You Know It's Hot, Don't Forget What You Got, Looking Back...

Nothing like Lauryn Hill quote to kick off a farewell post.

It is now 4:30pm on Tuesday, April 14. In exactly 16 hours, I will board a Qantas flight bound for NYC.
My feelings are as mixed as the drinks I will be having at my farewell jam in a few hours.

I got back from my 5-week journey on Easter--I like to time my resurrections with those of the Lord. I was taken in by Meg, who recently moved into a new house, complete with three bedrooms and a dungeon.
I kid you not.
Luckily, I wasn't forced to sleep there.

Much of yesterday I was dying to go home, frustrated because of the inability to get someone to drive me to pick up my luggage, especially when one friend had already offered, but then backed out by pretending like it wasn't happening. It really hit home the sense of helplessness I'd felt many times in Sydney, not being able to do the simplest things--like laundry, for instance--without paying excessive amounts, or asking someone I'm not really close to for a favor.

I know that, although the last thing I want is to shack up with my mother and her latin lover, I also can't wait to sleep in my own bed, not wear thongs--oops, i mean flip-flops!--in the shower, and come and go easily.

But today, as I ran errands around the city, I found myself quite nostalgic, and actually sad. The sun is shining, I was actually too warm in my long-sleeved top, and Sydney was beautiful--and I felt like I'd made it my place, in a way. I have friends here and know where to go, and have made memories. I also have six months left on my visa, and there is a part of me that wonders if going home is a bad idea. I just found out my main gay may be leaving NYC in mere weeks, and my sister from another mister is heading to grad school in the fall. Add to this the fact that I've spent 6 months being a total selfish loner, not having to do anything but stay afloat and answer to no one, and you have a blacktress with a deep-seated fear of returning to reality.

I mean, 6 months is nothing in the grand scheme of life. Granted, I missed a few births, engagements, a black president and a global financial crisis--but, you know, the bars will be the same, and the dudes I hate won't have gained the 50 pounds I hoped they would as punishment.

Will folks actually have missed me? I want my reunion to be like that of Christian the lion and his old owners. You know, like this:



Is that too much to ask? I just want to maul you with my LOVE!!

When it comes to Sydneytown, there are some THINGS I WON'T MISS:
-trying to get home after midnight and paying a crapton.
-paying for condiments. Seriously, don't you think it's sort of passive aggressive to sell someone french fries and then charge them 50 cents for a package of ketchup?
-explaining my hair to total strangers.
-hearing the songs 'Save Tonight' and 'Land Down Under' at least once a day. I mean, 'Land Down Under' in Australia?????????

But really, when I think about it, there are so many THINGS I"LL MISS LIKE WHOA:
-Sweet, sweet, Eli Reed. You began as a reader, and you became a soul sister.
-Oh, dear, dear Meg. You have taught me much about the side hustle, and the ability to be a rockstar.


Wedges with sweet chili and sour cream--the most unlikely-yet-heavenly combination in the history of cookery.

-Lemon, lime, and bitters. Best. drink. ever.
-Meeting random strangers on public transportation and then being facebooked by them.
-Telling people I'm a blacktress and not being asked 'where do you wait tables?'
-Suzy Q, who always tried to get me out of the house when I was depressed, and told me I should stay in Sydney. Her optimism is precious.
-Abbreviating every word possible.


-Sushi Train. Delicious, delicious Sushi Train. Above shows where I ate on the regular, including my last lunch in Ausland.

-And, of course, Aussie accents. I'm still holding out for my foreign husband!

Okay, off to dranks with peeps. Next posts will be the tales of my travels--soooooooooo worth the wait!

xoxo,
blacktress!

Off Into the Outback

Blacktress' Log, Star date 7 March 2009.

I am in my room in Lilyfield and it's mostly packed. The two large suitcases I arrived with are filled to the brim, and my third excess bag has books and Buffy DVDs, and some shoes. I feel like I did the last couple days of college, when your parents take your stuff, but you still stick around for Senior Week in hopes of making out with your crush from Intro Psych.

Tomorrow at 6:30am, I begin a Sojourn unlike any other that Sojourner has seen. For the next 5 weeks I will explore this sunburnt country in all its glory. I will visit a glacier in New Zealand, sleep under the stars in the outback, and do all of this while carrying all my necessities in a backpack.

I am becoming a BLACKpacker.

My fear is palpable.

I've never just up and gone, and my lack of physical fitness makes carrying 20 pounds on my back as I trek a bit of a worry. I just feel like I'll be wearing a large sign that says "swindle and mug me, good sir"--and I'll end up with a herniated disk.

But this is what I wanted to do. I am dying to see the country, get out of Sydney, and really explore. And I'm not doing the typical backpacker route, which is up the East Coast all the way to Cairns, enjoying 6 weeks of beaches and booze. No, no--the blacktress is going into the middle, into the Northern Territory. Where the sand is red, the roads are empty, and the animals are deadly.

I am so frickin' nervous and excited!!!

I will start in Adelaide, the capital city in South Australia, where I'll chill for 3 days seeing the sights. Everyone says Adelaide is boring and that 3 days is too long, but one of those days will involve a winery tour in the Barossa Valley--you know how I love my wine! I also have an acquaintance there who will gladly show me some things, so that should take the edge off as well.
From Adelaide, I hop on a 6-day/5-night bus tour that will take me into the Northern Territory. Being the outback and all, travel is expensive and difficult, and driving is the only way to get around. Considering I'm a New Yorker who can't really drive, and certainly can't handle the wrong side of the road and 90-degree weather in a beat-up truck, this bus tour was the perfect way to see everything and be safe. We stop at Coober Pedy, a town that's underground because it's so damn hot in the desert (I wonder if it has an underground railroad?). It's also the opal capital of the world, and my mom has already asked that I bring her back something "unique."

From there we continue up north, stopping at all the major sights--Uluru, Kings Canyon, the Olgas. All this lovely nature-y stuff that I would never be able to get to or see on my own. I'll even be CAMPING, guys!! AAHHHH!! Under the outback stars!!
Yes, I bought bug spray.

I spend a couple days in Alice Springs, where the bus lands. I'm excited to see actual Aboriginals and learn some things about their culture in land they inhabit. From there I'll fly to Darwin, at the very very top of the Northern Territory, where it's the wet season and it'll be 90 degress with humidity when it's not pouring rain. They also have jellyfish warnings, so going into the ocean is not advised. YAY!!!

I plan to wrestle a crocodile while I'm there.

From there I'll fly over to Cape Tribulation, on the Great Barrier Reef. I will snorkel in an attempt to find Nemo.

From there I fly to Wellington, NZ, where my hunt for Bret and Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords will begin. I will also go on a Lord of the Rings tour unironically, and learn to speak Elvish.

For you visual folks, here's the route:




After 2 weeks in NZ, I will return to Sydney for a few days, before hopping on a Qantas flight back to NYC.

Yes, people. The blacktress is coming BACK(tress)!

So, this may be my last post for a little while--I'm going to be broke-ass, and paying $3-8 bucks for internet doesn't seem sensible. I'll try to find public libraries and keep everyone abreast, but don't be angry if it's few and far between. Most likely I will write a fuck-ton while I'm on the road and then put it all up when I get back. I'll try to take tons of pictures because I'm sure most of you will simply be amused to see me wearing a huge backpack. The photos will mostly be of landscapes, though, seeing as I'll be wearing the same clothes over and over, and end up looking a hot mess.

Wish me luck, and don't hesitate to email or comment. I'll need to know I'm not alone as I begin this journey.

xoxo,
Sojo

The Boob Tube

Oh my god, just when I thought Australian TV was crap, it goes and surprises me like nothing else.

I'm at home now, trying to take my mind off the fact that Mr. Weasley has yet to respond to an email I sent three full days ago. I'm trying to silence the voices in my head that say, "see, this is why you'll die alone"-- which involves watching television.

Now, I'm normally a "Neighhbours" girl. I mean, it featured Natalie Imbruglia AND Kylie, for goodness sake--anyone who's anyone in Australia has been on this show. "Home and Away" is the other big soap, and it's based in Sydney, while "Neighbours" is based in Melbourne." The rivalry is very East Coast/West Coast rap.
Hardcore in every way.
I made a call early on, when I first saw "Neighbours" in England, and my allegiance has been unwavering.
Until now.

I was just watching the last few minutes of "Home and Away," as I waited for 'How I Met Your Mother'. I don't know what happened beforehand, but all the teens were in a tizzy over some list that some bitchy blonde girl wrote. Apparently, she wrote who was cute and who was not, which you know had everyone all upset. I don't know the characters names, but you know, pretty white kids with problems, no real difference. Basically, the bitchy blonde girl wrote that another bitchy blonde girl, "thinks she's hot." So BBG #2 went up to her and was like, "How could you say that about me?"
BBG #1 is all, "What do you mean?"
BBG #2 says, "I don't think I'm hot," all angry-like.
Then, in a total unforeseen turn, BBG #1 goes, "You don't? Well I do."
THEN GRABS THE GIRL AND KISSES HER!!!!

HOLLA AT TEEN LESBIAN KISSES BEFORE PRIMETIME!!

Guys, it was so amazing. Okay, to be fair, they totally cut away after she pulled her in, then showed the end of the kiss in a long shot, but still! It wasn't even 7:30pm. Tweens and teens were awake, and probably sitting down to dinner with "Hom(o) and Away" in the background! Why is Australia so cool? Is this almost as good as Degrassi?! I can't recall teen lesbian kisses on basic cable on the Northern Hemi. Can anyone jog my memory?

It almost makes me want to not leave, but then I remember I'm bored.

The Three-Day Grape Escape - aka - the Blacktress Goes Sideways

I'm writing on location from the Hunter Valley, the nearest wine country outside of Sydney. The HV (not to be confused with the HPV) is magical, and every vineyard has a "cellar door," where they conduct free tastings. I got up at about 8:30 this morning and arrived at the HV at 11:30, and had about 10 minutes to use the loo and apply lipgloss (you know it's got to be poppin'!) before heading off on the afternoon wine tour.

The itinerary: 2 wineries, break for lunch, 2 more wineries, and then a cheese tasting.

My buzz is just wearing off.

I came solo, but connected through the IEP program's many hook-ups. I'm loving the fact that they let me come to their offices, dominate their internet, ask them endless questions, and haven't kicked me out yet. I also appreciate their willingness to get drunk with me without judgments (more on their "Canada party" later).

There were 4 other people on the tour, 2 pairs of pals who were all.... FRENCH CANADIAN!!! As they spoke their native French-Canadian tongue, my pulse began to quicken, for me all know how I feel about Canadians. I wasn't sure how to interact, and was already feeling awkward and lonesome.

Luckily, this changed after the first winery.

We headed to Drayton's, where the shopgirl was working her first day, and seemed to be quite generous. We tried, like, 7 wines and 2 ports, and were already giggly and tripping after 30 minutes, and our love of liquor acted as a cross-cultural bond that could not be broken. I was on the hunt for some Pinot Noir for BCB as a thank-you gift, so I tried to stay focused--which was nearly impossible considering I hadn't eaten breakfast and we were on to the ports before 12:15pm.

Our tour guide was Mike, a fair dinkum Aussie bloke who wore a loud Hawaiian shirt partially buttoned, allowing his tufts to gray chest hair to have some air. He and I chatted alot, seeing as I wasn't French Canadian and didn't have anyone else to talk to. He pointed out fun facts and cool locations, adding a hint of color and class to the tour.
"Oi, guys," he said as the FCs chatted, "over there is the Broken Back Range--that's where the gay cowboys hang out."
Oh, Mike, you're hilarious!!

At the second vineyard, we tried about 5 wines, but this lady was a pro, so we couldn't coax more tastings out of her. However, I did get a sample of the Aleatico, a wine so old that it's known to be Napoleon's favorite.
I think this makes me a dictator.

Over lunch, Mike and I chatted about the election, and about how I'm "not a normal American" because I'm traveling for so long by myself. "Most Americans come for a few months, over vacation, then head back. You're breaking the ice, Sojourner!" I'm all about the old weathery Aussie blokes, cause they are really friendly and random. Take, for instance, our trip to the third winery, the Bimbadgen Estate...

As we drove up, Mike told us about the concerts and events they often hold on the grounds, such as the upcoming concert with "Alicia Keys and that girl from American Idol--you know, 'No air, No air.'" Mike then proceeds to sing snippets from Jordin Sparks' "No air" for the rest of the afternoon in this really high-pitched voice, and for some reason, it never ceases to make me laugh.

Graham, the host of Bimbadgen, is another bloke, and as he gives us tastes he chats us up and ends up taking quite a shine to the blacktress. I tell him I'm staying for a year and he says, "I think you'll be all right here," after I make him chuckle with some one-liners. I reveal that I'm a blacktress, which he dubs a "very clever" term, and tells me their opening up a new theater in Cessnock--a town of about 5,000 just next to the wineries. He suggest I be their opening act.
As we head out (I unfortunately buy no bottles because I already picked up bottles at Draytons), Graham shakes my hand and says, "Blacktress, it was a pleasure meeting you. When you take over Australia, remember you started here first."

I think Graham is going to be president of my fan club.

I now write from the YHA common room, where I fight the urge to open a bottle of port--after all, I have been drinking for 4 hours already and it's just now 6:30.

Um, who am I kidding? I have an addiction.

So It Begins.... 17/10/2008

I told you I'd go into my male suitor, right guys? Well, I practice what I preach (TRUTH, for those of you who were confused), so here it is. For the purposes of this blog, let’s call him Random Older Fellow—ROF for short. He works at the hostel I’m staying at. I met him the night I arrived, after hanging out with J-Date. I was on a high from my first social interaction and the viewing of the Opera House, so I was feeling chatty. I went over to the desk, because I’d left paperwork there, and asked if he’d found it.

He looks around for my missing folder and says “Sorry, mate, I don’t see it.”

“Okay, no worries, just wanted to check.”

I notice as he goes back to his seat that he’s got a glass of red wine on his desk. I tell him I took a cab roughly 10 blocks because I was so jet-lagged and he goes, “Oh, you’re a lazy bugger, aren’t you?” as he takes a sip from his glass.

“You’re insulting and you drink on the job. I like you,” I said.

We started chatting some more, and I asked him about neighborhoods and good places to live and find work. I went to bed shortly thereafter, happy to have a nice conversation with a friendly local.

The next night (Tuesday), I saw him as I came in from dinner, and he tells me he extended my stay at the hostel. “I just made you a reservation because I saw you only had 4 nights, and we’re getting a bit full up,” he says matter-of-factly. I hadn’t even asked about this or even told him I was trying to figure out how to get more nights.

Of course, this is when I knew he wanted to marry me.

He gets me a glass and we chat and drink red wine as he works. As various guests come to check in and ask questions, ROF reveals his knack for languages, speaking to guests in Japanese, French, and—wait for it, wait for it—FLEMISH. Who does that?! I learn that he’s a rolling stone who has traveled for years all over the world, and he works as a full-time fireman when he’s not checking in people at the youth hostel. A man of many trades, of course I find this suspect—and also secretly wonder if he uses his fireman’s uniform for stripping or role-playing games.

He offers to show me around the next day, which is his day off. Not having any other plans and glad to have company, I immediately agree. We end up cracking open another bottle of red after his shift ends and are just shooting the shit, very low-key. However, I start to realize that he may be drawn to Sojourner’s Nubian essence. He asks what made me decide to come to Australia, because “we don’t get too many people like you.”

“You mean, blacktresses?” I say, mockingly. “Or women with vagina dentata?”

He later asks if I’ve considered modeling. I think we all know my weakness for being told I could be a part-time model (even though I’d probably still have to keep my normal job). I just laughed it off, and we ended the night with plans to meet tomorrow.

Wednesday, after my boring orientation, he met up with me. His car wasn’t out of the shop, so he’d been biking around, and I come out of the building to find ROF in short black exercise shorts, a black tank, and a white, yellow, and black track jacket, with black sunnies (sunglasses—they abbreve everything here). I cracked up, because he is the most random ever.

Oh, did I mention that in addition to being a fireman and random hostel worker, he was also a fitness instructor, and worked at a Fat Camp in Massachusetts?

Anyway, we had a good time walking around the city. We checked out the botanic gardens (where cockatoos roam like pigeons, and there are FLYING FOXES hanging from the trees!), and he knew the names of all this random flora and fauna; you could definitely color me impressed. Then again, he could have been making it all up, and I wouldn’t have known the difference. When asked how he acquired such knowledge, ROF said nonchalantly, “I read a book.”

Nice one.

We were discussing meats (don’t ask), and somehow it led to him saying, “you should come over tomorrow and I’ll cook some steaks and we’ll have some good cab sav.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean, food and wine are my weaknesses, and I’m sure it would beat the nasty hostel food I’ve been eating. But he’s a random 40-year-old man I’ve just met in a city where I know no one. If going to his house doesn’t sound like the beginning of a Law & Order episode, I don’t know what does. But how do you explain to a man you just met that you worry he may be a serial killer or sexual predator without him getting offended? I have a hard time navigating these things.

Since Wednesday, he has been blowing up the blacktress’s phone and sending me textual eruptions. I’m hesitant to respond, however. Not only because all my outgoing calls and texts cost money and incoming are free, but because I don’t really want to get caught up in something, and this is not the first time an inappropriately older gentleman has been drawn to the blacktress. I wonder why my most persistent suitors are always 40+, and I can't find a young, first, attractive man in my age bracket. Is it because I’m old and weary and the trials of age can be seen behind my eyes? Is it because I have the attitude of a 40-year-old divorcee? Is it because, by 40, most older Caucasian gentleman want nothing more than to bed a blacktress before they reach the winter of their life?

I know, I know, 40 is not the “winter of one’s life”—I just love using that phrase.

Anyway, this is all swirling in my head as I head into the weekend. He discussed seeing a comedy show, which of course I want to go to—but would I be leading him on by going? Sojourner’s not trying to hurt any feelings—I’m just trying to meet some Aussie homies and keep my nose clean.
And keep my nose to the grindstone. Or, wait, is it ear? I’m always mixing metaphors.




Seriously, guys, look at this. FLYING FOXES!!! They look like giant bats, and they swoop from tree to tree under the cloak of night. I can’t handle it. I was really scared they’d smell my fear or sense my evil and swoop down upon me.


PS: Eli Reed, I would love to grab a drank, a la T-Pain.

Thanks For the Boost, Guys

Most of my friends are quite happy and excited for my impending journey to Oz—they support my desire to pose as Michelle Obama, and I think some of them may even respond to the emails I’ll send once I’m in a foreign land away from everyone I know. What’s been funny, though, is the way in which they choose to show their support. Often, it comes in the form of an email or Facebook wall post containing a link to some crazy and/or dangerous Australian happening.

For example:

Qantas Faces Special Safety Probe
Oh, cool. The airline I’m flying has safety issues. I think the best part of this tidbit was that it was preceded by, “Just looking out for you…” Girl, unless you got a parachute or a private jet, I have no alternative but to hop on my unsafe Qantas jalopy and hope for the best!

Then, of course, came the harrowing news of the Man Drought—which was sent to me by three different people.

We all know I didn’t take this information well. However, dear Eli Reed informed me that she and her homegirls were doing just fine with the menfolk, so my fears have been temporarily assuaged.

The news that the Mayor of Mt. Isa seeks ugly women to help the rugged men find love also gave me a bit of a boost.


This latest tidbit of Ozzie info, sent to me from my homegirl in LDN, just makes me terrified:
Monster Pig Traps Aussie Woman in Home


I cannot leave the confines of the city center. My favorite line from the article is, "It's a beautiful male pig but he's just so big and so pushy," she told the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.

Lady, if I had a nickel for every time a beautiful male pig was big and pushy, I’d have $2.15.

Mount Isa, Here I Come!!

I think one of my favorite things about gmail is that it’s always thinking. I first noticed this when I was using one of those cool, hip, “emoticons” in a gchat a year or so ago. I wanted to let my gal pal know I was smiling, so I typed a semicolon and open parenthesis. Instantly, it rotated to form a knowing smile.

Gmail is watching.

I also love that it reads your emails and puts ads and article links in the margins that relate to key words in the text. All my talk of Australia has provided me with several cheap travel websites, as well as info on the AU consulate. But yesterday, I got the best tip-off from Gangsta Mail ever.

“Outback Mayor Seeks ‘ugly duckling’ Women”

In a remote mining town called Mount Isa, men outnumber women 5 to 1. In a recent interview with a local paper, town mayor John Molony urged women to move there and help end the shortage. I think my favorite quote of his is:

"Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness," Molony told the Townsville Bulletin newspaper last week.

"Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits. Really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan," Molony said.

HAHAHAHAHA.

Oh, Molony, you’re hilarious!!! I love the idea that it’s somehow crazy that a “lass who is not so attractive” could still have a “wide smile on her face”—as though, being less than a supermodel, she should know nothing of happiness. I also think he’s trying to point out that what she’s so happy about is that when she goes into the pub, she’s got her pick of 10 strapping coal-mining dudes, all offering her a bottle of Toohey’s and some of their good sperm.

Of course, people in Oz are now outraged, with some even calling that the mayor resign.

The Ozzie listservs are all a-buzz, and I've been reading the comments to get a sense of my future people. Here's an excerpt from one of my favorites:

I've travelled all over Australia and all over the World, and I've always believed that Mt Isa has a really high percentage of Real Beauties. Some same Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder , I've also heard lately that Beauty is in the Eyes of the Beer Holder. It is a small town and a lot of loving realationships* commence in our pubs and clubs.

Holla at “beauty in the eye of the BEER holder”!! I’ve been saying that for years, and it’s about damn time someone agreed with me.
Yes, the mayor is offensive and cracked out. Yes, he should probably not be allowed to speak in public for a long time. Yes, he is offensive to women.

But I can’t help but thinking that any place where loving relationships commence in pubs and clubs is where I need to be. And any town that’s calling for the “ugly ducklings” is in desperate need of a blacktress.

I am so excited to blow this popstand!!! I was going to be a good employee and give my massa 1-month’s notice (and also free myself from having to pretend like I care for the remainder of my days), but I don’t think I can do that and still holla at my vacay time. But this means that for two more weeks, I will have to smile and nod and “put in effort” (lame). But, if I can make my way to freedom and become one of the most inspiring black women of all time, I can certainly stick it out on this plantation a few weeks longer.

I’ve been reading so many books on the land down under (you know, where the women glow and men plunder) so that I can master the foreign land quickly upon arrival. The slanguage is the best part—Aussies say the darndest things!! Thanks to Deets for the great book “Live and Work in Australia,” which has everything I’ll ever need to know. Some Aussie gems include:

apples: meaning, OK, as in “She’ll be apples, mate”
flash as a rat with a gold tooth: overdone, overdressed. [I really hope people actually use this phrase.]
frosty, tinny, neck oil, singing syrup, etc.: beer. [I love the use of ‘etc,’ as though there is a natural sequence of phrases that would come after these to describe the frothy fermented goodness of beer]
wouldn’t do it to a Jap on ANZAC Day: wouldn’t do it to your worst enemy under dire circumstances. A reference to the Japanese enemy during WWII, ANZAC Day is a national holiday to commemorate the contribution of Australian war veterans to various campaigns.

They are so colorful in their lingo, and abbreviate almost everything. Seeing as I can’t stop saying “totes” and “obvi,” I think I’ll be apples down there (see how I incorporated my new vocab so flawlessly?).




*note his misspelling here. I actually think it’s a CORRECT spelling of what we’re all looking for: a REALationship—none of this half-assed, late-night-texting crap. Man up, commit to loving me for eternity, and let's get this going!

Something to Blog About

So, I don’t know what’s particularly interesting nowadays, so here’s a look at the past week’s highlights—let me know which you’d like to know more about, dear readers.

1. The blacktress is officially booked on Quantas flight 740, departing San Francisco on October 11, 2008. I arrive in Sydney on October 13*-- holla!!! Eli Reed and other Aussie friends: I expect you to have 12 rugged men and 7 koalas waiting for me.

2. Tonight is date #2 with a hottie from NEW ZEALAND!!!
I mean, that’s practically like Australia (don’t tell him I said that—there’s apparently beef between the two countries), so it’s great preparation for the big trip. It also allows me to pretend like I'm dating Jemaine from "Flight of the Conchords" (let me look at my list....living the dream? CHECK! hot accent? double-check! love for a blacktress? mutha-CHECKIN' yes!)

He has even asked me to be his “summer girlfriend”—yes, please!! Best to go out with a bang, I always say!

3. This morning, I was on the Underground Railroad heading in the wrong direction (to the plantation), when a petite pregnant lady got on the train. Being NYC at rush hour, of course there were no seats left. She quietly stood and grabbed the pole, and I looked around momentarily. Not a single man, woman, or child got up. I got the woman’s attention and offered her my seat. She immediately accepted and I stood up over the young, able-bodied hipster guy who I had been sitting next to. He looked momentarily sheepish, then went back to reading his book on social theory.

I was so annoyed by this turn of events. Well, yes, I would have liked to sit, but I was more put off by the fact that I, a young blacktress, was the only person who offered to give this clearly-8-months-pregnant woman a seat on the train. She’s holding life in womb, for Christ’s sake! I can barely stand up in a pair of heels, so lord knows the day I accidentally get knocked up, I’m gonna need to take a knee every ten seconds!! And, on top of that, I noticed that when she sat down she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring—is she a single mom, struggling with the worry of how to raise this incoming fetus on her own?! My lord, if I had that weighing on my shoulders in addition to the baby weighing on my torso, I would probably be in a Jazzy Electric Wheelchair, much like this one:

It’s actually called a “Jazzy.”

The refusal of any man to get up off his ass and give her a seat reminded me of the words of a great poet—Nelly Furtado—in her hit opus “Promiscuous”:

“Roses are red / some diamonds are blue / chivalry is dead / but you’re still kinda cute.”

I mean, if that ain’t the gospel truth, I don’t know what is. If it was 1956, everyone with a Y chromosome would have gotten up when that woman came on the train, and some probably would have removed their bowler hats. Alas, those days of propriety are gone.

I guess I shouldn’t be so upset, though—if the old days were still around, I’d be sitting at the back of the bus.



*What happens to me for a whole day???? It’s like I’m in some transcontinental vortex where I cease to exist…..I smell a Sci-Fi channel original motion picture!

Visa: It's Everywhere You Want to Be

Remember that old slogan for Visa credit cards? Well, I’m now using it to apply to Work and Holiday visas, because quite frankly, everywhere I want to be is DOWN UNDER.

I sent in my application and paid my $195 Australian dollars (which is, sadly, about $194.50 US dollars) this morning, guys—Australia, here I come!!!
As I went through the 8-page application, I gave them all my personal biznass, and half expected to have to submit a blood sample and/or provide a retinal scan. Luckily, they just wanted to make sure I wasn’t a thieving immigrant looking to have major surgery done on their shores. Sample questions included:

What is your usual occupation?: BLACKTRESS
What employment do you intend to seek in Australia?: Michelle Obama and/or Beyoncé impersonator
Do you intend to perform medical procedures during your stay in Australia?: Only if you consider making people HANDLE THE TRUTH a medical procedure


Seriously, though, I’m really excited. And nervous. Where will I live? Will I find work? Will I find people to make out with so that my blog can thrive down under? What if I get attacked by one of the many venomous creatures that only exist in Australia (the only island that is also a country and also a continent!)?! I’ve been reading up on my soon-to-be home, and I’ve discovered many interesting factoids, which I will share with you:

• Victoria is home to Megascolides Australis the GIANT EARTH WORM! Measuring up to 12 feet long, it’s huge and gross, and I think might have been the basis for the movie Tremors.
• Australia did not become a proper nation until 1901, when the 6 colonies decided to come together.
• The notion of Australian citizenship didn’t exist until 1949; before that, they were British citizens.
• The average population density in Australia is only 6 people per square mile! The world average is about 117.
• I plan on visiting the following places simply for their names: Wagga Wagga, Poowong, Burrumbuttock, and….wait for it….wait for it….Tittybong! I am hoping to become the mayor of one of these places.
  

It also has a temperate climate, a population full of young, strapping lads, and a great healthcare system. I also hear the Melbourne Comedy Festival is the jam and the jump-off, and perhaps I’ll go there and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the TRUTH!

Sidebar: In Australia, comedians are known as ‘crackers.’ When I first heard the term used to describe Kathy Griffin, I thought it was quite racist and more than a little bit rude—until I got down with the lingo.

Breaking the (Blogger's) Block

Hey Guys,

Sorry for falling off the face of the blogosphere (is that what the cool web-savvy kids are calling it nowadays?). I’ve been at a loss for the funny—or, at least, anything funny enough to post. Although the return of Dexter to my on-demand menu has boosted my spirits slightly, I can’t shake off the cloud hanging overhead. Sojourner’s feeling a little off her game. I need another white valedictorian of a historically black college to get the world riled up or something.
As a woman of color and writer, I’ve learned that the only way to get over a writer’s block is to…write. So, in the spirit of breaking the cycle (of violence, oppression, and non-bloggery), let’s get warmed up. Here are some things I thought about blogging about, but couldn’t quite get off the ground:

Another female middle-school teacher was arrested for having an affair with a student.
Kelsey Peterson, a math teacher at Lexington Middle School, in Lexington, Nebraska, plead guilty to traveling across state lines with the intent of elicit sex with a minor on July 1. She started having sex with the student when he was 12 years old, and when rumors of their affair became public, she put him in a car and headed to Mexico.

I kid you not.

While there are many ways to look at this, I think you know what Sojourner would say:
If this doesn’t show you how hard it is to find a decent man, I don’t know what does. Year after year, gainfully employed, intelligent (and cray-cray) young women, faced with the bleak truth of single life in a small town, have no choice but to get them while they’re young and impressionable and try to make love work. So blinded by the need for affection, they ignore all laws and common sense, risking jail time and registry as a sex offender just so they can find a moment of true love—it really is enough to make the baby Jesus cry.

I’m suffering from Black Mama Drama to the Maxxxxx.
For those of you who don’t have black mothers, let me explain. While yes, all parents/guardians like to stress out their children and have trouble seeing them as adults when the time comes, the single black mother is a different, fiercer breed of parent. With the strength of Audre Lorde and other blacktivists she has raised her children, living a life of sacrifice from the moment she chose to carry them to term. Currently living in the house that mamadukes built, I have discovered I am damned if I do AND if I don’t. When I “stay out till 3am, keeping whore hours” (yes, this was said) I do not want to spend time with the family; when I stay in on a Sunday afternoon, I am treated to a torrent of anger over my “pigsty of a room”—I have to ask myself if slavery days were ever really over.

The Hunt for Bindi Continues…
With the aforementioned black mama drama, the decision to move down under is becoming clearer and clearer. My E.T.A. is October 21, 2008—just when springtime is coming. (I’m going to laugh in the face of god and nature by experiencing two summer seasons in one year) I’ve overcome the biggest hurdle yet: finding a place to get my hair did. Serengeti Hair and Beauty, in the heart of Sydney, will handle my nappy scandals for the low-low price of $90-$150!!! AAAAAHHHHH!
Um, the blacktress is going to have to start a haircare fundraiser, stat.

I think I’ll begin my search for the Emmy-nominated child-activist with the Taronga Zoo, in Sydney. Perhaps Bindi will be cuddling a koala, and will have her guard down so that I can swoop in and befriend her.


Pizza, Pizza, Pizza!
The rejection by the Biblical Teacher (that’s what I’m calling him now) is still hurting Sojourner, which shouldn’t be the case. While the first weekend of crying and watching Dexter was to be expected, I try my best to live by two mottos: Ass, gas, or grass—nobody rides for free; and Erase, replace, embrace new face. But for some reason, I just really feel like I f-d up a good thing, and I’m going to die alone, found only by authorities after the melted pint of ice cream I was consuming combines with the scent of my rotting carcass to create a smell so foul the neighbors had no choice but to call and complain.

What—too morbid?

I found myself thinking of another time I was jilted by a fella I really thought I had “locked down.” At the time I was ranting on the phone to a friend as I perused the Pizza Hut menu. I figured I had nothing to lose—certainly not pounds—since I’d already relapsed into old habits.
After she and I hung up, I turned my phone back on to order my trans-fat pizza pie for one, and I was suddenly struck by the almost maudlin words on the back of Pizza Hut’s flyer.

“At Pizza Hut we strive for excellence. If we do not give you your receipt or fall short of your expectations in any way, we would like to hear from you.”

Do you know my first thought?
“I wish men were like Pizza Hut.”
Unlike most self-absorbed guys, who say they are “working through some stuff” and/or “going through a lot right now” (striving for excellence in their own way), Pizza Hut is willing to be called out on it! If, Pizza Hut lets me down during their process of achieving excellence, they not only expect, but ask for phone call. As far as I’m concerned, that makes Pizza Hut more attractive than any man I’ve ever known.

Okay. Now I know that blurb was written by a team of clever advertising executives, most of whom minored in psychology, solely to inspire me to say, “fuck you, Dominos! You don’t care about me!” And yet, I felt like Pizza Hut was proving to be more comforting in two sentences than any heterosexual relationship I had ever been in. And that, I thought immediately afterwards, is a damn shame.


So, in summation:
When your black mama drama gets to be too much to bear, and the repeated viewings of your favorite tv show don’t get you going, apply for a work visa in a foreign country and be glad that you can buy pizza anywhere.

The Blacktress is Pissed

I have not felt this much anger and oppression on the plantation since my slave days.

I will call this Reason #248 that I need to go to Australia.

Yesterday, Sojourner was ravaged by stomach illness. With sharp pains and an exploding buttocks (sorry, but you know I tell the TRUTH), I sat in my veal pen—aka cubicle—until about 1pm, when I could no longer take the pain. On my way out of the building, I managed to take the elevator one flight before running off to the nearest bathroom, where I puked like a drunken college student after doing a keg stand.

I had a fever, chills, and was fearful I wouldn’t make it home in one piece. I hopped in a cab home, and laid down for the remainder of the day, waking up only to run to the toilet.
By the day’s end, I showed little signs of improvement, so I sent my massa an email, letting him know I wouldn’t be in the next day (today). In my email, I offered to work from home, seeing as my priority for the next day was to do work on our publication’s website—which only requires an internet connection and the ability to double-click. I was of sound mind and body, but I knew I’d need to be no more than 4 feet from a bathroom all day, and it made no sense to come in and stink up the office space when I could do bad all by my damn self.

I awoke early this morning, prompted by dehydration, nausea, and stomach pain. I fought the urge to roll over and decided to check my email, just to see what, if anything, Massa had to say about my request to work from home.
I found this message in my inbox:
Sojourner,

Sorry you are still sick. If you can make it into the office we could use another pair of eyes looking at the remaining articles. B_____ has gone out of town and I have to rush to write two articles and get them designed and edited by Thursday evening.

Thanks,
Massa

Um, w.t.f?!! I have never once been denied a sick day, and I even offered to work from home—which I fully planned to do! I wasn’t trying to shirk duties, but I couldn’t keep my butt in check long enough to sleep through the night, let alone pick cotton on the plantation!!! I assumed this email was not a request, but a demand from a passive-aggressive massa.
So here I am. Writing this post from the plantation.

Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom now.
*******************************************

Okay, I’m back.

You know, sometimes I wish the days of open racism and whippings were still here—at least then I’d know who I was dealing with. I can’t tell if he didn’t believe I was sick, is angry that I’ve taken some time off recently, or is just really in need of my “extra eyes”—I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my red-pen marks on the article drafts wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, and my constant gassiness may induce nausea in my coworkers.

So, here I sit, epitomizing the phrase “hot mess” and wishing I was somewhere else. Add to this the recent comment left on my blog by a fellow blacktress from Down Under, and I just know I need to head for freedom. She wrote:
“You definitely have to come down under. I'm an afro-princess in Brisbane, who came here 7 years ago and never left. There's no place to get your hair did but even if you leave the house with a bird’s nest on your head (which I do, every so often) someone will say, "wow, I wish my hair could do that", the hot dudes are everywhere (I married one) and it’s sun, sand and surf most of the time…I’d absolutely be your friend…”
1. First of all, any woman who refers to herself as an afro-princess is down with Sojo.
2. She even married a hot dude, so clearly I need to get on her program.
3. AND SHE SAYS SHE’LL BE MY FRIEND!!! -- maybe we can braid each other's hair!

I just need to find out how her massa treats her on the plantation. When she’s running to the bathroom so much that they start delivering her mail there, do they still make her come to work? When she offers to complete her tasks from the comfort of her home and her own bathroom, do they ask her to come in anyway cause the massa can’t handle his own deadline-scandals?!

Please pray for a blacktress. I think I may start trippin' on these fools today.

The Hunter Becomes the Hunted

I am on a search for Bindi Irwin.

As I work to warm up mamadukes to the idea of Australia and convince my bros and hos that I’m not making a foolish move for a guy, I’ve been answering a lot of questions for myself. Yesterday, while procrastinating on the plantation via g-chat, I spoke with one soul sister from another mister, who urged me to leave this hemisphere. Our convo went something like this:

L: You could hang out with Bindi. That could be fun.
Me: Po’ Bindi—she’s had to grow up so fast.
L: I like how the family didn’t miss a beat.
Dad’s dead.
I got my own show.
I rap about reptiles.
She’s a G.

I mean, if that’s not the Sojourner Truth, I don’t know what is! Bindi is gangsta to the maxxxxxx! I mean, check out homegirl on the Today Show rapping Trouble in the Jungle. She was just like, “Having a dead daddy doesn’t mean I can’t dance!” Homegirl is my new (Australian) idol—I think she may be a young strong black woman in the making.

I must go to her and fortify myself.

This is my plan: I will go down under and comb the continent for the tiny Caucasian imp, focusing my search around animal sanctuaries and stagnant lakes where reptiles make their home. I will brush up on my dance moves and wear only khaki-colored ensembles, in hopes that she will hire me as a b(l)ack-up dancer. Following such great back-up dancers as K-Fed and J-Lo’s ex (what was his name?), I will work my way into Bindi’s inner circle, becoming a fixture at her side during all major promotional appearances. I will turn her pigtails into cornrows and soon people will wonder where her mother went.

The mother will be silenced.

Bindi and I will sharpen her rap skills (baby’s kinda a hot mess, as you can see in the clip above), and we will record a duet—the follow-up to “Trouble in the Jungle,” it will be a remix of “Jungle Fever,” which plays on her love of animals, our interracial friendship, and the inevitable yellow fever outbreak of 2011. Stevie Wonder will appear in the video.

Rabbit-Proof Blacktress/ Longings to Go Down Under

You all know how I have dreams of becoming an overseas pop-singing sensation, right?
Yeah, so I’m thinking it’s time I kick that jam into high-gear. Perhaps, instead of Ashley Tisdale, they can put a blacktress in the remake of Teen Witch! Imagine:

Int. Classroom. Day.
A dowdy blacktress, in glasses and an ill-fitting potato-sack dress, sits in the back of the class, doodling and staring longingly at Mark (played by Soul Food television hottie Boris Kodjoe), a star football player who already has a full scholarship to a historically black college—even though he’s only a junior.
He catches her staring, and he smiles. His teeth gleam like white Chiclets. She drops her pen, flustered. When she reaches down to pick it up, she smacks her head on the desk—so awkward! She shrieks, and all her classmates turn and snicker as she holds her throbbing head.

Teacher:
Do you have something to say, Sojourner?

Sojourner:
No, massa—I mean, Mister Hiller.

She looks over at Mark and blushes (yes, a black girl can blush).

Okay, that’s all I got so far, but the rest of it will involve a choreographed dance routine to the remix of Nina Simone’s hit song “Young, Gifted, and Black,” which will feature a rap by Lil’ Bow Wow (or, as I like to call him, “The WOW”).

Um, if you can’t tell, I’m bored, guys.
Not just cause it’s Monday and I’m on the plantation, but with NYC in general. It’s just getting old. The same bars, the same pervy guys, the same trains with the same delays—I need a change of pace.

So I’m thinking moving to Australia.

Yes, I want to go down under.

Some of my loyal readers who have followed the truth from the beginning may be thinking that I want to go down under for the man who inspired this post. And although having his mixie babies would be a good time, I'm not about to pull a Felicity for a man who may not be worth is weight in gold doubloons.

But, his desire for a blacktress has really gotten me thinking. Why am I here dealing with crazy and lazy hot messes, when there is a whole world of men who may be down with the brown? The Australian has shown me what I could be missing. Besides, the weather’s mild, the men are tanned and rugged, and everyone has an accent. I could get a job at a bar (you know how I love to enable other people’s addictions) or work in an office. I could get a gig as a nanny, but that'll be too similar to my slave past, and I may have flashbacks. Or, I could really develop my skills as a blacktress and be a recurring character on Neighbours, in which I play....a black girl who moves into the neighborhood!!!
I don’t really care what I do as long as it allows Sojourner to write, travel, and see something new (not the movie—though I will probably bring that DVD with me as a carry-on).

But I’m fearful. Will they be able to handle a blacktress down under? Where will I get my hair did? Will the white male oppress me? Will I get to make out with hot dudes? I mean, I’ve read about the Aborigines and seen Rabbit-Proof Fence, so I know tensions can run a little high—how will they feel about Sojourner? CAN THEY HANDLE THE TRUTH???

What do you think, guys? Any suggestions?
I think I may have some Australian blog readers (ELI REED, i'm talking to you): if you have any insights, please bring them to a blacktress (we can exchange email addresses and discuss). Would you be my friend if I came to your hemisphere? If you like the blog, you’ll love Sojo IN THE FLESH.

Sojo's Sadness.... Turns to Anger!

THIS POST HAS BEEN TAKEN DOWN DUE TO INTERNATIONAL DRAMA.

I'm SPRUNG, y'all!

Oh my god guys, it's been, like, forever and a day.

Which, if you were wondering, is 11 days. So when someone says they'll "love you forever," they really mean "a week and a half."

Anyway, here's a nice long post, complete with interactive games! YAY!

Speaking of 10 days and loving forever, I was unable to blog due to an all-consuming love affair I had with an Australian fellow. Yes, folks, I went down under and got me a crocodile hunter! (RIP, Steve Irwin)

For serious, though-- I am swooning and wishing I was spooning with a burly, bald Aussie. Let me tell you why:

1. A foreign man will do anything for a green card-- and I will do anything for a foreign man!
(If you know what I mean... and I think you do.)

2. The foreign men love the blacktress. He seriously asked me if I'd tried modeling. Um, okay, maybe you don't all know me, but I'm not that fine. It's just that they don't get this flavor of ice cream down under and they all want a taste!

3. He is a creative soul with a heavily metrosexual side. This is, of course, very important to me as someone who is deeply influenced by the gays. They even named a pair of shorts after him!

4. The accent. Obvi. Even when he said "fuck!" he sounded intelligent and kind of sexy.

5. He also works as a web designer and owns his own company (you know I love a can-do man!). Note how he refers to himself as a "freedom fighter"! Um, hello-- I'm a freedom writer! Talk about meant to be. Besides, any White man who's down with freedom is down with Sojo.


Okay, so, on a scale from 1 to crazy, how wrong is it for me to arrive on the doorstep of Australia all romantic comedy-style and propose to him?


What I liked the most about this foreign man was his forthrightness and honesty. As you know, I'm all about the TRUTH. But no matter how militant I am, I know I'm not the first freed slave who can read or write. However, every guy with a semi-formed brain expects kudos for correctly identifying an emotion! What is that about?! Sorry, dude, but I've been saying how I felt since I was 2 years old: "Mommy, me hungry. Me potty. Sleep-time." I didn't get a damn cookie every time I didn't crap my pants--why should you?!

But have you ever noticed that when a guy "tells you what's up," he's not actually saying anything? I realized this last week when hanging out with my newest grown and sexy friend, Litsa. We played this fun game where she spoke Heteromanese, and I translated in standard English. Here's how it goes:

HE SAYS:
Sorry I haven’t called, shit’s been crazy.
IT MEANS:
I have AIDS.
OR
I’m moving.

HE SAYS:
Yeah, I’ll call you later.
IT MEANS:
I don’t like you but I have to end this conversation so I can go play beer pong.


HE SAYS (in the middle of a serious conversation over dinner):
Here, have a shrimp.
IT MEANS:
Please don’t start crying.

HE SAYS:
I’ve had a lot of crap going on.
IT MEANS:
I just found out my ex is pregnant.
OR
I’ve had diarrhea for a week.

HE SAYS:
Like, I really like you, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.
IT MEANS:
I am incapable of wiping my ass and whistling a jaunty tune simultaneously, let alone balancing a relationship and a social life.

(Why this is so hard is beyond me. I mean, even in the caveman days the Neanderthal went out, clubbed the mammoth, dragged it back home for dinner, and then made sweet love to his hairy woman!)

NOW YOU PLAY!!!!

Fill in the blanks by posting comments on my wall. Winners will get a dinner with me that they get to cook at their home. YAY! Reversals on slavery!

HE SAYS:
I’ll talk to you later, okay?
IT MEANS:
?


HE SAYS:
I really want to be friends with you.
IT MEANS:
?




HE SAYS:
I’m sorry you’re upset. I didn’t know you felt that way.
IT MEANS:
?



HE SAYS:
You know how I get, babe.
IT MEANS:
?



As you can imagine, when I was cuddling with the Australian and he said, "I wish I wasn't leaving," I fell in deep.


I am currently planning a telethon, where I will put on a minstrel show in exchange for $1 donations to pay for a plane ticket Australia. I will need approximately 1500 donations. Let's get started, people! I'll bring the shoe polish if you help me get my true love.