So I live in a neighborhood that's not the very best of neighborhoods. Not the worst either, of course; but just a little more diverse than your average South of South St. residences with their trimmed lawns, brick mailboxes and double stall garages.

It's never really bothered me.

I usually have figured if I can respect the people I live with, and around, they will respect me, too.

Of course, there are people who will never respect you, no matter how juduciously you treat them.

There will always be awful people, out to get you.

And the funny thing, is, I've discovered after not even a month in my new place, that the meanest, scariest, worst people living in this neighborhood aren't the black guys walking down the street, or the Iraqis hanging out in front of the Arab grocery store, or the Mexicans sitting on their porch, or the intimidating, shirtless, incredibly tan, incredibly tattooed men standing in a circle playing hacky-sack in their front lawn until the sun ducks below the treetops. Not even the bums on their way to spend their pennies at the liquor store or the teenagers playing loud music from their cars.

No, after a month here, the worst people in this neighborhood are--not surprisingly--the same as the worst people in my old neighborhood: they are the rich, white, college guys (sort of like myself, I suppose).

And despite the fact that their skin color and facial expressions aren't as frightening as an unknown black man, they have this amazing capacity to be unusually cruel to people.

I can't even count the times I've been yelled at from a car by a group of frat boys who have nothing better to do than make fun of a jogger on a Saturday afternoon.

That's actually what brought this post on.

A jog I went on the other day.

I mean, in an eight mile run I cover a lot of distance, from downtown, to South street, to 33rd, and back again.

I pass a lot of people.

The Mexicans on their porch, and the bums stumbling down the street. The Iraqis hanging out in front of their shop; the black guys, too. All the people who are different from us, I see them, I pass them, nothing happens usually except maybe a wave from the Iraqis.

But I knew immediately, when I saw that convertible BMW full of blond-tipped tanned white guys, that they were going to do something in an effort to mock me or make fun of me, like they've been doing for years... the same old high school schtick that hasn't failed them yet: picking on people.

It's funny, too.

It never fails. When I lived on 26th & Dudley it seemed like I couldn't go running without getting an earful of some college guy's bullshit.

And that neighborhood was really horrible.

But they are just words.

And they don't really matter.

...

Some white guy threw a brick through our Iraqi neighbor's grocery store for no reason at all.

They didn't even steal any money.

A huge sheet of glass crashing to the ground doesn't sound real. It sounds like something out of a movie, the shards sort of raining down on the concrete...

Friday night at about 2 a.m., I heard the giant pane of glass break and looked outside to see them speeding away, laughing, probably.

...

And this isn't to say that white people are bad.

I'm white.

It's just more interesting, than anything, I guess.

Our preception of things, that is.

Note: a friend of mine, Adam has arrived back in Japan after a hiatus of about a year. You should check out his blog which he and his girlfriend, Natsumi, write together. Hopefully he will keep writing at the same pace he is now, so we can all keep reading about what life is like in Saitama.