There’s a new commandment, an odious, reptilian slug, slithering its way into the consciousness of Black Culture.
Thou shalt not snitch.
From a historical perspective, “snitching” was defined and confined to a police informant, secretly and informally giving inside information to a police officer, usually for pocket money. To be known as a snitch was only hazardous if you found yourself incarcerated, giving your jailhouse peers an object to vent their spleen. For most of us, however, snitches were only seen on Starsky and Hutch or Baretta, street hustlers who were an accepted part of the mosaic. Huggy Bear and Rooster was considered to be “down with the brothers.”
No longer.
Snitching, or its less regal nome de plume, snitchin’, is no longer confined to unsavory denizens of urban life. There is a move on now, successful in many quarters, to define snitchin’ as any cooperation with the police in the investigation in any crime. To be seen in a conversation with police officers is verboten, even if the crime is perpetrated against you.
There is an industry now, T-shirts, hats, etc., evangelizing the gospel of snitchin’, used to make the message clear: snitchin’ will not be tolerated. Judges have had to forbid courtroom observers from wearing anti-snitch shirts, some of which had target crosshairs or bull’s-eyes prominently displayed on them, which was designed to intimidate witnesses to crime.
The ACLU (White bastids) tried, unsuccessfully, I might add, to prevent judges from making snitch-wearing observers change clothes, citing free-speech concerns. The Supreme Court (White bastids), fortunately, ruled in the judges’ favor.
Which brings me to my point: As far as crime is concerned, especially crime committed in my neighborhood, I will snitch on you.
Let me repeat:
I will snitch on you.
Got that?
And, if you don’t like it, I hereby invite you to the warm, dark place that only Mr. Whipple has access to.
Why?
I have a visceral hatred for anything that keeps my people down. Racism, drugs, teen pregnancy, illegitimacy rate, etc., everything that prevents us from being strong, vibrant members of the society we helped to build. It’s bad enough when the damage to our communities are perpetrated by the majority culture, but to do it to ourselves?
Hell, no!
Especially, especially when it’s done by an ignorant, criminal subculture, whose only objective is to commit crimes in our communities, and stay out of jail.
Cowards.
If you can’t do the time, then don’t do the crime.
In our communities.
That angers me.
They don’t go into suburbia and tell the residents there, “don’t snitch.” They save that crap for us, and expect us to swallow it, indeed, embrace it as some kind of cool and hip philosophy of life. We’ve got little kids, walking around with “DON’T SNITCH” hats on. You little nitwit, somebody needs to snitch on your behalf, so you don’t have to live in a crime-ridden neighborhood, so you can walk home after school and not have to worry about some gang members beating your butt senseless. Somebody needs to snitch on your behalf, so you can get a good education, and get a decent shot at the American dream your grandparents slaved for and never got to enjoy. Somebody needs to snitch so that we can have the crime stats the folks on Nob Hill take as their just due. Because you know what their dirty little secret is?
Superior neighborhoods don’t tolerate crime.
Don’t believe me?
Go stand on a corner in Nob Hill and deal crack.
Go ‘head, with yo’ bad self!
Go run some hos, go jack up some golf cart driver, go do something on their streets, and see how the “don’t snitch” message flies there.
I ain’t mad at Nob Hill, in fact, I admire them. They, unlike us, don’t tolerate that B.S. They expect a superior police presence, and they cooperate with police efforts to fight crime.
Period.
And we, stupidly enough, live in crime/drug infested neighborhoods, living in fear of our lives, and we walk around with T-shirts that bear the message that keeps us in our toxic environment, like Three Mile Island residents wearing shirts that say Don’t Blow The Whistle.
Insanity.
There are a myriad of solutions, however. I’m a practical man, so I believe the solution starts with me. So, in my neighborhood, I not only report crime, I don’t tolerate it in my presence. On my block, no one loiters. I have a like-minded neighbor, so we tag-team in that little effort. He’s ex-military, and somebody forgot to tell him the war’s over. Yeah, he’s one of those who think camo baggies is dress wear.
Fine with me.
He owns a very large dog who occasionally accompanies him on patrol. I don’t own a very large dog, but I do own a very large pistol, which the denizens of my neighborhood see on my hip as I serenely observe the 1500 block of St. Jacob Street.
Oh, no, baby, Matlock don’t play. Every now and then, some boys who spend too much time watching videos on BET (the Holy Grail of “Do Not Snitch”) wanna stand on my corner and talk loud and drink 40s. Loitering and open containers are illegal. The Nob Hill in my town don’t allow that sort of behavior.
Well guess what, son?
Neither do I.
Simple solution: I stand in my yard, lean on my hoe, and eyeball them. (My hoe is made from wood and metal. Miz Matlock don’t allow me to have the flesh and blood kind. Rats!) I lean, with Aunt Mary prominently on my hip. (Aunt Mary is my mother’s oldest sister. Both she, and my pistol, claim to be 45.)
After 2 or 3 minutes, the tension is too much for these young thugs-in-training, so they move a block or two over to greener pastures, and if the residents of that area tolerates their presence, well, that’s on them.
It’s really a matter of tolerance. Crime, like water and electricity, flows in the path of least resistance. Crime occurs more often where crime is tolerated, and any neighborhood that embraces the concept of DNS, well guess what?
You deserve whatever happens where you live, because you allow it to breed.
Wait a minute, I see a dice game in progress.
Excuse me, I need to drop a dime on crime……
African-American Culture 101 