My South Beach Wigga Rap for Adults Only

 
MY SOUTH BEACH WIGGA RAP
BY
DAVID ARTHUR WALTERS

I had never heard the word “wigga” until Doc Hanley pronounced it in the car after he saved me from Ft. Lauderdale. l had landed there two days before Hurricane Jeanne blew in. My hotel reservation had been deleted because I was illegally bumped for someone willing to pay a higher rate. A cab driver took me to a decrepit motel, in what is euphemistically called the “inner city,” where I was able to rent one of the last rooms available. 

It was an interesting place. Russian “exchange students” posing as maids were the center of attraction, especially when they swam nude in the scum-laden pool as the storm whipped up. The lights went out, and people from the hood surrounding the motel were knocking on the doors, asking for money, cigarettes, food, whatever could be spared. 

So Doc, a veteran SEAL, bailed me out after the eye of the hurricane passed by. I asked him what in the world a “wigga” meant as we waited in line at a gas station. He pointed out a white man who was vacuuming out his car as rap music blared from inside the car, rattling the vehicle as if it were a tin can. The man had his pants pulled way down in back, showing black boxers with big pink polka dots. 

“That’s a wigga,” he said. 

“What? 

“A white nigga. 

“Oh. 

I had never heard of such a thing. I was a small town “inner city” guy myself. That would be Topeka (“a good place to grow potatoes”). I ran with the Mexicans from the other side of the tracks back then. My good friend, a black kid named Clifford Taylor, with whom I liked to wrestle, lived across the street. My very best friend was Jim Norton, a Mormon boy who wound up having two wives. The worst trouble Clifford, Jim and I got in was for peeing in the finger paint pots at school. 

I had the run of Topeka. I liked to visit Roy, an older black fellow who lived near the Capitol. He and his wife drank orange juice and whisky with breakfast on Sundays. I did not know any racists, but I guess there was plenty of racism in Topeka because sometimes I saw groups of black people marching around the neighborhood near Topeka High School singing “We Shall Overcome,” and I heard something about a Board of Education case that had the word “brown” in it. 

Long story short, I eventually ran away to Chicago when I was thirteen, where a black cook took me in and saved me from starving. He had a dozen white boys in his South Side crib. He turned out to be a pederast, so I hit the streets again. Fortunately I was taken in by a gay couple who kept their hands off me, and they kept me supplied with food and vodka and orange juice. I got a job, and then my very own crummy room in a Puerto Rican neighborhood. I eventually moved on to Manhattan. There were so many black people around my “inner city” “salt and pepper” hoods that I did not think in black and white, but rather in blurry terms. 

The blacks called me “grey boy.” They were more or less sophisticated, though some were pimps and drug dealers. I asked one of them about the “N-word” the rappers were using, why black people would use that word if it was demeaning, something whites put on them. 

“New York blacks are not niggers,” said one city slicker. “Niggers are ignorant Southern blacks. 

“Niggers can call each other niggers,” another said, “and throw it back with pride at white people, but coming from whites it is an insult. 

I was not even inclined to use the so-called N-word. I did enjoy it mouthed by Ice-T when he got popular. Rappers I noticed liked to use the “B-word,” which I thought was insulting to females in general unless they were the ones using it. 

Well, Miami, as everyone knows, is notorious for racism. I saw the riots on TV years ago. And I had lived in South Beach in the late Sixties, where I learned that blacks must be off the beach at sundown or else. Things have changed. Not many blacks live on the beach, but they like to come over from the Mainland and hang out. And thousands swarm to the beach for Memorial Day and Spring Break. The troublemakers among them are mostly from South Florida. 

I thought of Doc, may he rest in peace, when I passed by a Washington Avenue tattoo parlor shortly after I arrived. A heavily tattooed white man, with pants pulled down, and a black fellow sporting lots of bling, were chatting by the doorway. During the course of their exchange, wherein every fifth word was the F-word, the black man addressed the white guy as “nigga” several times, and I noticed that when he did so the white guy’s face lit up with delight. 

“Wow,” I thought, “that is what Doc was talking about. The fellow is a wigga for sure. And the black man is playing him. 

Now I do not like to use vulgar language unless I am really angry and lose control, and even then I do not use racist terms as I was not raised early on in that climate. Still I believed the meaning of wigga should be memorialized, so I put on my Nicki Minaj album yesterday and jotted down the following: 

SOUTH BEACH WIGGA RAP
(Sample Lyric by Grey Boy)

SCENE: 

Chorus and Wigga in front of Washington Avenue tattoo parlor, Duck Tours bus passing by, Wigga has pants way down and has big slice of pizza

CHORUS: 

Hey, hey, looka you, looka you
White boy, wigga now, wigga now, 
You a South Beach wigga boy now, 
Wigga wigga bona fide boy,
What you say now (what you say now) 

WIGGA: 

I say fuckada fuck fuck fuck! 
I’m a fuckin South Beach wigga! 
Looka me now South Beach Duck Tours, 
Go fuck a duck, I’m a wigga now, 
Fucka ducka fucka ducka

CHORUS:

Hey, hey, looka you, looka you
White boy nigga now, wigga now, 

You a South Beach wigga boy now,
Wigga nigga bona fide boy, 

What you say now (what you say now) 

WIGGA: 

I ain’t afraid (I ain’t afraid) 
I got my piece (I got my piece) 
I got my slice (I got my slice) 
I’m a wigga (I’m a wigga) 
I’m a fuckin South Beach wigga
I’m a pants down wigga nigga, 
On the fuckin beach with bitches
Grabbin my crotch (grabbin my crotch) 
Saying fuckety fuckety fuck, 
I’ve got it made (I’ve got it made) 
I ain’t afraid (I ain’t afraid) 
I got my slice, I got my piece, 
I got bitches, I got bitches, 
They got their tits I got my tats, 
Fuckin white boys go fuck yourselves
I got it all, I got it all, 
I’m the man now, I’m the man now, 
Fucka ducka fuckety fuck
I’m a wigga, I’m a wigga

CHORUS: 

Hey, hey, looka you, looka you
White boy, nigga now, wigga now, 
You a South Beach wigga boy, 
Wigga nigga bona fide boy
You a nigga toy, wigga boy!

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