13 Going on 30

No, I’m not going to write a glowing review of the film starring Jennifer Garner—although you know it would be glowing.
[Sidebar: Don’t you feel like Jennifer Garner is the new Jennifer Aniston? ]

Anyway, I am here to give you a detailed account of 8th Grade Prom Night 2K8.

In summation: it was magical.

In detail:

At 5:20pm on Tuesday, June 3, I boarded the L train headed for Myrtle-Wyckoff Aves. As the train passed Graham Avenue, I knew I was outside of my safe space—but the nerves in my tummy weren’t because I was heading into the outer boroughs. I was headed to an 8th grade prom at…Le Fleur De Lis.

Yes, Le Fleur De Lis.
Just cause they weren't in school didn't mean the evening didn't have class!


After walking about 30 minutes in every direction but the right one (I don’t fare well outside of my safe space), I finally saw the grand ballroom, with it’s red felt—not velvet!—rope and matching carpet. My gentlemen caller was waiting outside, worried that I had fallen into a subway grate, and when I saw him in his gold bowtie and baby-blue button-down shirt with a cream blazer, I knew this wouldn’t be any ordinary evening.

Once inside, I was blinded by multiple views of…myself, as the entire room was lined with mirror panels.
LINED WITH MIRRORS.

To the immediate right, an archway of blue and gold balloons accentuated a small fountain that sputtered streams of what was most likely contaminated water. It was already 40 minutes into the big night and only one student had arrived (I guess CP time is real), but judging by her pink floor-length gown and sheer white tights, I knew only more style icons were on the way.

And I was right. As students began to arrive shortly after 7, my mind was blown by the style that these young teens possessed. While there are hundreds of pictures on my gentleman caller’s camera, apparently posting them here would be “illegal” because “the children are minors.”
Boo.

Luckily, as a woman of color and a writer, I will use my powers of observation and way with the written word to describe the night’s style trends

8th Grade Style Watch 2008—aka, “Teens: They’re Just Like Us!”

1. White suits were the look for the 8th grade men, which really popped against their dark Nubian skin. It was like having a second Fleet Week, as each boy, from tall and lanky to short and…well, lanky, entered in their crisp summer whites. Most weren’t afraid to add a splash of color. My favorite was the little tyke wearing a pale-pink vest with a matching pocket handkerchief and matching pink backwards kangol newsie-style cap. I’d buy papers from him any day!

2. It also seemed 8th grade prom wasn’t just a night for those who may not make it to their high school proms; the girls wore gowns that would rival any of those in Modern Bride, with taffeta for miles. Many even wore white, and I took out my pocket bible, prepared to officiate any ceremonies that might be held (I'd initially brought the good book in case any of the heathens need a dose of Jesus). At one point in the evening, as I trolled the perimeter of the dance floor to make sure there was no bumpin’ and grindin’ I almost tripped and fell as two large trains glided slowly by me. It was a close call, but I managed to survive the taffeta tumble.

3. I wore a simple black dress which was modestly cut to avoid offending the youth or the parents. However, I quickly learned that this was something I didn’t have to be concerned with. Some of these ladies had more breasts and thighs hanging out than a bucket of chicken from KFC! Many also wore tube dresses, which made for some awkward dance-floor moments. My favorite was a girl in a emerald-green backless dress who also had rhinestone eyelashes.
Yes. Rhinestone eyelashes.

4. And, of course, you know how young aspiring blacktresses roll—the hair was DONE UP. Twists with glitter sprinkled throughout, weaves barely in place, and pin curls to the max, my gentleman caller (of the Caucasian persuasion, obvi) said to one student, “Your hair is very impressive,” which was an understatement.


The party didn’t really get going until 8pm, when the STRETCH HUMMER LIMO containing 20 students arrived. These kids were clearly the coolest, as everyone gathered around to watch them emerge from their chariot. Watching them pose for pics around their ride, I thought about priorities. Many of them can’t read at their grade level, yet they’ve got more bling than extras in a rap video. I think that, instead of chipping in for a limo, they should have gotten library cards and started a book club. Anyway, I digress.

Once inside, the DJ (a portly middle-aged black man who I found out normally takes daily attendance) began spinning the jams, and after feasting on mac and cheese, chicken wings, and mozzarella sticks—I told you this joint was classy, right?—the kids got on the dance floor and shook it up like whoa! As the chaperones, we were told to stop any “booty dancing.” We strolled the perimeter of the dance floor, making sure the youth were leaving enough room for the Holy Ghost as they shook it like a polaroid picture.

The dance floor really got hot when a song came on that instructed them to hop and skip and two-step. Like a scene from a teen movie, they all began doing a choreographed routine. I almost shed a tear, as my longtime fantasy of watching a live, spontaneous dance number at a school dance was realized right before my very eyes. They also danced to songs about laffy taffy, chicken noodle soup, and apple bottom jeans—I am so out of the young negro pop loop. Maybe it was my private schooling.

As I watched the kids, I marveled at how times have changed since I was a young Sojourner. First of all, some of those 13-year-olds looked 30 (see the clever title?) , and I had to check myself in a few instances. I don’t know if it’s the hormones in the McDonald’s or the profanity on television, but when I was 13, I did not have the body to fill out at backless spaghetti-strapped dress, let alone the guts to pull it off! But here these ladies were, strutting it like whoa and repeatedly “taking it low.” (Apparently, a lot of the hip songs now demand that you take it low, and get down on the ground with your booty. It made me uncomfortable.) And if 13 year old boys now come in adult size, I may have to start training them early—JK (rowling!). But seriously, some of these boys were huge, and a few were even jacked, and I was momentarily confused.
Then I found out one of them was 17 years old.

Let’s take a moment of silence in mourning of this tragedy.
A 17-year-old 8th grader?! 17-year-old. 8th grader. Tell me that does not make you and the baby Jesus cry! This is why it rained last night! You know it’s a hot mess when you can damn near vote for Barack but can’t solve for x!

The highlight of the evening was watching my gentlemen caller dance with his students a couple of times. They flipped out as he jumped up and down and performed the white man’s overbite. They also quickly fell in line when he brought out the limbo stick, proving that he was indeed their educational massa.

Oh, wait, the actual highlight was when he gave me a corsage!!!!
It was too magical.

And I’m going to dry it and press it between the pages of my diary so that I never forget the most magical evening of my adulthood—and my youth.

Prom Night

You know how I’m all about seeking out and supporting The Talented Tenth, right? And I’m sure you know that, like rap group Wu-Tang Clan, I’m all about the children. But I don’t think I have the same handle on the young people as I used to. Back in my day, the youth struggled to learn to read, and young women got excited when they found a good man and could jump the broom. Nowadays, we’ve got teens finger-banging under the bleachers and teen sex is so old-news that we’re giving out Oscars for funny tales of teen pregnancy—starring white people! I knew things had gotten bad when I saw a 4-year-old girl singing “Touch my Body” in the bodega; innocence is gone. The youth take their freedom for granted and get a little…um….too free, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).

So, like a black Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed, I am going to go undercover—incognegro, if you will—and observe the young people in their natural habitat.
How will I do this?

By going to 8th grade prom.

Yes, 8th grade prom.

Apparently, in some districts, 8th grade is the new senior year, with kids having graduations and prom-like end-of-year dances. While some may say this is cute and teaches kids the social rules associated with fancy dress and co-ed dancing, I’m slightly skeptical. By engaging in rites of passage normally associated with the end of high school, it seems that the New York City public school system has given up on reaching dangerous minds and resigned itself to the fact that most of their kids won’t even make it to senior year. Maybe if we used such fun times as yet incentive (you know, along with knowledge, high self-esteem, and the prestige of historically black colleges), the young brown youth would be more interested in reaching the next level. If not for the joy of seeing a big, scarlet letter A (you know, the good kind) on a paper, they would study for the possibility that, if he/she works hard enough in school, s/he will reach a grade in which s/he can be elected prom king or queen. After all, who wouldn’t keep working for the possibility of dictatorship and popularity?

I think I’ve just solved the educational disparity of the lower class.
You’re welcome.

I’m going to this prom with a gentleman caller who teaches 8th grade social studies. Whiter than the Olympic gold medal for snowboarding, he’s had a rough first-year trying to teach the freedom writers. For example: 8th grade social studies begins with the Civil War, which requires a discussion of…slavery. Imagine how awkward it must be for a white liberal to educate brown youth on the history of oppression? Apparently, one of his students said, “What did you think when you heard about slavery? I bet you liked it.”

These children are after my own heart.

I am really excited for tonight’s prom, and have been repeatedly reminded by various friends that it is not actually mine. When I google search prom night, I just get images from horror movies and pictures of suburban teens in ball gowns. I hope that one of these is an accurate representation of what is in store tonight--either one will do. I’ve told my date to bring me a corsage and be prepared to pose for photographs, and if he “embarrasses me by dancing poorly, so help me god…”

He didn’t think that was funny.

But I know I’m not the only one who’s excited. Look at this journal entry I found while roaming the halls of the school (I was doing a dry run, for research purposes). I do not know the student’s name, but I call her Sad Girl. I imagine that she is chubby and has an overbearing mother, and tries to make friends by telling really obvious lies (like telling her classmates she met Britney Spears, or that she’s been on birth control since she was 17).

Dear Diary,
First off, I want to apologize for those mean names I called you last time. I just get really upset, and it’s like you test me, diary. But, whatever, my total bad. I can’t even stay mad at you, cause I’m totes excited!!!
Tonight is prom--and I actually found a date! Rashaun Thompson asked me 2 minutes ago, after he asked Tanya and Jesica. They were already going with people, and he sits at my table in math class, so he leaned over and asked me!
I’ve never even spoken to him, and when I said yes, I accidentally drooled a little—so embarrassing! But I don’t know if he noticed, cause he walked away really fast when his friends came in the room.

I don’t know what to wear. My mom said she wouldn’t buy me any new clothes until I lost 14 pounds, so I’m going to have to go with something old. I saw Pretty in Pink yesterday and think I should wear something pink, like Molly Ringwald—only it’ll look better on my ebony skin, I just know it.

Okay, diary, I have to tell you something. I’m a little nervous. This is my first boy-girl party, and it’s a dance, and it’s the end of 8th grade, AND I have a date—I feel like this is the night. I’m wondering if I should have sex with Rashaun.
What do you think?
I mean, I haven’t really spoken to him, but he’s fat like me, so I’m not as scared about being naked around him. And, like, I’ve seen the “What’s Happening to my Body?” video, so I know what will happen. I mean, he’ll put his p in my v and it will be like this explosion, and then we will get married!!!

How great would that be, diary?!

Ugh, I know what you’re thinking, diary, and I am NOT a slut. Fuck you, you’re just jealous cause you’re made of vinyl and won’t have sex with anyone ever, you lame d-bag. That means douche bag, diary! Yeah, you, you filthy—

The entry ends there. Who knows what else Sad Girl said to her diary in a fit of blind rage. I hope this girl is at prom. And that she wears something like this:


I plan on gathering all the pretty young ladies into the bathroom and showing them images of chlamydia-infected genitals, and then handing out NYC condoms in case my fear tactic fails. I will also tell them to listen to India.Aire for strength, courage, and wisdom, and bring a few 19th century novels to up their reading level.

PS: I am sad girl.

The Massa of Morehouse

OMG, guys. This just in:

Morehouse College, an historically black university in Atlanta, Georgia-- and the country's only institution of higher learning dedicated to the education of black men-- just elected a WHITE MAN as the valedictorian of the class of 2008.

I. shit. you. not. Read about it here.

Okay, listen, I'm not gonna get into a whole big affirmative action debate, or start talking separate but equal. But, basically, a black college that's been around for 141 years is pretty much founded on the notion that negroes need a special place to learn and grow and become sponsor-able. Black males are particularly vulnerable, for even in his finest interview suit, a negro gentleman will still prompt an old lady to clutch her purse—just, cause, you know, old habits die hard.

Most of my extended family (the ones who think I “talk White”) have attended Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs for short), and with my degree from Diversity University and my excellent diction, I was the odd blacktress out—the blacktress sheep, if you will (will you??). Growing up, I loved the TV show “A Different World,” so when it came time to go college hunting, I visited Spellman College (Morehouse’s sister school. There is a chapel in the center between the two campuses, so that the black elite can wed quickly and easily—I kid you not) and Clark Atlanta, hoping I’d be able to find sassy friends and a boyfriend on the step team. Alas, the HBCUs acceptance of low SAT scores and the lack of air conditioning in the dorms left little to be desired. Add to that the fact that all those Spellman girls were done up like they were on the catwalk at a hair show, and I knew it wasn’t the place for me.

One can imagine my surprise when, in 2006, I began dating Israeli, vegan, investment banker Schmomer Schmohen,* who told me he’d done his SEMESTER ABROAD at Morehouse! Here I was, a flesh and blood blacktress, and this White boy was like a Martian to me. “What was it like?” I asked over drinks (which we had in Harlem—where he lived) “Did you have friends? Did the negroes take you in?” Clearly, he must have had a good time, for he moved to H-town after graduation and found himself in the bosom of a blacktress. It was interesting to hear about his Morehouse experience, and to see the college through the eyes of an outsider.

Perhaps he paved the way for Joshua Packwood. I wonder if they’ve spoken on the phone.

While I totally support Joshua’s learning and growing and exploration, I kinda find it hard to believe that there was no other black male with a 4.0 GPA and important extracurricular activities in the class of 2008—I mean, Morehouse isn’t that hard (yep, I said it!). As the Persian Excursion said, "If a black school can't even elect a black person as it's valedictorian, it's time to throw in the damn towel."
TRUTH.

I think what I love about the article is the following:

When speaking of his experiences in classes as the only White student, he says,
"Sometimes I kind of wanted to hold back," he acknowledged. "A lot of the professors and students have been like, 'No, don't hold back. We want your perspective here. If we're not going to get it from you, it's going to be very difficult for us to get it somewhere else.'"

Um, is it really? Is Massa Packwood the only person who will bring you white truths? You really have a tough time getting the opinion of a White person as you navigate this world? If that’s the case, I need to head down South, where apparently you can still live in a bio dome of foolishness. I find this especially funny if it did indeed come from members of the faculty, some of who were probably on the plantation with Sojo back in the day.

My other favorite excerpt from the article:
It was not as if this was the first time Packwood experienced life in the minority. He was among the few white students in his class at Grandview Senior High School in Kansas City, Mo. He has mixed-race siblings and his mother was married to a black man. Packwood's experiences growing up have helped him navigate black culture while remaining comfortable with his own complexion.

I LOVE IT. HE HAS KNOWN THE OTHER, so Morehouse made sense to him. Um, I must say, his "nagivation" is something that most of the black people I know do every damn day--and what, Packwood gets a cookie?! It’s also kinda curious that, given his upbringing, he felt the need to turn down Columbia and other Ivies, to “get the black experience," when he already had it at home, it would seem.

Josh is just down with the brown (woman), and wanted to be able to dazzle at dinner parties for the rest of his life.

I just love how bourgie black folks talk about keeping in the community, talk about how we need our “safe spaces” and whatnot, but the BMOBC (big man on black campus) for 2008 is none other than a real-life Zach Morris. I mean, look at this pic:

Note that he is surrounded by Negroes. In its original context, the caption under this image reads, "I always kind of gravitated to the black community," says Packwood who immediately fit in at Morehouse.

Dude is Abercrombie-and-Fitch kinda fine. Um, if I knew all the hot white boys were at the HBCUs, I wouldn’t have been so quick to go liberal arts! He even talks about how he dates black girls in the article—um, how can I get him my phone number?!

Actually, I think I’d probably talk too white for him.

But can you imagine our mixie babies?!!! If you can't imagine, here's another pic:

The caption under this pic reads, "His experience was so positive that Packwood's younger brother, John, will attend the college next year."
I can imagine Josh talking to his not-hot brother now: "Dude, don't even worry about it, you will get so much ass at the black school--the ladies will think it's so cute when you try to dance!"

As you can tell, my feelings here are layered. I do not have any negative feelings toward Joshua Packwood (who is fine as the day is long!), and I support the majority getting outside of their bubble and learning a little sumthin' sumthin'--but it's kinda ironic and frustrating to see that at a school that rests its foundation on lifting up the talented tenth, their most talented is a white dude--that's fucking curious as all get out. And I love the way the media is playing it up, for it proves that White is always right--even when it's in a black world, you know?


*names have been changed to protect the Caucasian.