circumstances had not permittedrnher to scream. As Tommy Oddsrnsaid, he was just a lonely one-armrnNigger down on his luck that nobodyrnhad time for anymore. Butrnshe would have time—wouldn’trnshe? Because she was not likernthose rough black women who refusedrnto be sympathetic and sleeprnwith him—was she? She wouldrnbe kind and not like those womenrnwho turned him down becausernthey were repulsed and prejudicedrnand the maroon stump of his armrnmade them sick. She would be arntrue woman and save him—rnwouldn’t she?rn. . . There was a moment whenrnshe knew she could force himrnfrom her. But it was a flash. Shernlay instead thinking of his feelings,rnhis hardships, of the way hernwas black and belonged to peoplernwho lived without hope; shernthought about the loss of his arm.rnShe felt her own guilt. . . . She didrnnot any longer resist but tried tornthink of Tommy Odds as he wasrnwhen he was her friend—and nearrnthe end her arms stole around hisrnneck, and before he left she toldrnhim she forgave him and shernkissed his round slick stump thatrnwas the color of baked liver, andrnhe smiled at her from far away,rnand she did not know him. “Bernseein’ you,” he said.rnI thought of these characters thernmorning I watched Spike Lee smirk andrnswagger on the Today Show about thern95 degree heat coming last summer.rnSpike told us once before about therncoming 95 degree heat in Do the RightrnThing, a movie that sneered at thernworkaholic pizza-shop owner who wasrnstupid enough to open a business amongrnthe hang-loose black guys who wererntakin’ a long time out smellin’ the flowers.rnThey were doing something fun,rnsomething that made sense. Thesernhome boys were definitely not bustin’rntheir butt for chump change. If theyrnneeded money they’d just show up onrn”mother’s day” to pick up the welfarerncheck or go downtown to “work” at rippingrnoff food from some Korean groceryrnstores. Spike Lee, egging on the homernboys, says that pulling that white truckrndriver out of his truck and beating himrnsenseless was no different than what happenedrnto Rodney King. “It’s the samernvideo tape,” he said. If the police officersrnare free, why should the brothersrnthat beat the truck driver not be free,rntoo? Surely a rich sophisticated moviernproducer like Spike Lee should be ablernto recognize the complexities of this issuernif he really wanted to do the rightrnthing. But he doesn’t—he just wants tornthreaten and misunderstand like anyrnadolescent with an appetite for destruction.rnEach and every night black men inrnevery major city of this country are doingrnworse to each other than what wasrndone to Rodney King. The Crips andrnthe Bloods killed nearly one thousandrnpeople, mostly other young black men,rnon the streets of L. A. last year, makingrnWillie Horton a statistically repetitivernfact.rnI sympathize with the competent professionalrnBryant Gumbel and otherrnblacks as they squirm and recoil and agonizernabout these thugs, whose crimesrnthey still mostly believe are our fault. Itrnis more tolerable to blame it on whiternracism than on blacks who have gonernbad, who have become corrupt and cynicalrnand evil. We have been used tornblaming white America for these things;rnand it has been less morally complex tornblame them on lack of hope and moneyrnand role models. There is, however, arntrickle of voices that are not buying thesernexplanations, which have become excuses.rnMany of us are not accepting thernblame or responsibility that is said to bernours. We will not tolerate murderousrnstreet punks being glorified into martyrs,rnvictims, or revolutionaries as somernof us did in the more innocent and naiverndays of the Black Panthers. Since then, Irnhave heard black acquaintances laughingrnabout getting their way by “playingrnpoor little black boy” and sneeringrnscornfully about whites “with their headsrnup their a—.”rnWe watch the Crips and the Bloodsrnon Nightline, and we and Ted Koppelrnare astounded at their intelligence andrnarticulateness as they expound on theirrnsociological perspective, which soundsrnincredibly like the platform of thernDemocratic Party. These are not somernalien mutants as one might suspect uponrnhearing of their deeds; these men arerncon-artists. On Oprah they tell us theyrnwant money to build their version ofrnRodeo Drive. They tell us if they don’trnget the cash to rebuild L.A., they willrntorch it again the day the work is completed.rnI suspect they could buy andrnsell many of us with their bushel basketsrnof drug money. They are young, strong,rnmuscular, and intelligent and have arnfashion sense that is cutting-edge.rnSome look like GQ models in well-fittedrnsuits, others prefer ghetto chic withrngreen and purple psychedelic silk shirts.rnNo one looks scruffy or poor. They wearrntattoos on their faces to remember thernpeople they have killed. They sprinklerntheir articulate university poli-sci rhetoricrnliberally with colorful, creative street lingo.rnIt is difficult to imagine why theyrncan’t finish school and get a job exceptrnthat the jobs are too boring and don’trnpay as much as the drug business.rnIn my neighborhood there is a littlernstrip-mall with a Lebanese immigrantrnfamily’s restaurant, a lady who sellsrnchipped ham and eggs, a plumber, arnhardware store, an auto-body supplyrnshop, a pizza place, a Chinese restaurant,rna dry-cleaner, and an exotic petrnstore where a young guy in his early 20’srnsells pot-belly pigs and tropical fish.rnSurely, the Crips and the Bloods couldrnfix toilets or sell tropical fish. Looking atrnthem, it is hard to imagine what theyrncannot do.rnIt is time for them to do the rightrnthing, to quit selling drugs to kids, to gornback home and raise their children, tornfinish high school and make use of therncommunity colleges that the residentsrnof California have so generously providedrnat a cost to students of only $90 perrnsemester, to give up the con game of thernpermanently aggrieved, to quit being arnshame and an embarrassment to theirrnpeople, and to get a job. It is no lessrnthan what is expected of the rest of us.rnTo demand any less would be racism.rnSarah /. McCarthy is a freelance writerrnUving in Pittsburgh.rnA Queer Car Ridernby Robert KnightrnWe were on the same plane out ofrnDulles, and he was two rowsrnahead. His head was shaven, except for arntuft at the very top. With large ears andrnlong, bare cranium he looked like thernSesame Street character Bert, as in Bertrnand Ernie. Bert always looks worried,rnbored, and anxious, and so did this man.rnThe television studio had sent a limousinernto pick up both of us from the air-rn48/CHRONICLESrnrnrn