A friend of mine invited me to this barbecue in a small French town about an hour and a half outside of Lille.

I was surprised, but not totally surprised, to discover that this French version of a barbecue included appetizers, several courses and copious amounts of wine. The dinner was hosted by a loud Frenchmen, and was in celebration of his ten-year anniversary with his girlfriend. A long table shaded by a pavilion seated all of the thirty-something guests comfortably for the hours it took for the meal to be served and consumed.

It would have been the perfect night, a quintessentially French night, had I not felt nearly overcome with a desire to deck my host.

I'm not Bob Marley

The Frenchmen standing in front of me wants me to sign his Bob Marley CD even though, other than admiring the iconic emblem of Jamaican reggae and rastafarianism, I have absolutely nothing to do with Bob. It's a case of mistaken identity.

This slightly built Frenchmen, dressed in clothes too thin for the cool nature of this summer night in the town of Cambrai, has mistaken me for an image, something different from but just as real as a human being. It's the dreads maybe, or the dark, slightly reddish brown of my skin.

I know what I'm supposed to do.

West Philadelphia trains you not to take a lot of shit, not just because if you do, you'll become the perpetual victim of every exploiter prowling the streets, but because — if you do, you'll become a weak link in a community that needs you to be strong. The more shit you take the more everyone else has to. Never let anybody call you the n-word you are taught, even if it be through subtle implication.

It's for this very reason that black girls get on the bus in every American city doing whatever they please, popping gum, singing, talking loud and cursing like the girl in the exorcist, it's for this very reason that African-American males threaten death to anonymous passersby silly enough to bump their shoulder, step on their new white sneakers or eye their personage too long.

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