Cracker a-salt

At the risk of this rapidly turning into a crazy-people-on-the-subways blog, I've got another tale, and it's a doozy.
I got done babysitting in too-cool-for-school Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and hopped onto the subway with a bunch of punk rockers. I was the most straight, square and sober )and least sparkily) person on there by a mile. A few stops later, I looked up and the punks had been replaced by the New York stew of ethnicities. By 14th Street, I was the only while girl.
I'm used to playing the token white girl in my neighborhood, and barring the foreseen air conditioning accident (see previous entry) I rep my people well; I always have a smile for children and dogs, smalltalk for the shopkeeps and a neighborly "hola" for anyone else.
The man who got up to rap on the subway didn't see me that way though. His rap was trite and derivative, even by rap standards. I thought how cool it'd be to hop up and battle him with my one rhyme ("I'm not black like obsidian, but I spread word like the Gideons. I'm like a prophet when I get lyrical, I spit rhymes and you say it's a miracle.")
Everyone else thought he was lame too because nobody gave him any change. This made him change his tactic. He began pacing back and forth, yelling about how white people were ruining Harlem by buying apartments there and making the buildings nice.
I look around. I'm the only white person. Awesome. Everyone else casts a glance my way, and some sort of self-preservation class-clown thing kicked in. The man turned his back and I pointed at myself innocently and let out a little "eep." Everyone smiled except for my man.
"You think this is funny cracker?" he shouted. "No crackers should be allowed above 103rd Street."
This is layer upon layer of crazy for many reasons, not the least of which is that Columbia University - a known cracker haven - is at 116th Street. I live at 207th, which is more than twice his tolerance level for crackers' abodes.
He yells at me and at the car in general for a few more minutes, about co-op boards and crackers, then comes back to me.
"What stop you getting off at cracker? It better not be after 103rd. I'm watching you cracker."
I really wanted to tell him that I'm really more of a honky, one that listened to Kanye West's CD for over 200 consecutive work days, but I figured he wasn't in the mood to appreciate it, so I stared off into space while he yelled some more, then strode off to try his by-all-accounts unsuccessful rap career on the next car.