Oh no! I lost a follower!!
This is what happens when I stop blogging regularly.
I'm sorry, guys. I've just been really busy. I was in Detroit this past weekend, celebrating G-unit's birthday--the big 9-4!! You know that party was off the chain!
We totes got crunked. We mixed Ensure and Efferdent and got wiz-asted!!!
Of course, I jest. The trip to Detroit was actually quite painless, as I was there about 72 hours, and slept til noon two days in a row. My mom and I actually got along, as we tend to do in Detroit--it's like we band together when faced with our extended family's dysfunction. As you all know, when it comes to visiting the Detroit fam, Sojourner is the black(tress) sheep of the clan. What, with my "talking white" and my having a passport and all, my family doesn't quite know what to do with me.
I spent every summer in Detroit until I was 14, and started private school when I was 10, making those last 4 years especially painful. Up until then, I was mocked for being too dark and for being chubby and wearing glasses. Add in my clipped diction (I was preparing myself for the stage, clearly) and my love of the film “Little Women” (to this day, my cousins mock my love of Winona Ryder), and I just couldn’t win.
Honestly, though, I’m not bitter. We’re all adults now, and have come to accept each other. We’ve even added each other as Facebook friends. And even though I maintain strict privacy settings with the fam, it warms my heart when my cousin wishes me a happy birthday via wall post. I also think that my time traveling solo in foreign lands has steeled me—I have no qualms about sitting in the midst of people speaking Swedish, and don’t need to be filled in, or be liked. And, quite frankly, my extended family may as well be speaking Swedish, because the shit they say is so cuckoo bananas, I don’t even know how to respond.
Of course, when I told my cousin I had a new boyfriend, she instantly asked if he was white. I showed her Jewboo’s pics on FB.
“Oh, he’s cute. He puts [family friend’s white boyfriend] to shame.”
Apparently, we’re in some sort of interracial-romance competition. My other cousin believes I’m a failure to my race for dating a white guy, but doesn’t blame me, because “it’s how you grew up. You been around white folks. It make sense, you been confused.” This, coming from the man who suggests I find "high-functioning" crackheads to help with household chores.
Um, when’s our return flight?
I learned how young the madness starts when someone’s 4-year-old son came over, and he took a shine to Sojourner. For some reason, he needed my attention all throughout the birthday party, and at one point, found a pencil sharpener shaped like a nose. It was beige-colored. When a random guest, trying to engage him, asked, “Whose nose is that?” the young boy replied, totally nonchalantly:
“It’s a white devil’s nose.”
From the mouths of Detroit babes.
Detroit is the city that god forgot on so many levels. As we passed burned down buildings and desolate streets, it’s not hard to see why it has a population of less than 1 million. As we drove by “Lil’ Poo Poo’s Auto Body Repair,” it’s not hard to see why my family thinks I’m uppity—clearly, their expectations are skewed.
Who is “Lil’ Poo Poo,” and why on earth would he put his nickname on his business?
WHAT IF IT ISN”T A NICKNAME????
This didn’t really surprise me, seeing as, when we couldn’t find the gate for our flight to Detroit, I was able to locate it by following the girl wearing a full head of curlers in the airport at 12:30pm. Clearly, she was bound for the D. And when she asked the flight attendant if the plane had a plug so she could charge her phone, I knew she wasn’t making any connections.
I’m sorry if I’m sipping on Detroit HATE-orade. The trip wasn’t even as bad as it could have been, or as it’s been in the past. It’s just that it’s so frustrating to feel like I’m the odd one, the crazy one, when all I do is read books and have a Jewboo. It’s total Twilight Zone sometimes.
I was talking to my grandmother, and she’s asking me about my travels, and she goes:
“Have you been to that place where they make the stuff?”
Okay, now I’m not even about to make fun of G-Unit, cause she’s 94 and all, but, um, WHAT? She’s actually quite sharp, and this was the most vague sentence I’d ever heard.
What threw me off even more was when my mom, who was sitting next to me says, completely nonchalantly, “She’s asking if you’ve ever been to China.”
WHAT? HOW DOES SHE KNOW THAT?
Clearly, they exist on a wavelength I cannot access.
This moment was only surpassed by grandma's follow-up. “Cause Will’s boy was over there for a time, practicing.”
Who is Will’s boy? Practicing what? I’m so confused. Where am I?
“She means Will Smith’s son was in China filming the new ‘Karate Kid’ movie," mom explains.
My mother is an ambassador, bridging generation gaps.
The one bright spot was that my toothless, schizophrenic aunt has started taking her meds, so she did way less ranting than usual. My mom thought she wasn’t well because she was going into OCD overdrive in terms of planning my grandmother’s party. However, we just think she’s a party planner—for her son’s college graduation party, which consisted of about 15 people, she rented a hotel banquet hall, hired a harpist, and had a meat carver. We think she just likes to go all out, meds or no.
Anyway, I’ve missed society. How are you guys?
Showing posts with label grandma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grandma. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Truth Never Gets Old
You know, this time last year, I was smack dab in the middle of Caucasia, where no one even knew was Black History Month was. And now, to be home, able to tell my TRUTH…well, it just warms my heart. I’ve been thinking of important black folks I wanted to share with you today, and I think I’ve come up with one.
She’s not famous.
She’s not on reality TV.
And no, she’s not 16 or pregnant.
She’s…MY GRANDMA.
Yes, my grandmother—or, as I like to call her, G-Unit.
My grandmother is 93 ½ years old, y’all—holla!! And yes, I said 93 ½ (her birthday is in June). I figure when you make it to as old as 93, you get to revert back to kid referral to your age – every second counts! Dudes, 93?! For reals? I think she has an autographed copy of the Bible – for reals.
Ethel Mae was born in Waynesboro, Mississippi in 1916. She currently lives in Detroit, Michigan—also known as “The City That God Forgot.” I used to spend every summer with Ethel until I was 14 years old. Ethel raised 7 kids and worked full time and was not exactly a sugar-and-spice grandmother. I didn’t get baked cookies – I got grits in the morning. There was no knitting and needlepoint, there was tilling the backyard fields. When my cousins and I would play hide-and-seek in her house, she’d always leave us with a warning:
“Be careful, and don’t go in that front room – that’s where I keep my gun.”
Yes, y’all! G-Unit will bust a cap in yo’ ass.
She’s never actually used the alleged gun, which I’ve never actually seen, but she says she had it for protection, because she’s “a lonely old woman living alone and people will prey on me.”
Um, nobody’s preyed on this old broad a day in her life.
“Okay, Sojourner, your grandma’s old--what’s your point?” you’re probably saying to yourself.
Well, gentle reader, this month, we’re honoring those that came before us and re-learning their lessons. As you can imagine, a woman who survived the Great Depression, WW2, and had a 68-year-old bf when she was 86 has pearls of wisdom to impart. Here are some nuggets for you to add to your TRUTH collection:
On preparing for disaster:
“In times of distress, you must be able to wipe yo’ ass.”
--Grandma to me, re: why she had a whole closet full of toilet paper before the year 2000. You know, she was worried about “the Y2K.”
On homosexuality:
“You know how I know she a lezbun? 1: She got that short haircut; B: We was watching a joe boxer commercial and the man was dancing in his underwear and she changed the channel? Why would she do that? I’m an old woman and I want to see it! You know why she changed it? Cause she a lezbun”
--Grandma, re: my cousin’s recent breakup from his gf.
On Michelle Obama:
“She lookin’ like a smiley Grinch. Don’t you just love that smiley Grinch?”
-Grandma, re: Michelle’s Vogue magazine article.
On interracial marriage:
“It’s okay for you, baby, cause you’ll be able to do your daughter’s hair. That Laura [my uncle’s white wife’] leaves her girl looking a mess, and it just breaks my heart.”
--As long as the children’s hair is tight, black-and-white is all right!
“Sojo, I think you should meet Bob, he’s a nice man, got a job. Why don’t y’all go on a date?”
--Bob is my white aunt’s brother. He is a 40-something divorcee who works at the Chrysler plant. My grandmother thinks he’s my type solely because he’s Caucasian.
On aging:
“I’m doing pretty fair for an ol’ lady. You know, I’m just waitin’ to die.”
-Grandma, in response to the always innocuous question, How are you doing?
I include this because this shows that grandma is never afraid to tell you the TRUTH, even it will make you uncomfortable and/or depressed.
So, as you go about your day—nay, your LIFE—try to live the Ethel Mae philosophy. Tell the TRUTH, the whole TRUTH, and nothing but the (Sojourner) TRUTH, so help you God! Who knows? You may even live to be 93.
She’s not famous.
She’s not on reality TV.
And no, she’s not 16 or pregnant.
She’s…MY GRANDMA.
Yes, my grandmother—or, as I like to call her, G-Unit.
My grandmother is 93 ½ years old, y’all—holla!! And yes, I said 93 ½ (her birthday is in June). I figure when you make it to as old as 93, you get to revert back to kid referral to your age – every second counts! Dudes, 93?! For reals? I think she has an autographed copy of the Bible – for reals.
Ethel Mae was born in Waynesboro, Mississippi in 1916. She currently lives in Detroit, Michigan—also known as “The City That God Forgot.” I used to spend every summer with Ethel until I was 14 years old. Ethel raised 7 kids and worked full time and was not exactly a sugar-and-spice grandmother. I didn’t get baked cookies – I got grits in the morning. There was no knitting and needlepoint, there was tilling the backyard fields. When my cousins and I would play hide-and-seek in her house, she’d always leave us with a warning:
“Be careful, and don’t go in that front room – that’s where I keep my gun.”
Yes, y’all! G-Unit will bust a cap in yo’ ass.
She’s never actually used the alleged gun, which I’ve never actually seen, but she says she had it for protection, because she’s “a lonely old woman living alone and people will prey on me.”
Um, nobody’s preyed on this old broad a day in her life.
“Okay, Sojourner, your grandma’s old--what’s your point?” you’re probably saying to yourself.
Well, gentle reader, this month, we’re honoring those that came before us and re-learning their lessons. As you can imagine, a woman who survived the Great Depression, WW2, and had a 68-year-old bf when she was 86 has pearls of wisdom to impart. Here are some nuggets for you to add to your TRUTH collection:
On preparing for disaster:
“In times of distress, you must be able to wipe yo’ ass.”
--Grandma to me, re: why she had a whole closet full of toilet paper before the year 2000. You know, she was worried about “the Y2K.”
On homosexuality:
“You know how I know she a lezbun? 1: She got that short haircut; B: We was watching a joe boxer commercial and the man was dancing in his underwear and she changed the channel? Why would she do that? I’m an old woman and I want to see it! You know why she changed it? Cause she a lezbun”
--Grandma, re: my cousin’s recent breakup from his gf.
On Michelle Obama:
“She lookin’ like a smiley Grinch. Don’t you just love that smiley Grinch?”
-Grandma, re: Michelle’s Vogue magazine article.
On interracial marriage:
“It’s okay for you, baby, cause you’ll be able to do your daughter’s hair. That Laura [my uncle’s white wife’] leaves her girl looking a mess, and it just breaks my heart.”
--As long as the children’s hair is tight, black-and-white is all right!
“Sojo, I think you should meet Bob, he’s a nice man, got a job. Why don’t y’all go on a date?”
--Bob is my white aunt’s brother. He is a 40-something divorcee who works at the Chrysler plant. My grandmother thinks he’s my type solely because he’s Caucasian.
On aging:
“I’m doing pretty fair for an ol’ lady. You know, I’m just waitin’ to die.”
-Grandma, in response to the always innocuous question, How are you doing?
I include this because this shows that grandma is never afraid to tell you the TRUTH, even it will make you uncomfortable and/or depressed.
So, as you go about your day—nay, your LIFE—try to live the Ethel Mae philosophy. Tell the TRUTH, the whole TRUTH, and nothing but the (Sojourner) TRUTH, so help you God! Who knows? You may even live to be 93.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Family Matters....Or Does It?
Hey guys, quick Q:
Is it possible to have a Boone's Farm hangover, or could it be I just feel really ashamed of myself?
I write to you now from Detroit, Michigan--aka The City That God Forgot. I'm celebrating the 93rd birthday of my dear grandmother, and couldn't be less annoyed by it.
I know, I know, I'm going to hell.
Hey guys, one more Q: Have you ever shared a bed with someone going through menopause? Well, I have. Cause my uncle's also here, my mom and I are sharing a bed, and home girl is having hot flashes like whoa. So, you know, random thrashing about, turning on and off the fan, and stripping are the course for the night. Hence my bright-and-early bloggery before 10am.
Sunday the whole fam gathered to celebrate, and the awkwardness set in. Although I used to spend every summer in Detroit until I was about 13, I don't feel remotely close to my family at all. Perhaps it's because they teased me for 'talking white' or because my cousin would ask me incredulously how I could 'like a White boy.' Or maybe it's because they teased me for being so dark-skinned and said my toes looked like roaches (they don't). Being an only child, I wasn't used to such teasing and never found it particularly pleasant or manageable. And the fact that these things are still brought up over 10 years later causes me to bristle.
One of my cousins is a year older than me and graduated college about a year ago--which is a hot mess. He actually just self-published a book that would fall under the category of 'urban fiction.' In the first paragraph, we follow our protagonist as he awakes from dreams of being violated by his stepfather. It's hardcore.
Anyway, he'd mellowed out since I'd seen him last, and was talking with his sister about her latest 'man friends.' My cousin says she doesn't have a boyfriend, just 'various dudes I kick it with.' I don't think this means she's bending it like Beckham, though. Her broface got pretty annoyed and made everyone be silent as he imparted the following words of wisdom:
"Men cannot be friends with a woman," he yelled, slamming his can of soda--oops, I mean pop--on the table for emphasis. "If you are not willing to be intimate with a man, you need to leave him alone. Or hook him up with one of your girls who would like to be intimate. If you can't do that, you need to cook him some food. There has to be a physical need met by your presence, or you are useless."
Is he right? What do you think?
I was two seconds away from thinking he was an idiot savant when I heard him offer this next pearl of advice:
"Nah, nah, for real dog--If you need work done in yo' house, you gotta get one of them good, high-functionin' crackheads, who used to be an engineer or some shit. My boy Young Ju got all his Ikea furniture put together by John who live down the street for, like, 20 dollas. And cracky did that shit in about an hour."
Think there's any way I can move up my return flight?
Is it possible to have a Boone's Farm hangover, or could it be I just feel really ashamed of myself?
I write to you now from Detroit, Michigan--aka The City That God Forgot. I'm celebrating the 93rd birthday of my dear grandmother, and couldn't be less annoyed by it.
I know, I know, I'm going to hell.
Hey guys, one more Q: Have you ever shared a bed with someone going through menopause? Well, I have. Cause my uncle's also here, my mom and I are sharing a bed, and home girl is having hot flashes like whoa. So, you know, random thrashing about, turning on and off the fan, and stripping are the course for the night. Hence my bright-and-early bloggery before 10am.
Sunday the whole fam gathered to celebrate, and the awkwardness set in. Although I used to spend every summer in Detroit until I was about 13, I don't feel remotely close to my family at all. Perhaps it's because they teased me for 'talking white' or because my cousin would ask me incredulously how I could 'like a White boy.' Or maybe it's because they teased me for being so dark-skinned and said my toes looked like roaches (they don't). Being an only child, I wasn't used to such teasing and never found it particularly pleasant or manageable. And the fact that these things are still brought up over 10 years later causes me to bristle.
One of my cousins is a year older than me and graduated college about a year ago--which is a hot mess. He actually just self-published a book that would fall under the category of 'urban fiction.' In the first paragraph, we follow our protagonist as he awakes from dreams of being violated by his stepfather. It's hardcore.
Anyway, he'd mellowed out since I'd seen him last, and was talking with his sister about her latest 'man friends.' My cousin says she doesn't have a boyfriend, just 'various dudes I kick it with.' I don't think this means she's bending it like Beckham, though. Her broface got pretty annoyed and made everyone be silent as he imparted the following words of wisdom:
"Men cannot be friends with a woman," he yelled, slamming his can of soda--oops, I mean pop--on the table for emphasis. "If you are not willing to be intimate with a man, you need to leave him alone. Or hook him up with one of your girls who would like to be intimate. If you can't do that, you need to cook him some food. There has to be a physical need met by your presence, or you are useless."
Is he right? What do you think?
I was two seconds away from thinking he was an idiot savant when I heard him offer this next pearl of advice:
"Nah, nah, for real dog--If you need work done in yo' house, you gotta get one of them good, high-functionin' crackheads, who used to be an engineer or some shit. My boy Young Ju got all his Ikea furniture put together by John who live down the street for, like, 20 dollas. And cracky did that shit in about an hour."
Think there's any way I can move up my return flight?
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Choosing the Chosen People
First of all, I must apologize for my lack of bloggery as of late. I was in Detroit, Michigan, visiting my grandmother—or, as I like to call her, “G-Unit.” She turned 92 on June 9, and we all gathered to celebrate the good times.
I absolutely cannot believe I know someone who is 92. What I love most about her is that when she was 86 she dated a 68 year old—holla at a geriatric playa! She had a man even when I didn’t, and all she had to do was put in her dentures (efferdent and forget it)!
Anyway, as I returned to the world of young people and readjusted to procrastinating in the workplace yesterday, I realized something about myself:
Sometimes I wish I was a Jewess.
Perhaps it was my education at a predominantly Jewish private school that had me going to so many Bar Mitzvahs that I can now recite Hebrew prayers in my sleep.
Perhaps it’s because, like Sojourner, the Jews have a history of oppression.
Perhaps it’s my love of brisket and the fact that I’m a challahback girl.
Or perhaps it’s because they run Hollywood.
But I think it’s primarily because they are excellent matchmakers.
Think about it: J-date was the first internet dating site to really take off, and it totally set the bar for match.com, eharmony.com, and others. Several of my main Jewesses have found significant others on this site, and they never seem to have a shortage of dating opportunities. Meanwhile, I’m on match.com wondering why in god’s name there’s no screening process—or at least a spell-check option—for these fools who wink at me.
(Oh, question: can my computer get an STD from a sleazy guy winking at me?)
One of my wives is a Jewess, and she’s got a different j-date every night of the week! She just cannot pass over those matzoh balls, no matter how hard she tries. I mean, no wonder they’re the “chosen people”—they’re only choosing each other!
She recently decided to take a break from j-date--you know, to let her internet bedsheets cool-- but it seems she can’t escape the matchmaking of her brethren. I simply died laughing when she forwarded an email sent to her by an uncle:
To: Jewess11@jew.org; Jewster@jew.org
From: YourUncle@joiningthejews.com
Subject: Introduction
Consider this e-mail a modern introduction. We think you guys should meet. Your aunt and I connected with Jewster's parents on our hiking trip in Croatia, and we couldn't resist the chance to exchange contact particulars.
Besides both being attractive, the right age and culturally linked, you have a name in common (Jewster's last name is Levinson, Jewess' middle name is Levinson) and the same e-mail provider! What more is there? What do you have to lose?
Your e-mails are above, plus Jewster's phone is (xxx) xxx-xxxx and Jewess' is (xxx) xxx-xxxx (at least, that's the last one we have for her).
Go for it, please…and…ENJOY,
Uncle (and Aunt, too)
Um, how amazing is that?! Other than changing the names (to protect the Jewish), everything in that email is as it originally appeared. Do you know what Sojourner would give to have trusted family members set her up with well-to-do young chaps who share my email provider?????-- I mean, the uncle is right: WHAT MORE IS THERE?!
NOTHING.
He outlines the key points to a happy union in one sentence: they are both attractive, the right age, and culturally linked. Um, cut and print—this one’s winning an Oscar for BEST ROMANTIC COMEDY! Hell, I don’t even need to be culturally linked or the right age—just be attractive, and the rest will work itself out.
Although this email was sent to me in an attempt to prove the silliness/borderline madness of her family members, I am quite jealous, and am now thinking of getting me a Yentle—someone to grill me up some Hebrew National hot dogs, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).
Right now, the closest thing I’ve got is my 92-year-old G-Unit, who said she wanted to set me up with Bob, the brother of my uncle’s wife (who happens to be white)—he’s 40, divorced, and moderately obese. I’m not exactly sure why she thought that would be a good idea—but I like where her head’s at.
I absolutely cannot believe I know someone who is 92. What I love most about her is that when she was 86 she dated a 68 year old—holla at a geriatric playa! She had a man even when I didn’t, and all she had to do was put in her dentures (efferdent and forget it)!
Anyway, as I returned to the world of young people and readjusted to procrastinating in the workplace yesterday, I realized something about myself:
Sometimes I wish I was a Jewess.
Perhaps it was my education at a predominantly Jewish private school that had me going to so many Bar Mitzvahs that I can now recite Hebrew prayers in my sleep.
Perhaps it’s because, like Sojourner, the Jews have a history of oppression.
Perhaps it’s my love of brisket and the fact that I’m a challahback girl.
Or perhaps it’s because they run Hollywood.
But I think it’s primarily because they are excellent matchmakers.
Think about it: J-date was the first internet dating site to really take off, and it totally set the bar for match.com, eharmony.com, and others. Several of my main Jewesses have found significant others on this site, and they never seem to have a shortage of dating opportunities. Meanwhile, I’m on match.com wondering why in god’s name there’s no screening process—or at least a spell-check option—for these fools who wink at me.
(Oh, question: can my computer get an STD from a sleazy guy winking at me?)
One of my wives is a Jewess, and she’s got a different j-date every night of the week! She just cannot pass over those matzoh balls, no matter how hard she tries. I mean, no wonder they’re the “chosen people”—they’re only choosing each other!
She recently decided to take a break from j-date--you know, to let her internet bedsheets cool-- but it seems she can’t escape the matchmaking of her brethren. I simply died laughing when she forwarded an email sent to her by an uncle:
To: Jewess11@jew.org; Jewster@jew.org
From: YourUncle@joiningthejews.com
Subject: Introduction
Consider this e-mail a modern introduction. We think you guys should meet. Your aunt and I connected with Jewster's parents on our hiking trip in Croatia, and we couldn't resist the chance to exchange contact particulars.
Besides both being attractive, the right age and culturally linked, you have a name in common (Jewster's last name is Levinson, Jewess' middle name is Levinson) and the same e-mail provider! What more is there? What do you have to lose?
Your e-mails are above, plus Jewster's phone is (xxx) xxx-xxxx and Jewess' is (xxx) xxx-xxxx (at least, that's the last one we have for her).
Go for it, please…and…ENJOY,
Uncle (and Aunt, too)
Um, how amazing is that?! Other than changing the names (to protect the Jewish), everything in that email is as it originally appeared. Do you know what Sojourner would give to have trusted family members set her up with well-to-do young chaps who share my email provider?????-- I mean, the uncle is right: WHAT MORE IS THERE?!
NOTHING.
He outlines the key points to a happy union in one sentence: they are both attractive, the right age, and culturally linked. Um, cut and print—this one’s winning an Oscar for BEST ROMANTIC COMEDY! Hell, I don’t even need to be culturally linked or the right age—just be attractive, and the rest will work itself out.
Although this email was sent to me in an attempt to prove the silliness/borderline madness of her family members, I am quite jealous, and am now thinking of getting me a Yentle—someone to grill me up some Hebrew National hot dogs, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).
Right now, the closest thing I’ve got is my 92-year-old G-Unit, who said she wanted to set me up with Bob, the brother of my uncle’s wife (who happens to be white)—he’s 40, divorced, and moderately obese. I’m not exactly sure why she thought that would be a good idea—but I like where her head’s at.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Spreading the TRUTH- SOJO LIVE
Here's 15 minutes of Sojourner ranting about internet dates, low standards, grandmas.
Hear the truth. See it in the nubian flesh.
I know it's a little dark (like Sojo herself), but we're all black when the lights go out-- holla!
Leave a comment. Like McDonald's, I welcome your feedback.
Hear the truth. See it in the nubian flesh.
I know it's a little dark (like Sojo herself), but we're all black when the lights go out-- holla!
Leave a comment. Like McDonald's, I welcome your feedback.
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