So I was
perusing Craigslist and found that someone is putting together a coffee table book of amusing BART stories. I don't know if it's legit or not, but it gave me an excuse to share one of my favorites...which I will now share with you.
PS - This story is 100% true.
A One-man Race War
By Nathan Rothwell
As a Midwestern transplant to the Bay Area, I am continually amazed that a public transportation system like BART is so readily available. There are many, many things to love about it - the convenience, its green-friendliness, its ability to save commuters from the perils of rush-hour traffic...the list is nearly endless. Far and away, however, my favorite thing about BART is the plethora of colorful characters one can encounter on the trains. And among the sometimes delightful, sometimes curious and sometimes downright frightening people I have met, one stands head and shoulders above the rest.
I came to meet this man on a lazy Sunday afternoon. My buddy McQuinn was in town, visiting me to escape the doldrums of another bitter Missouri winter, and we were on our way back to my Fremont apartment after spending the day in the city. Upon reaching the Fruitvale stop, we first saw him. A large, African-American man boarded our train and sat down a few rows ahead of us, facing in our direction. At first, he didn't seem anything out of the ordinary. He appeared well-dressed with a sharp looking black overcoat and was listening to an iPod; you wouldn't have figured him for a mental case...that is, until he opened his mouth.
As he looked over toward an elderly gentleman dozing off in an adjacent row, he loudly announced “That's a CRACKER right there! Martin Luther King WARNED us about crackers like him!”
While we were definitely taken aback by his unexpected announcement, neither we nor the other train occupants made a sound...at least, not above the roar of the train as it continued toward its destination. For his part, the “cracker” being called out, while not oblivious to this peculiar man's remarks, elected to ignore them as well and returned to his snooze.
Yet he continued trying for his attention, undaunted. “Hey CRACKER!” he shouted, trying to get his attention as he blew kisses at him. “Talk to me, cracker!” The situation had become as amusing as it was unusual, but I did my best not to laugh out loud. Being somewhat of a “cracker” myself, I figured it wise not to give him another, more attentive target. This continued until we arrived at Bay Fair, and the entire train emptied to transfer for the Fremont line, with the old man and his new “friend” included. Evidently disappointed by his current cracker audience, he disappeared down the stairs, indicating what looked like the end of a slightly amusing tale. Little did I know the best was yet to come.
The man reappeared outside the station, and began screaming at the top of his lungs. “IT'S OPEN SEASON ON CRACKERS TONIGHT!” Now that he had our attention, the entire platform turned to look at him as he ambled into the distance, shouting a message of warning. “IT AIN'T SAFE FOR CRACKERS TO BE OUT TONIGHT! I AM THE LEADER OF THE BLOOD GUERRILLAS, AND WE GOT OURSELVES A MISSION TONIGHT! ALL CRACKERS MUST DIE!!!”
At this point, McQuinn asked me what I thought would happen if we were to call him a cracker in return from our relative safety atop the platform. While I couldn't help but laugh at the idea, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, especially in dealing with the psychotic. Seemingly intent on finding at least someone to participate in his one-man race war, the Blood Guerrilla Leader continued shouting as he exited into the parking lot, but sadly no crackers could be found to take him up on his efforts.
Sadly, once we finally (and safely) arrived home and immediately Googled the “Blood Guerrillas,” we could find no definitive proof that such a group existed. But when some friends of ours due to visit us from Pittsburg arrived much later than expected, I couldn't help but become alarmed that we had failed to heed the warning of the Blood Guerrilla Leader. And while I have had many interesting experiences on BART, none have evoked such a range of emotions as this - amusement at the behavior of a lunatic conducting his own personal race war, sadness at the racism that continues to pervade his mind and the minds of many more, and the fear I carry with me to this day when I find myself at the Bay Fair station when the sun disappears behind the hills - after all, it's open season on crackers. And the Blood Guerrilla(s) might be waiting.
PS - This story is 100% true.
A One-man Race War
By Nathan Rothwell
As a Midwestern transplant to the Bay Area, I am continually amazed that a public transportation system like BART is so readily available. There are many, many things to love about it - the convenience, its green-friendliness, its ability to save commuters from the perils of rush-hour traffic...the list is nearly endless. Far and away, however, my favorite thing about BART is the plethora of colorful characters one can encounter on the trains. And among the sometimes delightful, sometimes curious and sometimes downright frightening people I have met, one stands head and shoulders above the rest.
I came to meet this man on a lazy Sunday afternoon. My buddy McQuinn was in town, visiting me to escape the doldrums of another bitter Missouri winter, and we were on our way back to my Fremont apartment after spending the day in the city. Upon reaching the Fruitvale stop, we first saw him. A large, African-American man boarded our train and sat down a few rows ahead of us, facing in our direction. At first, he didn't seem anything out of the ordinary. He appeared well-dressed with a sharp looking black overcoat and was listening to an iPod; you wouldn't have figured him for a mental case...that is, until he opened his mouth.
As he looked over toward an elderly gentleman dozing off in an adjacent row, he loudly announced “That's a CRACKER right there! Martin Luther King WARNED us about crackers like him!”
While we were definitely taken aback by his unexpected announcement, neither we nor the other train occupants made a sound...at least, not above the roar of the train as it continued toward its destination. For his part, the “cracker” being called out, while not oblivious to this peculiar man's remarks, elected to ignore them as well and returned to his snooze.
Yet he continued trying for his attention, undaunted. “Hey CRACKER!” he shouted, trying to get his attention as he blew kisses at him. “Talk to me, cracker!” The situation had become as amusing as it was unusual, but I did my best not to laugh out loud. Being somewhat of a “cracker” myself, I figured it wise not to give him another, more attentive target. This continued until we arrived at Bay Fair, and the entire train emptied to transfer for the Fremont line, with the old man and his new “friend” included. Evidently disappointed by his current cracker audience, he disappeared down the stairs, indicating what looked like the end of a slightly amusing tale. Little did I know the best was yet to come.
The man reappeared outside the station, and began screaming at the top of his lungs. “IT'S OPEN SEASON ON CRACKERS TONIGHT!” Now that he had our attention, the entire platform turned to look at him as he ambled into the distance, shouting a message of warning. “IT AIN'T SAFE FOR CRACKERS TO BE OUT TONIGHT! I AM THE LEADER OF THE BLOOD GUERRILLAS, AND WE GOT OURSELVES A MISSION TONIGHT! ALL CRACKERS MUST DIE!!!”
At this point, McQuinn asked me what I thought would happen if we were to call him a cracker in return from our relative safety atop the platform. While I couldn't help but laugh at the idea, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, especially in dealing with the psychotic. Seemingly intent on finding at least someone to participate in his one-man race war, the Blood Guerrilla Leader continued shouting as he exited into the parking lot, but sadly no crackers could be found to take him up on his efforts.
Sadly, once we finally (and safely) arrived home and immediately Googled the “Blood Guerrillas,” we could find no definitive proof that such a group existed. But when some friends of ours due to visit us from Pittsburg arrived much later than expected, I couldn't help but become alarmed that we had failed to heed the warning of the Blood Guerrilla Leader. And while I have had many interesting experiences on BART, none have evoked such a range of emotions as this - amusement at the behavior of a lunatic conducting his own personal race war, sadness at the racism that continues to pervade his mind and the minds of many more, and the fear I carry with me to this day when I find myself at the Bay Fair station when the sun disappears behind the hills - after all, it's open season on crackers. And the Blood Guerrilla(s) might be waiting.