“Yo Mama! Yo Mama! Yo Mama!”

What with all the discussion yesterday about the use of hate words and today’s Howard-Wolfson-Faux-Gate I was reminded of one of the tiny moments of great courage that happened upon me as I have clung to this big blue orb.

So, its 1991 and I’m still an actor, having just graduated from the theatre conservatory at the University of Illinois a few month earlier.

My first REAL union gig was a production of a play called Spiele ’36, which told the story of the two Jewish runners who were forced by Adolf Hitler and the German American Bund to give up their spots on the Olympic 4X100 relay team in favor of two African-American runners… on of which was Jesse Owens.

Needless to say… I played Jesse Owens.

(Pause for chuckle.)

Apparently Hitler was more comfortable with the possibility that Arian athletes would be bested by black athletes then by “hook-nosers”, so he went to American officials and had the two jews removed from the team the night before they were set to race.

The above was the REASON that Jesse Owens won his then record 4th gold medal.

Anyway, the show was a joint production between Victory Gardens Theater in Chicago and George Mason University, with George Mason getting the world premiere, so I packed up the nine things I owned and relocated to Fairfax, Virginia… interestingly known for having the highest concentration of ex-CIA officials per-capita in America.

(I mean there must’ve been a city ordinance requiring all windows to be tinted and all residences to have five forms of high-tech security.)

Ok, so, one day I’m walking back from rehearsal with the playwright, a sixty-something African American man named Steve Carter.

Steve was a fascinating guy… kind of the real life version of all the characters Morgan Freeman now gets asked to play. Wise and smart and cantankerous, all with a slight limp from a bum knee and a nice sized gut from an admitted passion for southern fried food.

Anyway, we’re headed up a hill and he’s huffing and puffing, while keeping me spellbound with tales of how he became a writer, when a car containing four late-teen/early-twenties approaches from behind and from inside we hear… “NIGGER! NIGGER! NIGGER!”

Now, what followed surely happened in less than a couple seconds, but I remember it in excruciating slow-motion.

I cycled through confusion, embarrassment, and then… terror.

Are these people going to get out of the car and beat the crap out of Steve and I? Are they going to try and run us over? Given Steve’s age and physical condition there’s no way he’s getting away from them or fighting back and I’m badly outnumbered.

I mean what the fuck do I do here?

Steve did not have such indecision.

He steps to the curb, puffs out his chest and screams: “YO MAMA! YO MAMA! YO MAMA!”

Sixty-plus year old man… in the south… bum knee… gut like he’s pregnant… no fear.

“YO MAMA! YO MAMA! YO MAMA!”

And the car with the backward-hatted guys? Well… they just drive away.

I stood stunned, taking a long moment before finally managing a pathetic, breathless, “I’m- I’m really sorry, Mr. Carter.”

To which Steve laughed, “Seen worse before. Will see much worse again.”

Then he smiled and with a kindness and compassion that seemed to understand how I not him was rattled and said… “Think you scared them off, Jeffrey”

Now, I’m not EXACTLY sure how this ties into the past week, other then to say that when I heard Senator Obama talking about “staying positive” and not attacking his rival Democrat I nodded in agreement, but also wanted to remind him and his people that standing tall IS NOT attacking and sometimes it can even scare the most angry, misguided and hateful souls into beating a hasty retreat.

Senator Obama should be kind and gracious and forgiving and slow-to-anger, but without ever completely forgetting… “HIS MAMA! HIS MAMA! HIS MAMA!”