I have a really good post, but I'm hesitant to put it up, for fear that it may be TOO truthful. Those who want to read it, leave a comment, and I will send it your way.
What is it? It's a cautionary tale. It's called...
"THE PHOTOGRAPHER WHO SHOT....TO KILL...."
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
On Hiatus--don't hate us!
Readers,I apologize for my lack of posting. I am not living up to my word of a new post a day. I, Sojourner, am not being TRUTHful. Please forgive this failure as I rebuild in the wake of the Photographer (more on that later).
For now, I leave you this e-card. It's something I've been saying all along.
And it reminds me of my estranged father.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The Hook Brings You Back/HeavyVee
I’m sorry for this late posting on the 7th day of BHM. Perhaps moving on CP time* is fitting, given the month.
Today, I would like to bring an up and coming rap sensation to your attention. It was brought to me by JJSiii. I find urban rhythms are often brought to my attention by those of the Caucasian persuasion, and I’ve come to accept it. When I first viewed this video, I was put off. Why would I write about a young woman who was cooning it up during the month of pride? However, upon a closer look and a good listen, I began to see her worth. See the magic for yourself.
She goes by the name of HeavyVee. I think this clever moniker comes from the fact that she is thick and her name is Vanessa. Her song “I don’t need a hook” is a clever meta discourse on the tropes of hip hop culture and rap music. She repeats the refrain—the hook, if you will—repeatedly, which is: I don’t need a hook.
Does she or doesn’t she? I’m not really sure.
But, what I do know is that HeavyVee is large and, like Charles, she is in charge!!! She’s not afraid to rock white suspenders, and she gestures with the bravado and confidence of a rapper twice her age (she’s only 17).
I would also like to show you an excerpt from the “about me” section of her woozyfly page:
When Vanessa turned 15, she gained the confidence to share her own songs with others and booked her first ever live performance at a local steak house in Jersey. From these humble beginnings, Heavy Vee was born!
Steak house? Did she get a shank or slab of meat as payment? Perhaps this is what I’ve been missing.Should I go to Bennigan’s and start spreading truth? Can I become internet famous after a string of performances at Ihop? I think I’m going to have to talk to HeavyVee’s people.
What I want you to learn from HeavyVee on the seventh day is this:
DO YOU.
HeavyVee proudly shuns “hooks” in favor of a….hook-shunning hook. She is a walking contradiction, and there’s just no stopping her. She’s a juggernaut of hip hop flavor, 17 years young, and she has a confidence that only a large black woman can possess. Having grown up around melanin-deficient individuals, I have been brainwashed with ideals of beauty. Luckily, I had my Detroit crew and strong black Massa-mama to give me truth. My classmates longed to be skinny, and proudly wore size 0 jeans on their petite frames. At the age of 17, some girls had the hips of a 12-year-old Korean gymnast—and guys actually thought they were hot.
But HeavyVee don’t go for that. As she says in the song, "She ain’t not snitch or trick. And if you cross her, she can be a real bitch"—just like Sojo.
While I’m slightly put off by the hairdo (or, in this case, hair-don’t), I think that HeavyVee deserves a day in the blacktress sunshine. What do YOU think?
*this is an abbreviation of the popular phrase, “colored people time,” which is based on the stereotype of black people being late all the time. I guess it’s cause they’re too busy eating fried chicken and getting pregnant.
Today, I would like to bring an up and coming rap sensation to your attention. It was brought to me by JJSiii. I find urban rhythms are often brought to my attention by those of the Caucasian persuasion, and I’ve come to accept it. When I first viewed this video, I was put off. Why would I write about a young woman who was cooning it up during the month of pride? However, upon a closer look and a good listen, I began to see her worth. See the magic for yourself.
She goes by the name of HeavyVee. I think this clever moniker comes from the fact that she is thick and her name is Vanessa. Her song “I don’t need a hook” is a clever meta discourse on the tropes of hip hop culture and rap music. She repeats the refrain—the hook, if you will—repeatedly, which is: I don’t need a hook.
Does she or doesn’t she? I’m not really sure.
But, what I do know is that HeavyVee is large and, like Charles, she is in charge!!! She’s not afraid to rock white suspenders, and she gestures with the bravado and confidence of a rapper twice her age (she’s only 17).
I would also like to show you an excerpt from the “about me” section of her woozyfly page:
When Vanessa turned 15, she gained the confidence to share her own songs with others and booked her first ever live performance at a local steak house in Jersey. From these humble beginnings, Heavy Vee was born!
Steak house? Did she get a shank or slab of meat as payment? Perhaps this is what I’ve been missing.Should I go to Bennigan’s and start spreading truth? Can I become internet famous after a string of performances at Ihop? I think I’m going to have to talk to HeavyVee’s people.
What I want you to learn from HeavyVee on the seventh day is this:
DO YOU.
HeavyVee proudly shuns “hooks” in favor of a….hook-shunning hook. She is a walking contradiction, and there’s just no stopping her. She’s a juggernaut of hip hop flavor, 17 years young, and she has a confidence that only a large black woman can possess. Having grown up around melanin-deficient individuals, I have been brainwashed with ideals of beauty. Luckily, I had my Detroit crew and strong black Massa-mama to give me truth. My classmates longed to be skinny, and proudly wore size 0 jeans on their petite frames. At the age of 17, some girls had the hips of a 12-year-old Korean gymnast—and guys actually thought they were hot.
But HeavyVee don’t go for that. As she says in the song, "She ain’t not snitch or trick. And if you cross her, she can be a real bitch"—just like Sojo.
While I’m slightly put off by the hairdo (or, in this case, hair-don’t), I think that HeavyVee deserves a day in the blacktress sunshine. What do YOU think?
*this is an abbreviation of the popular phrase, “colored people time,” which is based on the stereotype of black people being late all the time. I guess it’s cause they’re too busy eating fried chicken and getting pregnant.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Mama Didn't Raise No Fool!
And so we thank her, on this day, the 6th day of BHM.
I thought it behoovy of me to praise Mama Dukes because we went to Bank of America this morning to apply for my mortgage, so I can get off her plantation. Thanks to her hard work and good credit, I have been pre-approved! Clearly, this is not something I could have done on my own. When I asked Big Mama Thornton* if she really wanted to do this, if she was really ready to be my blackup in case of nonpayment, she said to me, in all seriousness:
“I see this as an investment in you. I believe that in a few years you will be a financial stable and responsible adult, and I want to help you get on your own two feet—and off my couch.”
It was touching moment. Massa-Mama is enabling me to break free from the shackles of oppression and get my own 40 acres and a mule—or, in this case, several hundred square feet and a doorman.
MaDukes should be thanked for several reasons:
1. She taught me to read.
2. She didn’t give me up for adoption, when she most certainly could have.
3. After I was born, she sent me to Africa for 6 months and I lived with my grandma while mom studied for the bar exam. If that’s not being a strong black woman, I don’t know what is.
3a. If she hadn’t passed that bar exam, she wouldn’t be the lawyer she is today.
4. She taught me that when a White person tells me I’m “well-spoken,” they are being “condescending” and “racist.”
5. She fed me until I was old enough to cook for my damn self.
6. She’s shown me that a woman is never too old to get a Latin lover.
7. She taught me all about TRUTH.
As a young girl, I looked to my mother for validation, guidance, and support. If I was wearing a hideous outfit, she would tell me; if I complained about gaining weight, she’d stop buying sweets, “cause the Buddha-belly was bulging.” When tears would well up in my nubian eyes, she’d calmly explain, “I’m your mother. If you can’t count on me to tell you the truth, who can you count on?” It was rough, it was harsh, but it was always the Sojourner Truth.
I hope you, too, go to the strong black women in your lives and show them some love this month.
This is what you find when you google search "Slave Mother." This is a still from the movie Beloved, starring Oprah Winfrey. Neither of these women were actual slaves at any point.
*not her real name
I thought it behoovy of me to praise Mama Dukes because we went to Bank of America this morning to apply for my mortgage, so I can get off her plantation. Thanks to her hard work and good credit, I have been pre-approved! Clearly, this is not something I could have done on my own. When I asked Big Mama Thornton* if she really wanted to do this, if she was really ready to be my blackup in case of nonpayment, she said to me, in all seriousness:
“I see this as an investment in you. I believe that in a few years you will be a financial stable and responsible adult, and I want to help you get on your own two feet—and off my couch.”
It was touching moment. Massa-Mama is enabling me to break free from the shackles of oppression and get my own 40 acres and a mule—or, in this case, several hundred square feet and a doorman.
MaDukes should be thanked for several reasons:
1. She taught me to read.
2. She didn’t give me up for adoption, when she most certainly could have.
3. After I was born, she sent me to Africa for 6 months and I lived with my grandma while mom studied for the bar exam. If that’s not being a strong black woman, I don’t know what is.
3a. If she hadn’t passed that bar exam, she wouldn’t be the lawyer she is today.
4. She taught me that when a White person tells me I’m “well-spoken,” they are being “condescending” and “racist.”
5. She fed me until I was old enough to cook for my damn self.
6. She’s shown me that a woman is never too old to get a Latin lover.
7. She taught me all about TRUTH.
As a young girl, I looked to my mother for validation, guidance, and support. If I was wearing a hideous outfit, she would tell me; if I complained about gaining weight, she’d stop buying sweets, “cause the Buddha-belly was bulging.” When tears would well up in my nubian eyes, she’d calmly explain, “I’m your mother. If you can’t count on me to tell you the truth, who can you count on?” It was rough, it was harsh, but it was always the Sojourner Truth.
I hope you, too, go to the strong black women in your lives and show them some love this month.
This is what you find when you google search "Slave Mother." This is a still from the movie Beloved, starring Oprah Winfrey. Neither of these women were actual slaves at any point.*not her real name
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Who Likes to (Ba)rack the Party?!
Okay, so I know the plan was to discuss a Negro a day for the entire month, but I must first spread some truth.
I, Sojourner, am angry.
I woke up this morning to change the world—aka VOTE—and headed to my polling site with a purpose.
I arrived at the school where I’ve been voting for years to find the entry gates locked. I walked the perimeter until I found an entrance. A kindly master of the custodial arts (aka janitor) informed me that the school was no longer a polling site, and I had to go 6 blocks north to PS 194.
Oh hell to the no!! How did I not get a memo? Why wasn’t there at least a sign on the school gates and/or entryway to inform all of us rabid voters that there had been a change?
As I walked to the next site trying to calm my nerves and focus on rocking the vote, I was accosted by independents, urging me vote as one of them. I think my favorite was a White woman wearing a shirt that read: “WHO SAYS HILLARY’S BEST FOR THE BLACK COMMUNITY????”
If that’s not gentrification, I don’t know what is.
Anyway, I appear at the second voting site only to be told that I’m yet again in the wrong place—apparently, I have to cross the street and go to another school.
W. T. F?!
I’m sorry, y’all, but I have a conspiracy theory. They don’t want Negroes voting today. Why else would they make it a mystery maze to get to a voting site and in no way place visual cues? Why was my voting site 10 blocks from my home when I am near 3 schools and 4 churches?
Because they don’t want me SPEAKING MY TRUTH!
Yep, I said it. They are making it as complicated and confusing as possible for me to pull my lever to the left, to the left (much like Beyoncé says).
Is it because they don’t want my black behind voting for…BARACK????
Which brings me to today’s Negro: Barack Obama.
Now, Sojo hasn’t gotten too political this year, and I’ve done this on purpose. Everybody and their mama wants to put two cents into this debate. And, while that’s all well and good, I’m gonna keep my pennies for my damn self.
I must admit, I never thought I’d see the day we were torn between a black man and a woman (even if that woman is a cyborg). I’ve been on this earth over 200 years (I’m still looking good cause black don’t crack!), and I have seen some changes. I mean, when I saw Brad Pitt holding that black baby girl for the first time, I almost lost my mind. I thought it was the end of days…but now I see the days are just beginning.
Barack.
Hillary.
Black everyman.
White woman.
I’m mad at both of ‘em.
They’re forcing me to decide how liberal I am and which minority I care more about. As a black woman, I’m doubly torn. As a bleeding-heart liberal, well I’m just racked with guilt either way.
I’m worried that if Barack is president, he’ll get shot before Michelle can put new drapes in the oval office. If Hillary is president, I will get Bill back, which would make me happy because I miss him very much. I sometimes put on my favorite blue dress and reminisce on our good times….
I digress.
We all know everyone loves a mixie. And we all love a worldly man. Barack is both. And he has used his fine brownness and brought young, attractive people out of the woodwork. Look at this music video:
politics gets rhythmic!
Scarlett Johannson sings and Tatyana Ali comes out of hiding—all for Barack!!!
(um…why’s the lead actor from “Prime” and that random pussycat doll in there, though?)
YES. WE. CAN.
I know he’s young and delicate. I know he’s not as experienced as H-320-2008 is (that’s her robot name). What’s working for him the friendly charisma that allows me to make him anything I want him to be. He’s like the cool black kid in private school—the white boys totally want to hang out with him and ask him the lyrics to popular rap songs. Who didn’t want to be friends with that guy?!
Um, here’s a question, though: Where’s the white mum and his Asian sis? Is he keeping her quiet and in hiding, like some sort of geisha?!
Let’s think about that.
I, Sojourner, am angry.
I woke up this morning to change the world—aka VOTE—and headed to my polling site with a purpose.
I arrived at the school where I’ve been voting for years to find the entry gates locked. I walked the perimeter until I found an entrance. A kindly master of the custodial arts (aka janitor) informed me that the school was no longer a polling site, and I had to go 6 blocks north to PS 194.
Oh hell to the no!! How did I not get a memo? Why wasn’t there at least a sign on the school gates and/or entryway to inform all of us rabid voters that there had been a change?
As I walked to the next site trying to calm my nerves and focus on rocking the vote, I was accosted by independents, urging me vote as one of them. I think my favorite was a White woman wearing a shirt that read: “WHO SAYS HILLARY’S BEST FOR THE BLACK COMMUNITY????”
If that’s not gentrification, I don’t know what is.
Anyway, I appear at the second voting site only to be told that I’m yet again in the wrong place—apparently, I have to cross the street and go to another school.
W. T. F?!
I’m sorry, y’all, but I have a conspiracy theory. They don’t want Negroes voting today. Why else would they make it a mystery maze to get to a voting site and in no way place visual cues? Why was my voting site 10 blocks from my home when I am near 3 schools and 4 churches?
Because they don’t want me SPEAKING MY TRUTH!
Yep, I said it. They are making it as complicated and confusing as possible for me to pull my lever to the left, to the left (much like Beyoncé says).
Is it because they don’t want my black behind voting for…BARACK????
Which brings me to today’s Negro: Barack Obama.
Now, Sojo hasn’t gotten too political this year, and I’ve done this on purpose. Everybody and their mama wants to put two cents into this debate. And, while that’s all well and good, I’m gonna keep my pennies for my damn self.
I must admit, I never thought I’d see the day we were torn between a black man and a woman (even if that woman is a cyborg). I’ve been on this earth over 200 years (I’m still looking good cause black don’t crack!), and I have seen some changes. I mean, when I saw Brad Pitt holding that black baby girl for the first time, I almost lost my mind. I thought it was the end of days…but now I see the days are just beginning.
Barack.
Hillary.
Black everyman.
White woman.
I’m mad at both of ‘em.
They’re forcing me to decide how liberal I am and which minority I care more about. As a black woman, I’m doubly torn. As a bleeding-heart liberal, well I’m just racked with guilt either way.
I’m worried that if Barack is president, he’ll get shot before Michelle can put new drapes in the oval office. If Hillary is president, I will get Bill back, which would make me happy because I miss him very much. I sometimes put on my favorite blue dress and reminisce on our good times….
I digress.
We all know everyone loves a mixie. And we all love a worldly man. Barack is both. And he has used his fine brownness and brought young, attractive people out of the woodwork. Look at this music video:
politics gets rhythmic!
Scarlett Johannson sings and Tatyana Ali comes out of hiding—all for Barack!!!
(um…why’s the lead actor from “Prime” and that random pussycat doll in there, though?)
YES. WE. CAN.
I know he’s young and delicate. I know he’s not as experienced as H-320-2008 is (that’s her robot name). What’s working for him the friendly charisma that allows me to make him anything I want him to be. He’s like the cool black kid in private school—the white boys totally want to hang out with him and ask him the lyrics to popular rap songs. Who didn’t want to be friends with that guy?!
Um, here’s a question, though: Where’s the white mum and his Asian sis? Is he keeping her quiet and in hiding, like some sort of geisha?!
Let’s think about that.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Model Woman
On the 4th day of B.H.M./ my blacktress gave to me….. a story about Miss Na-o-mi.
Campbell, that is.
Today I have decided to sing the virtues of the cray-cray Naomi Campbell.
First of all, let me say something about Naomi. I was talking to Scribe earlier today, and she dropped some good knowledge about Ms. Campbell. She said:
SCRIBE: no i love her being cray
check this out
naomi campbell is known to be a b*tch
she beats people
throws tantrums
and it has never affected her work
no one has ever decided, ok Naomi is out
this is a black woman who is allowed to be cray cray and has yet to be punished for it
AND she gets to be cray, without anyone making her the "crazy black woman"
she is just crazy
i wanna know her secret.
Come to think of it, Scribe, I do, too…
This conversation was serendipitous, as I already had Naomi on the brain after her random appearance in a commercial for Life Water which debuted during last night’s Super Bowl and involved her dancing to MJ’s “Thriller” with animated lizards. See for yourself (click "Sobe LifeWater" from the pulldown menu):
No, you’re not drunk. And you’re not dreaming. And no, it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. But Naomi looked fierce and didn’t throw a celly at anyone, so I consider this commercial a success. I was then further pleased with her when I discovered earlier today that Miss Campbell is boycotting Fashion Week. I really think she is moved by the spirit of BHM. Naomi is finally using her status as a fine (part) Black woman to speak out against the racism and prejudice in the fashion and modeling industries. The runway is her plantation, and she is standing up as a runaway slave, fleeing the shackles of high-heeled oppression, and crying out for justice.
I just wish she’d stop letting them dye her hair all kinds of non-Negro colors (like blond) and stop hitting her help. When a rich Negress hits her help, it sends the message to White folks that we can’t have nice things cause we won't know how to behave.
Campbell, that is.
Today I have decided to sing the virtues of the cray-cray Naomi Campbell.
First of all, let me say something about Naomi. I was talking to Scribe earlier today, and she dropped some good knowledge about Ms. Campbell. She said:
SCRIBE: no i love her being cray
check this out
naomi campbell is known to be a b*tch
she beats people
throws tantrums
and it has never affected her work
no one has ever decided, ok Naomi is out
this is a black woman who is allowed to be cray cray and has yet to be punished for it
AND she gets to be cray, without anyone making her the "crazy black woman"
she is just crazy
i wanna know her secret.
Come to think of it, Scribe, I do, too…
This conversation was serendipitous, as I already had Naomi on the brain after her random appearance in a commercial for Life Water which debuted during last night’s Super Bowl and involved her dancing to MJ’s “Thriller” with animated lizards. See for yourself (click "Sobe LifeWater" from the pulldown menu):
No, you’re not drunk. And you’re not dreaming. And no, it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. But Naomi looked fierce and didn’t throw a celly at anyone, so I consider this commercial a success. I was then further pleased with her when I discovered earlier today that Miss Campbell is boycotting Fashion Week. I really think she is moved by the spirit of BHM. Naomi is finally using her status as a fine (part) Black woman to speak out against the racism and prejudice in the fashion and modeling industries. The runway is her plantation, and she is standing up as a runaway slave, fleeing the shackles of high-heeled oppression, and crying out for justice.
I just wish she’d stop letting them dye her hair all kinds of non-Negro colors (like blond) and stop hitting her help. When a rich Negress hits her help, it sends the message to White folks that we can’t have nice things cause we won't know how to behave.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Lessons From Another Wesley
On this third day of blackness, I would like to speak of a Negro who is not famous. A simple man, just riding public transportation, and dropping knowledge...
Yesterday, I was on my way to the Ted Haggard Monologues, to sing for Jesus the way only a blacktress can. In typical New York City form, the trains were being cray cray, and I decided to hop on a bus to get to the express. As I'm on the corner waiting for the light to change, I see the very bus I desire speeding towards the stop. Fuck! I'm not going to make it! I think as the bus reaches the stop and the cars continue to whizz by.
The bus stops to let passengers exit. I'm looking left and right, judging whether or not its appropriate to play a game of frogger in an attempt to cross the road. As I'm deciding how much I value my life (and catching this bus), I notice something: The bus isn't moving.
That's right. No one's getting on or off, but the doors are open. The driver's blinkers are on...as if he's waiting... for me.
I mean, is it Black History Month or what? The spirit of Negro giving is all around us!
As I board the bus and give the driver a hearty thanks, I am moved by the kindness and goodness coming from this downtown-bound M3. For the first time in months, instead of praising White Jesus, I praise the black mortal.
And I feel good.
I take a single seat (I try to avoid sitting next to people during cold and flu season), and bask in the karmic goodness of the evening. The man sitting in front of me turns around, and says,
"That was nice of him!"
"It sure was, Older Black Man Who Slightly Slurs." I smile, deciding its best to share the goodness, and do my part for BHM.
"I thought he was waiting for that other lady. Did you flag him down?"
"No, I actually, I didn't think he'd see me. But I was sorta gesturing wildly." (I then mimic the gestures I was making on the street corner, and several passengers stared at me in confusion and worry.)
"Well, you have a lovely smile and seem like a nice person, and good things happen to good people."
I was floored. This Black History Month was getting better by the second. Not since the soul-searching cowboy had a man I'd briefly met seen so deep into my soul for who I am. Yes, he was right-- I AM a good person.
"Thank you," I said sincerely.
"You just gotta wake up and be glad you're alive and everything's gonna be all right."
"Mmm-hmm," I said. I was starting to get a little bored by this conversation, as I often do after I've been complimented and we've hit the high point.
"I almost didn't wake up once," he said, pointing to the hat on his head. It said in big letters, VIETNAM VETERAN.
Now, I didn't think war veterans were getting hats. This seems a little ridiculous to me, kinda like the equivalent of "I went to war and all I got was this stupid hat"-- what about healthcare, jobs, support from the government? This man clearly could have used all of these things instead of a hat.
But I decided not to go there.
"By the way, my name is Wesley," he said.
I didn't know if I should tell him that Wesley Snipes was my featured Negro of the day and that I thought this was kismet. I just smiled and said hello again (and didn't give him my name).
"How you doing?"
Um, hadn't we already been there? I just said I was fine and asked him how he was.
"I'm just trying to survive this Holocaustic madness."
WHAT?
Wesley just came out of left field with that one--even though the hat was probably a hint that something like that was coming.
"Well, that's all you can do," I said laughing as though I had any idea what "Holocaustic" meant.
"Yep, this is holocaustic madness."
Just then the bus reached 125th and we both had to get off. I let Wesley go first, and he turned to me, grabbed my arm, and said, "Be safe!"
I said thank you and turned towards the subway station.
I heard Wesley yell after me, but I didn't turn back. I couldn't-- he had left me with much to think about already. After complimenting me, he turned my attention to the horrors of war and its aftermath. He then mentioned the Holocaust, as well as our current state of affairs. And he did this all with a respect and kindness that can only be found during the month of blackness.
Yesterday, I was on my way to the Ted Haggard Monologues, to sing for Jesus the way only a blacktress can. In typical New York City form, the trains were being cray cray, and I decided to hop on a bus to get to the express. As I'm on the corner waiting for the light to change, I see the very bus I desire speeding towards the stop. Fuck! I'm not going to make it! I think as the bus reaches the stop and the cars continue to whizz by.
The bus stops to let passengers exit. I'm looking left and right, judging whether or not its appropriate to play a game of frogger in an attempt to cross the road. As I'm deciding how much I value my life (and catching this bus), I notice something: The bus isn't moving.
That's right. No one's getting on or off, but the doors are open. The driver's blinkers are on...as if he's waiting... for me.
I mean, is it Black History Month or what? The spirit of Negro giving is all around us!
As I board the bus and give the driver a hearty thanks, I am moved by the kindness and goodness coming from this downtown-bound M3. For the first time in months, instead of praising White Jesus, I praise the black mortal.
And I feel good.
I take a single seat (I try to avoid sitting next to people during cold and flu season), and bask in the karmic goodness of the evening. The man sitting in front of me turns around, and says,
"That was nice of him!"
"It sure was, Older Black Man Who Slightly Slurs." I smile, deciding its best to share the goodness, and do my part for BHM.
"I thought he was waiting for that other lady. Did you flag him down?"
"No, I actually, I didn't think he'd see me. But I was sorta gesturing wildly." (I then mimic the gestures I was making on the street corner, and several passengers stared at me in confusion and worry.)
"Well, you have a lovely smile and seem like a nice person, and good things happen to good people."
I was floored. This Black History Month was getting better by the second. Not since the soul-searching cowboy had a man I'd briefly met seen so deep into my soul for who I am. Yes, he was right-- I AM a good person.
"Thank you," I said sincerely.
"You just gotta wake up and be glad you're alive and everything's gonna be all right."
"Mmm-hmm," I said. I was starting to get a little bored by this conversation, as I often do after I've been complimented and we've hit the high point.
"I almost didn't wake up once," he said, pointing to the hat on his head. It said in big letters, VIETNAM VETERAN.
Now, I didn't think war veterans were getting hats. This seems a little ridiculous to me, kinda like the equivalent of "I went to war and all I got was this stupid hat"-- what about healthcare, jobs, support from the government? This man clearly could have used all of these things instead of a hat.
But I decided not to go there.
"By the way, my name is Wesley," he said.
I didn't know if I should tell him that Wesley Snipes was my featured Negro of the day and that I thought this was kismet. I just smiled and said hello again (and didn't give him my name).
"How you doing?"
Um, hadn't we already been there? I just said I was fine and asked him how he was.
"I'm just trying to survive this Holocaustic madness."
WHAT?
Wesley just came out of left field with that one--even though the hat was probably a hint that something like that was coming.
"Well, that's all you can do," I said laughing as though I had any idea what "Holocaustic" meant.
"Yep, this is holocaustic madness."
Just then the bus reached 125th and we both had to get off. I let Wesley go first, and he turned to me, grabbed my arm, and said, "Be safe!"
I said thank you and turned towards the subway station.
I heard Wesley yell after me, but I didn't turn back. I couldn't-- he had left me with much to think about already. After complimenting me, he turned my attention to the horrors of war and its aftermath. He then mentioned the Holocaust, as well as our current state of affairs. And he did this all with a respect and kindness that can only be found during the month of blackness.
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