Lil' Massa

Last night was the most magical night of my life.
No, I did not have a date with a wandering minstrel.

I had dinner with my high school American History teacher, her 15-year-old son, and another woman who I once worked for (a hook-up gained through the history teacher, obvi). These are three of the whitest people I have ever known, and yet the connection was undeniable—proving that the great blacktor Richard Pryor was right when he says “We’re all just people. We’re all just the same,” in his autobiography Pryor Convictions.

This may sound stranger coming from me, Sojourner Truth (can you handle it?). Let me explain:

First off, my history teacher and I have had a bond from DAY ONE. It was her first year teaching on the plantation, and I was a seasoned slave. I was prepared to give this White woman hell as she prepared to teach American History—or, as it should be called African-American History. Tall, thin, with an Upper East Side townhouse, I thought Mrs. L was going to be my new oppressor.

But she wasn’t. I aced her class like none other—and she let my first comedic leanings as a blacktress shine through. I actually wrote in the blue book of my American History final: “Often times, if one listened closely, one could hear Woody Woo [that’s what I called Woodrow Wilson] sitting in the White House late at night, chanting softly to himself, ‘Down, down, down, Kaiser’s goin’ down.’”

I got a 99 on this exam. No one saw it coming.
My competitive classmates, vying for early admission into the best schools, were shocked that this little slave girl could kick ass and take names in American History—wasn’t that supposed to be their domain? Shouldn’t I have still been silenced under the mental shackles of oppression that held me down for centuries? They were confused.

But Mrs. L wasn’t. That 99% solidified my genius in her mind, and she nurtured me for years afterwards. She even asked me to babysit her youngest son, Snowden*, when he was 9 years old and I was a high-school senior. At first, I wondered if this would be harkening back to slave days, and I’d be forced to call young Snowden ‘Massa,’ but I was assured this was all on the up and up—and I got paid (holla at a freed playa)!

Snowden is pasty pale with white-blonde hair, big blue eyes, and huge glasses. In short: he is whiter than the day is long. For two weeks, we went to museums, read books, and went on play dates around the Upper East Side. Allergic to both nuts and soy, Snowden’s dining options were limited, and even at the age of 9 his palate preferred French bread with olive oil over PB&J sandwiches (well, in all fairness, the sandwiches would have sent him into anaphylactic shock, so I guess he was biologically programmed to be bourgie). As the son of a medical doctor and a woman with a PhD in History, he was born to be nerdy, and his allergies only added fuel to the fire.
I loved him.

He would tell me jokes that I didn’t get, and I laughed wholeheartedly at my Lil’ Massa. Once, he said to me:

“Hey, Sojourner, how did Rome split Gaul into three parts?”
“How, Lil’ Massa?”
“They used a pair of Ceasars!”

HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA.
(I still don't get it.)

Over the years we’ve kept in touch, and Snowden is now a freshman at a prestigious New England boarding school, where young Caucasia is bred for greatness. However, Snowden and the rest of the Mrs. L’s sons (three in all), are very multi-culti. Citing Snowden’s recent interest in African food, Mrs. L suggested we dine at an Ethiopian restaurant, where we all dug in with our clean hands, enjoying our ethnic delights.

Joining us for dinner was Mary, a family friend of Mrs. L who I assistant directed a show for. Mrs. L put us in touch when she discovered my love for theater, thinking that Mary would be a good influence on a budding strong black woman. Though she’s of the Caucasian persuasion, she has a black husband and two mixie sons, and she’s got sass for days. So, basically, Mrs. L was right.

At dinner, Mary and I caught up, and Sarah asked me about my latest man drama—they love to hear how the young people do things nowadays—so I told them about the wandering minstrel. Before I delved deep into my story, Mary cut me off:
“Never call a man,” she decreed, waving her finger like a Jerry Springer guest.
“But, but, what if he’s awkward?!”
“NO! You should never call a man!” she insisted. “You can call your homosexual male friends, but any man worth your time will pursue you like his life depends on it—because it does!!! Without you he is nothing!”
She became even more incensed when I told her my latest crush is an actor.
“Have you learned nothing?!” she bellowed (God bless her for not being afraid of making a scene). “Actors are no good. Sweet goodness, don’t tell me he’s a comedian.”
Luckily, he isn’t, so I didn’t lose any more of her respect.

Snowden, surrounded by three women, just ate his injera and laughed, trying his best to remain inconspicuous. I was caught up in the girl talk when I realized I had, sitting across from me, a young Caucasian male, aged 15 years. I could impact this future tall-glass-of-awkward-milk when he was at his most impressionable.

I had to take this chance.

“Snowden, let me help you out,” I said. He looked at me, bulging baby-blue eyes wide, ready to take in the TRUTH.
“Let me tell you how to succeed with women,” I continued. “It’s very simple.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Say. What. You. Mean.”
I leaned back and took a sip of my water, letting that sink in. His 15-year-old self stared at me blankly.
“Look, when you like a girl, act like it. Go up to her in the dining hall and say, ‘Hello, pretty lady. You are attractive and seem smart and cool. May I take you out for a malt?’ And when you take her out for this malt, ask her tons of questions about herself—don’t just start rambling. Get her to share. And after consuming that malt—which you pay for—you say to her, ‘Thank you for your time, pretty lady. I enjoyed myself. I will call you in a few days.’ And a ‘few’ means THREE. And when you say you will call her, actually call her. And when you decide you’re not interested in dating, don’t try to kiss her on the mouth when you see her at a party the following weekend. Say. What. You. Mean.”

It really is that simple, y’all. The drama comes when a fool says he’s going to call and doesn’t. It comes when he acts as though he is interested in a blacktress and then falls of the face of the earth. It comes when you tell him not to put his p in your v without a c, he nods and says “yeah, you’re right,” and then proceeds to put his p in your v without a c!!!!!

The young Snowden’s mind was blown, and I could tell I made a lasting impression. In about 10 years, some of y’all are going to want to marry him, ‘cause he will know how to behave. Oh, and if any other blacktresses needed a reason to holla at a future tall glass, listen to this:

When I asked him how boarding school was going and if he was doing any extracurricular activities, he said to me, “I’m going to start an UJIMAA club.”

UJIMAA means "collective work and responsibility" in Swahili, and is one of the seven principles of Kwanzaa (which, as you all know, is Swahili for "after Christmas sales"). Ujimaa clubs exist at many colleges, and are often formed by and are comprised of the African American students.

Snowden, whiter than powder on a snow-covered mountain, is starting an UJIMAA club at one of the preppiest boarding schools in the country.
“Lil’ Massa, don’t you know you’re White?” I asked him sincerely.
He laughed.
And so did I.

Good times.

*names have been changed to protect the Caucasian.