As the rape allegation against New York morning news anchor and NYPD Commissioner Ray Kelly's son Greg Kelly begins to unravel, a few points strike me as noteworthy: (1) The charge was made several weeks after the alleged attack; (2) the charge was made after the purported termination of a pregnancy alleged to be the result of the alleged attack; (3) the involvement of the alleged victim's boyfriend in the aftermath of the alleged attack; (4) the circle of privilege in which the parties involved travel; and (5) how the whole thing stunk to high heaven from jump.
Forgive my tone of righteous indignation, but I gotta tell it like it is in this long overdue day of more careful observance of the rights of women and victims of sex crimes: There is a class of women who believe themselves entitled to special treatment because of their heritage and/or the breadth of their appeal to men. It is any man's worst nightmare to engage such women in whatever capacity, though there are men who, inexplicably, will have no other kind of woman.
From the accounts I have read, the alleged victim is exceptionally attractive and the daughter of a prominent attorney. On the face of these impressions, the word "princess" veritably bursts through my mind's fortified sensitivity filter. This is regretful to me because, as a black male reared in the least popular borough of New York City, I have worn for the benefit of many who consider themselves my betters, any number of misapplied labels based solely on my race and where I grew up. Touché, because now, I get to turn at least some of the tables.
As one who has labored in New York City's service industry, I am certain that the following echoes the sentiments of many: I cannot accurately tally the number of high maintenance prima donnas I have come across who have expected the world in return for a half-hearted word of superficial praise or a batted eyelash. I have borne the gall of women who just KNEW they were making my pathetic day by deigning to acknowledge my existence with a wan, patronizing smile, as though my woeful lot in life was to desire her majesty with no hope of ever knowing the pleasure of her grace. To any such lady who reticently recognizes herself in those rather striking words, here are a few more: Get over yourself. Most of us who are, or once were, charged with parking your car, carrying your bags, chaperoning your genetically engineered abomination of a lap dog or returning your expertly prepared meal to the chef because there was a tad too much crust on the seared meat cannot wait for you to be on your way so that we can get on with our very real, though certainly less glamorous lives. Besides, you, your parents, friends and paramours do a far better job worshipping you for banalities than we ever could.
That's enough venting for now. There is more to come, because this is a very real, very complicated issue that my stream-of-consciousness has temporarily co-opted.
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