Haiku Ewe

Living in LA has its perks. The fact that the company my husband works for owns their building with Golden Boy Promotions, Inc also has its perks. Yesterday, a man who used to work with said husband and now works for Golden Boy Promotions emailed said said husband and offered tickets to a boxing event at Club Nokia.

For reasons involving but not limited to Haiti and which I will not further expound here, I have a lot of anger inside. This leads me to love love love hockey. And, my friend, we have upped the ante. Me lovey boxing. Boxing is the best part of hockey minus the boring puck bit. I saw blood. I saw losses of consciousness. I saw glory.

At one point, the largest man I have ever seen in my life (in person) strutted out in his golden robe. He made some sweet love to the camera and then pretended he needed to be in front of the crowd in order to stretch properly. A short time later, an equally large man emotionlessly entered the ring: Herman the German.

White people are scariest when we show zero emotion in a tense situation. For it is then that one realizes we are mad (mad crazy not mad angry). And if the person doing what I call The Crazy White Man is German, all bets are off. Tell me I’m wrong. You can’t because I’m not.

Herman the German was doing The Crazy White Man. I leaned over to Reed and warned him that Camera Casanova was in for some pain. He asked me how I knew and I replied that my German ancestors were whispering it through my soul.

Was Reed’s beer dulling his vision? Was my vodka tonic sharpening mine? Or was I, for the first time in my life, experiencing the power of roots? I like to think it was the latter. I went to Africa once and thought, “Wow, all black people should visit here. This is powerful.” But I’ve always assumed I was a mutt meant to roam the earth unattached and belonging to no one. In Herman the German I found my brother.

When Herman the German and his opponent broke the ring (I mentioned they were large, right?), it was quickly fixed. Soon, however, the fight was stopped by a stern man in a suit who wanted to compare the broken post to the other posts.

“He’s one of my people,” I whispered to Reed.

“What are you talking about?” he replied

“German.”

“Oh please.”

“My people!” I whispered with animation and may or may not have tapped my chest with my fist twice. That’s neither here nor there, the point is I was right. The stern man was Herman the German’s manager.

The ring got fixed. The fight proceeded. Herman the German won. There was no major excitement after my epiphany. But my epiphany still has me floating on clouds. I want to learn more about Germany. Perhaps we should begin eating German food. We could wear German apparel. I’d learn German but it seems hard. My people!