Roman Edirisinghe

This morning I woke to the unmistakable sound of a midwestern American voice. At first, I was excited to hear the sound, and eager to talk to it’s owner, until I discovered that he was preaching, and getting downright biblical on some Malaysian guy staying at the hostel. All of this happened outside my window, so I couldn’t ignore it, and the American’s voice was too loud for me to go back to sleep. Why does it always have to be a Bible-thumping American who sticks out like a sore thumb, who feels it’s important to convert the world to his world view? Ugh.

Writing part one brought to mind a nearly forgotten incident that took place at a hotel in Turnu M?gurele, Romania, in 2003. I had just completed business negotiations with my father’s client, after a fifteen hour train trip. Read more about that, if you need background.

Exhausted and hungry, Constantin & I pored over the hotel restaurant menu. As a tangent, the thing that stood out on the menu was spelled “crap,” Romania’s spelling of “carp.” Hmm. I think I ordered a pizza.

While we awaited our food, I noticed a guy at another table sort of glaring at me, and not nicely. His outfit looked like that of a hotel cook, and he was talking to one of his friends at the table. Undaunted, I glared back. At one point, he said something in Romanian, maybe even in English, I can’t remember. Translation: he was asking me if there was a problem, in a rather belligerent fashion. Constantin & I both replied that there wasn’t. The creepy guy left. A few minutes later, the waiter came and apologized, saying that the guy had mistaken me for someone else.

Who else looks like me in Romania? Dark complexioned, stunningly handsome, etc.

Gypsies.

The cook had mistaken me for a gypsy, and was ready to throw all his hate at me. So much for Romanian hospitality, at a hotel, no less.
It seems every country, every group of people needs a scapegoat. So much easier to feel good about yourself if someone else is “worse.” Or so it seems.

How disappointing the human condition.

My mother told me that when I was born, the nurse brought me back into the room (this was Communist-era Russia, where they whisked off the baby immediately after delivery for some ridiculous reason) and said, “Now you know why they call them ‘black ass’,” before handing me to my mom. Evidently the nurse never saw the other side of me, because she would have likely fainted, as my cock is the blackest part of me (other than my dark, twisted personality, or course).

My mom never told me until relatively recently and it made me realize that I was the recipient of racism at birth.

It’s like a scar, you know? A fucking stain on the face of humanity.