Atticus   

As 32-year-old Ashwak Saleh, hands cuffed behind her back, was guided by an officer’s hand on her head into a waiting police cruiser, I noticed she was wearing a T-shirt. It was white and adorned with a drawing of what appeared to be Ludwig van Beethoven.

It may have been Brahms, Bach or even Mozart. I’m no authority on famous composers — the reach of my knowledge ends somewhere just beyond “Rock Me Amadeus” and “Hooked on Classics.” I don’t own even one CD pulled from a rack or bin labeled “classical.”

I suspect Ashwak doesn’t either.

Maybe it’s racial or socioeconomic stereotyping. But because she was arrested this week for whipping out a 13-inch machete and sharpening it while on the sidewalk in front of the White House, I’m almost certain the only movement familiar to this woman involves her bowels.

I recognized the garment draped on her body from a Wireless or Signals of years past.

I have a hard time picturing Ashwak stepping out of her townhome and retrieving a copy of one of those public broadcasting catalogs from her letterbox to later peruse over a chai latte at Starbucks.

What’s more likely is that she found the T-shirt at a Salvation Army store or some other place you can buy secondhand clothing that isn’t considered cool enough by the Weezer wannabes in Lisa Loeb glasses who pay top dollar for vintage, like a Seven and the Ragged Tiger concert T-shirt.

And it reminded me of the two or three times I’ve seen an Auburn shirt on a homeless person.

I’m never surprised. Auburn people are, on the whole, an incredibly charitable group. I attribute it to a student body probably more active in church activities than at any other state university. Several years ago, when asked by James Dobson on his radio show about the public institution he would most recommend to a Christian parent, fundamentalist speaker and author Josh McDowell, without hesitation, named Auburn. Frightening, I know.

But we’re not the only other group marked by a record of giving. When it comes to donations, the Bobos and the gays are as consistent as Joe Rogan’s tanning regimen.

So I know the day is coming. The day I’m flipping channels and stop on the local Fox affiliate’s news program and see someone in a mobile home park being taken in for domestic violence proclaiming “My Other Ride Is Your Mom.” The day I’m sitting in a barbecue joint in some forested hinterland, a couple of tables away from a hefty, underprivileged 11-year-old with Morning Wood. Or the day I’m walking to my vehicle after a Thrashers game and someone hits me up for cash who once worked in Shipping or Receiving.

Considering whose residence was nearby at the time of her arrest, maybe Ashwak would’ve fared better if she had agreed that Everything Is Bigger in Texas.