Lion of Judah

Two sights I have never seen in New York grace my observations this weekend.

The first: A van carrying retarded Hasidic Jews, loads up on Flatbush Avenue.

I don't like political correctness, but I do like retards.

I am at my friend's wedding in June with my girlfriend-at-the-time, Nora. The wedding is a reunion of friends from my hometown who have known each other forever. Mike is there with his whole family, including his retarded brother Markey. We always have a bond, namely because both of our names are Marc.

Markey has gained a few pounds since I last see him. He's now about 25. "Hey Markey, I say teasing him, "you got to take care of that." I point to his double chin.

Markey looks at Nora. "Is that your girlfriend?"

I nod, yes.

"I'll take care of her," he says.

Two.

I’m shopping at the Park Slope Food Co-op on a Sunday afternoon. Most people seem normal, indistinguishable from the clientele at any other supermarket, save a few distinct souls, none more distinctive than the Lions of Judah I encounter yesterday.

Three Rastas. A mother and her two dreadlocked children. Their dreads are tricked out, medusa style. The daughter is a teenager. The little boy, no older than 10. They are all wearing camouflage. The mother’s purse, is in camo. The kids are dressed, in camo. The mother has a big patch on the back of her, camo, jacket. It says Lion of Judah.

There is a personal precedent. I once work with a black guy who is a self-described “Lion of Judah.” But considering his last name is Rothman and his first name Henry, it’s a safe bet that he fits the description in the traditional sense. Given his name, Henry Rothman, I tell him he should get into the field of men’s haberdashery.

He does not wear camouflage.

This collective refer to the Lion of Judah in the Rastafari sense: former Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia is considered to be a direct descendant of King David, and known as the Lion of Judah, or Jah Rastafari. I look at their cart filled with soy products and forgot about them. Beyond their appearance, they are normal.

Minutes later, I stand across from the coterie at the check-out counter. The little boy goes missing, as little boys are apt to do. The mother calls out for him repeating his name over and over. But, he was no mere little boy, for this little boy’s name was “His Majesty.”

If I am a 10-year-old boy and my name is His Majesty, I'm not listening either.