Are ya tellin me that I am some kind of timmy? (look the word up in New Slang Dictionary) Psychiatrists are for crackers, and I ain’t a cracker. At least the last time I looked. This Dr. Schtarke fella, what side of the bed did he fall out of to get such a serious brain injury? He actually believes black folks are really just white folks but they are covering it up with black skin? That is preposterous! With the possible exception of Bryant Gumbel, black folks got more soul in their hangnails than most white folks got in their whole bodies. Why would they want to be white? Look at Lil Wayne, Tupac, 50 Cent, I could go on. Do you think any white man could come up with names like these? Not likely! And what is his problem with folks scratchin themselves!? Scratching’s as natural as havin a dump. Everyone knows that. That he has a problem with it tells me something about him: He can’t dance. And I ain’t black if that’s what you’re . thinkin. I ‘m a white dude who looks up to blacks. I ask you, Where would this world be without black music? We’d all be doin the flippin waltz. This Doctor Schtarke character sounds like a racist and that’s his prob., if you ask me. And Look here! I ain’t into mutilating myself. I’d much prefer mutilating Dr. Schtarke if you want to know the absolute. Just kiddin, actually. I’m a peace-lovin dude. Ask anyone of my gang members. Gotta go to chow now, Ron. Mom’s callin. Stay alert.
Dear Definitely Not Itchy,
Thank you for your letter. It is nice to know that the youth in this country is finally starting to read Ron’s column, because he has a thing or two to advise them about. I would take issue, however , with your opinion that Doctor Schtarke is racist. Dr. Schtarke has always taken the view that there is only one race in the world: the white race, and that the others are fooling themselves. If that is racist, I won’t go there.
You make a remark about wishing to mutilate Dr. Schtarke. I know you didn’t mean it, but many do. His patients especially. I was one at one time, and even if I don’t hold any grudges, I cannot get over the fact that he treated me less than fairly from time to time. Once he wouldn’t let me in the door, and another time he wouldn’t let me out.
He was not the most forthcoming of persons either. I was well into my therapy before he disclosed that he was a revisionist and member of the Nazi party. Being a Jew, of course, I was not too pleased hearing about this, and admit I was taken aback when he offered to teach me the goose-step. Or about the time I told him I was at the end of my rope and he offered to hang me. But he did help me resolve psychic conflicts for which I will always be grateful to him. He got me in touch with my inner anger, and since then, thanks to him, I have become an angry person.
My Oedipal complex, long a source of confusion, has fallen away. I now have a better perspective of the family unit and my place within it, and I no longer feel any guilt about wishing to kill my father and commingle with my mother, mainly because my parents are both dead.
So I have come a long way since the day I showed up on his step and he went out of his way to make time for me on his busy schedule. I will never forget our conversation. Me: “I need help, doctor Schtarke. Can I be your patient?” Him: “Well, let me see. How much is it worth to you?” Me: “Anything you say. Him: “In that case, there will be no problem. But payment in advance.”
I still have a soft spot for the old man who probably saved my life with his tough love, while he nearly killed me by kicking me down the stairs.