NAZI PUNKS F--- OFF

Normally I'm one of those guys who says that violence isn't the answer and that we need to be able to talk things out rationally and peacefully.

But there are some things that need to be handled with fisticuffs. Neo-Nazis like Richard Spencer, for example, who got knocked the fuck out by some anonymous guy at the women's rally in D.C. following Trumpp's inauguration.

Okay, so he didn't get knocked out cold... and I would love to share the link to many many MANY videos that riff on this incident captured on video with all sorts of music (my faves are M.O.P. and LL Cool J, with New Order as an honorable mention) but that violates my no-link policy on this blog. You're a big boy/girl, you can find it yourself. And you'll enjoy it just as much as I have.

But I'm not blogging about it to state the obvious, that sometimes neo-Nazis need to get punched in the fucking face. No, I'm blogging today to share my own personal story about the time some friends and I dealt with racist skinheads on a bus in the Valley when I was about 15.

It was the summer before our Sophomore year of high school. The junior high we attended went up to 9th grade, so we were going to enter high school without having been Freshmen. Our 9th grade year was spent getting ready to make this transition, and as a result we started taking days off. On this particular day we went to the beach and goofed off. Later we even scored a ride from my mom's co-worker, but he only got us over the hill and dropped us off in Sherman Oaks. One of us invited the other two back to his place, so we got on the RTD (back before it was known as the MTA) and took Sepulveda Blvd straight to his house.

The bus was kind of crowded, so we had to stand. I was wearing camouflage pants, a sleeveless shirt and sandals; one of my friends was wearing normal shorts and shirt, and the other was wearing a shirt that had "Butthole Surfers" emblazoned on it. He also had a punk haircut, while my hair was long and our other friend had a normal haircut. The description of how we looked is crucial to understanding how all of what I'm about to tell went down.

In the back of the bus where we were standing sat quite an array of types: Mexican day laborers, senior citizens, middle-aged shoppers coming back from the mall... and sprawled out in the very back of the bus, sneering and sniggering at everyone around them, were three white kids, probably a little older than us.

One of the white kids had a normal haircut and clothes, except he was a redhead with freckles. The second one was a full-on Nazi skinhead, probably from Sylmar or Van Nuys. He was all decked out in total Nazi skinhead regalia: bomber jacket, Doc Martens, shaved head, tattoos with swastikas and various other symbols, and suspenders (or "braces", as they were much thicker than normal suspenders). The third kid was definitely a punker, but his mohawk was combed to one side, which looked unusual and stood out like a green hat with an orange bill.

They were talking among themselves and so, as uncomfortable as we all felt around them, we also didn't really think much of it. As long as they were not addressing us I think we could've made the trip without incident. But it didn't take long for me to realize they were making in-jokes between themselves about all of us on the bus, aware of the sway they were holding us hostage with by their mere presence.

I guess they just couldn't help themselves. I guess they just weren't able to leave well enough alone, because Mr. Sideways Mohawk suddenly said something to my friend with the Butthole Surfers T-shirt.

"Hey man," he said in a dopey drawl, "there's a spot on your shirt."

Of course there was a spot on his shirt. It was a punk rock T-shirt of an infamous punk band, and the punk style of the shirt was riddled with spots and smudges and smears and anything to make it look worn and ratty. In fact I think my friend may have also added a touch of his own to it, seeing as he was (and still is) a talented artist.

But in relation to what this neo-Nazi was saying to my friend, there was no spot worth pointing out. In my opinion it was a ploy to intimidate us, to make us feel even more uncomfortable than we already felt. It also felt like he was setting us up for something.

Well, I couldn't help myself either. I replied to Mr. Sideways Mohawk... or rather, I addressed my friend in response to the mohawk kid.

"Dude, there's no spot on your shirt."

Soon the three white supremacists were trying to get something started. They recoiled at the bold assertion I'd made; they felt I was calling them liars or something like that. They were acting like their feelings were hurt. They feigned disgust at my insistence that there was no spot on the shirt.

Finally the full-on Nazi skin said, "This kid must think he's Rambo, with those camo pants on. Is that it? You think you're Rambo or something?"

I was scared, but I also wasn't going to back down. "I'm not the one wearing military boots."

If there is one thing I am really, really good at, it's saying the one thing that gets someone's attention. I suppose you can say I have a way with words, because the conversation definitely shifted gears. They were now standing in front of us, threatening to hurt us, but also chickening out because they suddenly sensed that everyone else around us would probably join in and help take out the trash with glee.

I will always remember the skinhead's words to me as their stop came up and they turned to leave. It was like a melodramatic scene in some action movie. I almost laughed in his face but thought better of it-- after all, he stood a full foot above me.

"If I ever see you in a dark alley or anywhere on the street, I swear I will kill you with my bare hands."

I don't remember what my response was to that. All I remember is that I was shaking... but I also wasn't going to back down. Even if he hit me right then and there, I wasn't going to back down.

Well, he didn't hit me right then and there. Instead, as the rear doors opened, the redhead kid (who had been silent the whole time) snuck in a quick slap in the face to my friend in the normal clothes, who also had been silent the whole time. It was like they were somehow perfectly matched up against each other. Then the three white boys jumped off the bus... but not before the Mexican laborers literally got up, held onto the top of the rear door, swung out of the bus behind them and kicked one of them in the head.

As the bus rode off, I could see out the window that there was a melee going on between the Mexicans and the skinheads. I turned to my friend who got slapped-- he did not look very happy, but it was a baby slap at best and probably just startled my friend more than anything. My other friend in the Butthole Surfers T-shirt was speechless.

I was pretty speechless too. What in the living fuck just happened?

Suddenly, one of the senior citizens spoke to me.

"You were right to stand up to them."

And then I returned to my senses, realizing how close I got to getting my ass kicked on the bus. That skinhead was really tall and mean-looking. I wasn't known for my fighting prowess, and I might have been able to get a lick in or two... but I'm sure that I would've gotten schooled had chingasos been thrown. As for my friends, I can't say if they would've had my back or not. My one friend who got slapped was quiet and looked like he was getting ready for a throwdown, but that sneaky slap took him by surprise. Butthole Surfers shirt was definitely not the type to fight, at least not back then.

In fact, I was sure they were mad at me as we got off at our stop and went back to Butthole Surfer's house. I kept nervously talking about the whole thing, letting off some steam, but they were very, very quiet. I think they were mad because I almost got us into a situation that we had no control over, but I was just adrenalized and relieved and exhilarated by the entire ordeal.

I did say one thing at the time, however, that has turned out to be prescient and true:

"When I look back on this, I want to be able to know that I didn't back down just because I was afraid."

Perhaps my friends' anger stemmed from a feeling that maybe I overreacted, and that by getting defensive from the start I may have misinterpreted or misunderstood what was going on and thereby almost causing a scene that may not have had a good outcome for us. But as the obvious minority out of the three of us-- my normal-dressed friend is Persian but his skin is light; Butthole Surfer is Israeli but definitely Caucasian-looking --I was vibeing on something else entirely. I was feeling the hate, the superiority, the smugness. It was coming out of them, pouring out, oozing out if you will. Like I stated earlier, they couldn't help themselves. Their racist ways made it impossible for them to just leave us alone. I was wearing my Coke-bottle eyeglasses, we were all wearing sandals from being at the beach, and we were all noticeably younger than them... we were vulnerable. And they knew it, because they were bullies, and they were bullying everyone on the bus subtly before we even got on, and they would've kept subtly bullying and intimidating everyone had I not spoken up.

So when I look back on this incident, my only regret is that I didn't throw a punch. Sure, the Mexicans got their licks in when they all got off at the stop in front of Sepulveda Junior High, but I really wish I had thrown a punch. It would be a sweeter story to tell, wouldn't it?

Maybe not. Because people know I'm more of a peaceful kind of guy who abhors violence. And everyone knows that my fists are not my greatest weapon: it's my tongue. The retorts I had for them were more devastating than anything, because it made them realize who they were fucking dealing with: an intelligent Latino/Japanese soon-to-be-sophomore with an intellectual chip on his shoulder and words that can wind up even the most detached observer. In the many years since that day I have only had to physically fight a handful of times, but I've gotten in countless verbal arguments and debates. That is my forte, that is my strength. That's what I'm good at.

Afterwards, the three of us went to the same high school but I kind of drifted apart from them. That day on the bus, I think I realized that I was on a different sort of path than they were. I'm still friends with them, and we reminisce about the good old days and keep in touch online, but that day left an indelible mark on me, and it made me realize that I wasn't cut from the same cloth as them. Of course, they are successful now and I'm living in the Midwest working retail and raising a kid as a divorcee... but then again, back then I didn't think I'd make it to 25. And yesterday I turned 43, so I guess I'm doing something right.

The bottom line is this: with all that's going on right now, we need to be brave now more than ever. We will face bullies and Nazis and fascists and people who want to take away our freedoms or worse. It hasn't gotten better; it looks bleak, in fact. But if a geeky junior high school kid can tell a bunch of racists to back off, then we all can.

And if they get punched in the face on the Internet, I can laugh at it and not feel any regrets about it. Because those assholes deserve everything they get.