go home.

As we await the streetcar’s arrival for the next hour and a half and begin to sober up in the rain, we reflect fondly on the evening’s festivities. How the first party was looking like a bust but ended up a blast. How pleasant the weather had been up to this point. How absurd it was to witness a grown ass man in a weed costume explain to a bouncer that the jacket he’d been thrown out with didn’t belong to him.

So I didn’t learn anything. I didn’t educate anyone. Our group photo is suspiciously absent from the published event album. People are dumb and racist and I wasn’t helping in the slightest. Maybe a house party would have been more conducive to conversation, and things would have been different. Things weren’t different, though. They were the same as they ever were.

But god damn if that serrape didn’t keep me warm and dry in the rain.

- Angel Ramon Rivera