Last night was the most magical night of my life.
No, I did not have a date with a wandering minstrel.
I had dinner with my high school American History teacher, her 15-year-old son, and another woman who I once worked for (a hook-up gained through the history teacher, obvi). These are three of the whitest people I have ever known, and yet the connection was undeniable—proving that the great blacktor Richard Pryor was right when he says “We’re all just people. We’re all just the same,” in his autobiography Pryor Convictions.
This may sound stranger coming from me, Sojourner Truth (can you handle it?). Let me explain:
First off, my history teacher and I have had a bond from DAY ONE. It was her first year teaching on the plantation, and I was a seasoned slave. I was prepared to give this White woman hell as she prepared to teach American History—or, as it should be called African-American History. Tall, thin, with an Upper East Side townhouse, I thought Mrs. L was going to be my new oppressor.
But she wasn’t. I aced her class like none other—and she let my first comedic leanings as a blacktress shine through. I actually wrote in the blue book of my American History final: “Often times, if one listened closely, one could hear Woody Woo [that’s what I called Woodrow Wilson] sitting in the White House late at night, chanting softly to himself, ‘Down, down, down, Kaiser’s goin’ down.’”
I got a 99 on this exam. No one saw it coming.
My competitive classmates, vying for early admission into the best schools, were shocked that this little slave girl could kick ass and take names in American History—wasn’t that supposed to be their domain? Shouldn’t I have still been silenced under the mental shackles of oppression that held me down for centuries? They were confused.
But Mrs. L wasn’t. That 99% solidified my genius in her mind, and she nurtured me for years afterwards. She even asked me to babysit her youngest son, Snowden*, when he was 9 years old and I was a high-school senior. At first, I wondered if this would be harkening back to slave days, and I’d be forced to call young Snowden ‘Massa,’ but I was assured this was all on the up and up—and I got paid (holla at a freed playa)!
Snowden is pasty pale with white-blonde hair, big blue eyes, and huge glasses. In short: he is whiter than the day is long. For two weeks, we went to museums, read books, and went on play dates around the Upper East Side. Allergic to both nuts and soy, Snowden’s dining options were limited, and even at the age of 9 his palate preferred French bread with olive oil over PB&J sandwiches (well, in all fairness, the sandwiches would have sent him into anaphylactic shock, so I guess he was biologically programmed to be bourgie). As the son of a medical doctor and a woman with a PhD in History, he was born to be nerdy, and his allergies only added fuel to the fire.
I loved him.
He would tell me jokes that I didn’t get, and I laughed wholeheartedly at my Lil’ Massa. Once, he said to me:
“Hey, Sojourner, how did Rome split Gaul into three parts?”
“How, Lil’ Massa?”
“They used a pair of Ceasars!”
HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA.
(I still don't get it.)
Over the years we’ve kept in touch, and Snowden is now a freshman at a prestigious New England boarding school, where young Caucasia is bred for greatness. However, Snowden and the rest of the Mrs. L’s sons (three in all), are very multi-culti. Citing Snowden’s recent interest in African food, Mrs. L suggested we dine at an Ethiopian restaurant, where we all dug in with our clean hands, enjoying our ethnic delights.
Joining us for dinner was Mary, a family friend of Mrs. L who I assistant directed a show for. Mrs. L put us in touch when she discovered my love for theater, thinking that Mary would be a good influence on a budding strong black woman. Though she’s of the Caucasian persuasion, she has a black husband and two mixie sons, and she’s got sass for days. So, basically, Mrs. L was right.
At dinner, Mary and I caught up, and Sarah asked me about my latest man drama—they love to hear how the young people do things nowadays—so I told them about the wandering minstrel. Before I delved deep into my story, Mary cut me off:
“Never call a man,” she decreed, waving her finger like a Jerry Springer guest.
“But, but, what if he’s awkward?!”
“NO! You should never call a man!” she insisted. “You can call your homosexual male friends, but any man worth your time will pursue you like his life depends on it—because it does!!! Without you he is nothing!”
She became even more incensed when I told her my latest crush is an actor.
“Have you learned nothing?!” she bellowed (God bless her for not being afraid of making a scene). “Actors are no good. Sweet goodness, don’t tell me he’s a comedian.”
Luckily, he isn’t, so I didn’t lose any more of her respect.
Snowden, surrounded by three women, just ate his injera and laughed, trying his best to remain inconspicuous. I was caught up in the girl talk when I realized I had, sitting across from me, a young Caucasian male, aged 15 years. I could impact this future tall-glass-of-awkward-milk when he was at his most impressionable.
I had to take this chance.
“Snowden, let me help you out,” I said. He looked at me, bulging baby-blue eyes wide, ready to take in the TRUTH.
“Let me tell you how to succeed with women,” I continued. “It’s very simple.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Say. What. You. Mean.”
I leaned back and took a sip of my water, letting that sink in. His 15-year-old self stared at me blankly.
“Look, when you like a girl, act like it. Go up to her in the dining hall and say, ‘Hello, pretty lady. You are attractive and seem smart and cool. May I take you out for a malt?’ And when you take her out for this malt, ask her tons of questions about herself—don’t just start rambling. Get her to share. And after consuming that malt—which you pay for—you say to her, ‘Thank you for your time, pretty lady. I enjoyed myself. I will call you in a few days.’ And a ‘few’ means THREE. And when you say you will call her, actually call her. And when you decide you’re not interested in dating, don’t try to kiss her on the mouth when you see her at a party the following weekend. Say. What. You. Mean.”
It really is that simple, y’all. The drama comes when a fool says he’s going to call and doesn’t. It comes when he acts as though he is interested in a blacktress and then falls of the face of the earth. It comes when you tell him not to put his p in your v without a c, he nods and says “yeah, you’re right,” and then proceeds to put his p in your v without a c!!!!!
The young Snowden’s mind was blown, and I could tell I made a lasting impression. In about 10 years, some of y’all are going to want to marry him, ‘cause he will know how to behave. Oh, and if any other blacktresses needed a reason to holla at a future tall glass, listen to this:
When I asked him how boarding school was going and if he was doing any extracurricular activities, he said to me, “I’m going to start an UJIMAA club.”
UJIMAA means "collective work and responsibility" in Swahili, and is one of the seven principles of Kwanzaa (which, as you all know, is Swahili for "after Christmas sales"). Ujimaa clubs exist at many colleges, and are often formed by and are comprised of the African American students.
Snowden, whiter than powder on a snow-covered mountain, is starting an UJIMAA club at one of the preppiest boarding schools in the country.
“Lil’ Massa, don’t you know you’re White?” I asked him sincerely.
He laughed.
And so did I.
Good times.
*names have been changed to protect the Caucasian.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Monday, March 3, 2008
Answering the Unanswerable Question
And that question is, “Why hasn’t he called me? Why? WHY?!”
– Brandon Welch, aka “The Alabama Slamma”*
“He’s probably just busy doing some charcoal sketches”
– Me, to myself
“Maybe he’s gay.”
– any gay I’ve ever asked.
“Cause he’s a loser, that’s why”
– this response often makes me happy.
“Because he lives in
– everyone with a brain.
*Note: Only I call him this.
While all of these responses are apt, I must say that I received the best answer yet from one of my soul sisters, just moments ago. As I was plagued by insecurity and self-doubt, her sweet tale filled my inbox--and my heart--with hope. It was lyrical, poignant, and touching—and I think I will make it into a picture book. Here it is:
once upon a time there was a beautiful blacktress who lived in a harsh and unforgiving city. from time to time, the blacktress would wander out in search of not prince charming, but just a decent peasant boy with the gift of height and the inclination to cuddle. but she often lost her way in the illusion of romance, and was scarred by the thorns of love. finally she had had enough, and vowed to renounce her quest for a suitable gentleman. free of the burden of expectations, she frolicked through the meadows happily, singing with the bluebirds. suddenly, she came across a wandering minstrel. "o fair maiden", said he, "please allow me to entertain you with my witty banter and lute-playing." she was charmed, and not unimpressed with his stature. despite her vow, she agreed to spend the evening with the minstrel, where he regaled her with improbable tales of joining the circus and appearing on prime time television. he shared with her food and drink, and there was much merry-making.
This is a black fair maiden. I had to draw one my damn self, cause you KNOW they don't have that on the interweb!
This is a black fair maiden. I had to draw one my damn self, cause you KNOW they don't have that on the interweb!at the end of the evening, she returned to her castle, pleased that she had had such an unexpected and agreeable experience. she woke up the next morning, feeling strangely optimistic about life and love. she couldn't help straining her ears for the soft melody of the lute, but all she heard was the familiar chirping of bluebirds. finally, wondering what had become of her minstrel, she set off to the meadow where they had first met, but alas! there was no sign of him. a cloud passed over the sun and the blacktress suddenly felt a shadow cross over her heart. the lute playing, the circus, the prime time television, had it all been a grand charade, and nothing more? if she couldn't promise her heart to a wandering minstrel, who could possibly be worthy of her love? in a moment, though, the sun reappeared, and she realized her own folly -- he was a wandering minstrel, after all! he had wandered into her life and then wandered out of it. she looked around and realized that she was none the worse off than she had been before she had come across him. the sky was still blue, the bluebirds were singing, and the meadows were calling to her.
EPILOGUE:
as it turned out, the minstrel had gotten picked up by the county sheriff for impersonating a clown in order to touch young children, and was thrown in the deepest darkest dungeon in the land, where he would spend the rest of his days composing odes to the blacktress that no one but the dungeon rats would ever hear. as ye sow, so ye shall reap.
Here is a rough forensic sketch done by olde tyme police of the wandering minstrel in question.So, gentle readers, the lesson here is clear: The next time you are staring at your celly, willing it to ring or beep with textage, remember that he is probably a wandering minstrel, and has been arrested for pedophilia.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Why Dawson's Creek Has Made It Impossible For Me to Have a Healthy Relationship. Ever.
WARNING: The following post has nothing to do with BHM...unless you count the fact that it was written by a Negress.
Looking back on my fiascos with members of the male gender, I have often wondered if there was something inherently wrong with me. Despite being a smart girl with above average social skills, when it comes to guys, I can be dumb as bricks. Honestly, I may be some sort of idiot savant; a female Rain Man who just can’t function in the presence of a Y chromosome (I’m not sure what the “savant” part is yet). If I had a nickel for every conversation I’ve had that started with, “I just don’t understand why he doesn’t LIKE ME!” (often slurred through tears), I’d have $5.65, easily. With college and high school behind me, I am finally in a position to redefine myself and break old habits. I, my friends, am on the road to recovery. And I have completed the first step: I admit I have a problem. I am now onto the next step, which is identifying the cause of said problem. Now, while it would be quite convenient to blame my mother, father, or one horrible date, I won’t take the easy way out—no sir.I blame Dawson’s Creek.
This realization happened a couple years ago, and is really resonating now. Let’s travel back in time, gentle reader…
6:00pm—the height of rush hour. Me and at least half of Manhattan are packed into one subway car. As I grip the center pole for dear life (and try to inch away from the old man who is coughing up a lung), I overhear two teenage girls having a conversation.
“Wait, Rachel, are you still dating Cory?”
I immediately look up. I love gossip, even if I have no connection to the parties involved.
“Yeah,” Rachel says slowly. “Melissa, don’t give me that look— it’s going good.”
“Really?” Melissa rolls her eyes, and pauses. “Rach, he was a total asshole at homecoming.”
“I know, but it’s okay. Afterwards we talked about it and he was like, ‘Nothing happened with Lana, I just want to be with you.’”
“He really said that?” Melissa softens.
“Yes.” She nods intensely, then leans in closer. “He even said, ‘You make me want to be a good boyfriend.’”
“Oh my god, he totally pulled a Pacey.”
"I know. It was so sweet. I’m like totally his Joey.”
The girls go quiet, as they think of Cory with tenderness. The subway lurches forward and the old man knocks into me, filling my nostrils with the smell of tobacco and phlegm.
For those of you who spent your childhoods doing productive things like reading and playing outside, “pulling a Pacey” refers to the character arc of Pacey Witter, from the hit teen drama Dawson’s Creek. Pacey went from reckless smart aleck to sensitive, intuitive businessman over the course of 6 seasons. Though Pacey is in no way a real person, his personality and character arc can be referenced as though you were speaking of an old friend.
And I don’t know what’s sadder—that the girl did this in conversation without a hint of irony, or that I actually knew what she was talking about.
Dawson’s Creek debuted on the WB network in the winter of my freshman year of high school—or, as I like to call it, the worst of times. There were 34 new students in my grade, and cliques were rivaling for those that would best fit their membership. Meanwhile, this madwoman—let’s call her “my algebra teacher”— was oppressing me with crazy rules that were just not gonna fly. I said to her, “Listen lady, you cannot just come into my life and tell me a letter stands for a number and expect me to be okay with it.” She disagreed.
Anyway, back to Dawson's. The episodes often began with a long shot of suburbia in all its glory. Capeside: A beautiful coastal every-town, where Caucasian youth brim with hope and enthusiasm. It was pretty much a walking Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. If you’re a viewer who is darker than a paper bag, you already feel a little awkward.
Sidebar: Why do television shows that are meant to appeal to the 18-34 year old demographic function under the assumption that there is only one White/right way to appeal to them? There are many places in America where the minority is rapidly becoming the majority, and the refusal to reflect this in popular television only serves to alienate those groups and reinforce stereotypes. Hell, I go sailing. I love it. I eat Chips Ahoy cookies, I watch Gilligan’s Island. Why didn’t we see a blacktress paddling up the creek?!
Sorry, I digress.
Jen and Joey were the ladies of the creek; they were cut from the same cloth, but Jen was the left over scraps. And for some strange reason, both of these girls fought of the affections of television’s worst leading man.
Yeah, you heard me. Dawson Leery was a lame-o. That’s Spanish for “one who is lame.” As I’ve already said, I was a film major in college. I knew guys like Dawson, who constantly quoted movies, lived life as though it had a soundtrack, and wanted to be Spielberg—these guys had no friends. On top of that, Dawson said things like, “I'm talking about the romantic apotheosis.” And “It -- you call it wish fulfillment or delusion of the highest adolescent order. But, Joey, I'm tellin' ya, something primal exists between us.” No one between the ages of 12 and 22 talks like that! First of all, you don’t learn such words until it’s time for the SAT verbal, and once you know them, you would never actually use them in conversation. That’s how you get bitch slapped. How anyone like Dawson got his own creek in the first place is beyond me.
I remember the first time I fell in love with a boy. It was my junior year of high school on the plantation and he was a new potential Massa. We instantly became friends and spent all our time together--he treated me like an equal, and he even liked Negro music. And he. Was. Cute. He was smart and funny and wanted to be a filmmaker—he was my Dawson (though much less lame and slightly more hipster). I remember watching Dawson’s Creek one night and actually crying, because I could relate to feeling like the rejected friend.
And the night I decided to write “My Dawson” a letter telling him how I felt…. Yep, I’d watched an episode of “The Creek.” As I wrote, I was tragic and hopeful. I poured out my soul, inserted song lyrics, and wrote in my best handwriting using a purple pen.I re-wrote it and re-wrote it, and finally decided I couldn’t take the pain any longer. He had to know how I felt so that he could finally fall in love with me. I knew if I could muster beautiful, flowing prose, he was would reciprocate just like the real Dawson. Guys were capable of such self-expression, I just hadn’t given him the opportunity.
So I handed him the letter one day after gym class, as he headed home. I distinctly remember it. He was saying goodbye and I tried to breezily pass the letter to him. When he asked what it was, I just told him to read it later, “No big deal.” When I felt the weight of the letter travel from my hand to his, it felt heavy. Later that night, I wrote in my journal, “he didn’t even know he was holding my heart in his hands. Perhaps he will give me his.”
And the next day, he came to my locker and smiled. We chatted as though nothing had happened. I knew that once we had a moment alone, he would talk about the “romantic apotheosis.”
But he didn’t. He never said anything about it.
When I confronted him, he said he didn’t want to say anything cause he didn’t want us to stop being friends.
So much for life imitating art.
I cannot count how many times I sat in front of the television watching, let’s say, Saved By the Bell or Pimp My Ride and secretly thought, “I want that.” As kids, we wanted the toys or the Happy Meal; we were determined to “collect all four!” of whatever was being sold. As teenagers, we wanted it and the persona attached—whether it’s the hair color of a certain actress, a Quarter Pounder with cheese, or a ride that is indeed pimped. And these desires were far worse than a high-calorie nugget made of “chicken product.” After all, toys and food could be bought. But if you wanted to be popular or get a boyfriend, you had to change who you were to fit whatever standard was being held at the moment. Between commercials, teasers for the next episode, and the weekly onslaught of these television shows, it was impossible to shake these feelings unless you lived in an igloo. For so many young women, this want can extend far beyond material possessions and become an innate desire to change oneself and become someone that is not actually real. Such expectations set us up to fail and only reinforce feelings of inadequacy.
“Um, so what are you going to do about it, Sojourner?” You ask.
“I’m going to expose it for all it’s worth, like I did just now” I say to you confidently.
“And? We all know TV isn’t reality—“
“Even reality TV?” I lower my eyes over my spectacles.
“No, that’s different.” You mumble, taken aback by my clever word play.
“How so?”
“It’s real people in real situations, being forced to do crazy things. It doesn’t get any more real.”
I chuckle lightly and wipe my brow. “Oh, you poor naïve soul. That’s all editing and camera tricks. Nothing is unfiltered.”
“Wait, so you mean Survivor—?"
“Is simply a bunch of actors who got rejected from the cast of RENT, trying to make ends meet.”
“Yeah, well… your mom’s trying to make ends meet!”
“That was real mature,” I scoff, as you stop reading this bloggery.
“Oh, so you think you’re better than me now?!”
I don't.
You keep reading.
It's a hell of a lot better than watching TV.
Looking back on my fiascos with members of the male gender, I have often wondered if there was something inherently wrong with me. Despite being a smart girl with above average social skills, when it comes to guys, I can be dumb as bricks. Honestly, I may be some sort of idiot savant; a female Rain Man who just can’t function in the presence of a Y chromosome (I’m not sure what the “savant” part is yet). If I had a nickel for every conversation I’ve had that started with, “I just don’t understand why he doesn’t LIKE ME!” (often slurred through tears), I’d have $5.65, easily. With college and high school behind me, I am finally in a position to redefine myself and break old habits. I, my friends, am on the road to recovery. And I have completed the first step: I admit I have a problem. I am now onto the next step, which is identifying the cause of said problem. Now, while it would be quite convenient to blame my mother, father, or one horrible date, I won’t take the easy way out—no sir.I blame Dawson’s Creek.
This realization happened a couple years ago, and is really resonating now. Let’s travel back in time, gentle reader…
6:00pm—the height of rush hour. Me and at least half of Manhattan are packed into one subway car. As I grip the center pole for dear life (and try to inch away from the old man who is coughing up a lung), I overhear two teenage girls having a conversation.
“Wait, Rachel, are you still dating Cory?”
I immediately look up. I love gossip, even if I have no connection to the parties involved.
“Yeah,” Rachel says slowly. “Melissa, don’t give me that look— it’s going good.”
“Really?” Melissa rolls her eyes, and pauses. “Rach, he was a total asshole at homecoming.”
“I know, but it’s okay. Afterwards we talked about it and he was like, ‘Nothing happened with Lana, I just want to be with you.’”
“He really said that?” Melissa softens.
“Yes.” She nods intensely, then leans in closer. “He even said, ‘You make me want to be a good boyfriend.’”
“Oh my god, he totally pulled a Pacey.”
"I know. It was so sweet. I’m like totally his Joey.”
The girls go quiet, as they think of Cory with tenderness. The subway lurches forward and the old man knocks into me, filling my nostrils with the smell of tobacco and phlegm.
For those of you who spent your childhoods doing productive things like reading and playing outside, “pulling a Pacey” refers to the character arc of Pacey Witter, from the hit teen drama Dawson’s Creek. Pacey went from reckless smart aleck to sensitive, intuitive businessman over the course of 6 seasons. Though Pacey is in no way a real person, his personality and character arc can be referenced as though you were speaking of an old friend.
And I don’t know what’s sadder—that the girl did this in conversation without a hint of irony, or that I actually knew what she was talking about.
Dawson’s Creek debuted on the WB network in the winter of my freshman year of high school—or, as I like to call it, the worst of times. There were 34 new students in my grade, and cliques were rivaling for those that would best fit their membership. Meanwhile, this madwoman—let’s call her “my algebra teacher”— was oppressing me with crazy rules that were just not gonna fly. I said to her, “Listen lady, you cannot just come into my life and tell me a letter stands for a number and expect me to be okay with it.” She disagreed.
Anyway, back to Dawson's. The episodes often began with a long shot of suburbia in all its glory. Capeside: A beautiful coastal every-town, where Caucasian youth brim with hope and enthusiasm. It was pretty much a walking Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. If you’re a viewer who is darker than a paper bag, you already feel a little awkward.
Sidebar: Why do television shows that are meant to appeal to the 18-34 year old demographic function under the assumption that there is only one White/right way to appeal to them? There are many places in America where the minority is rapidly becoming the majority, and the refusal to reflect this in popular television only serves to alienate those groups and reinforce stereotypes. Hell, I go sailing. I love it. I eat Chips Ahoy cookies, I watch Gilligan’s Island. Why didn’t we see a blacktress paddling up the creek?!
Sorry, I digress.
Jen and Joey were the ladies of the creek; they were cut from the same cloth, but Jen was the left over scraps. And for some strange reason, both of these girls fought of the affections of television’s worst leading man.
Yeah, you heard me. Dawson Leery was a lame-o. That’s Spanish for “one who is lame.” As I’ve already said, I was a film major in college. I knew guys like Dawson, who constantly quoted movies, lived life as though it had a soundtrack, and wanted to be Spielberg—these guys had no friends. On top of that, Dawson said things like, “I'm talking about the romantic apotheosis.” And “It -- you call it wish fulfillment or delusion of the highest adolescent order. But, Joey, I'm tellin' ya, something primal exists between us.” No one between the ages of 12 and 22 talks like that! First of all, you don’t learn such words until it’s time for the SAT verbal, and once you know them, you would never actually use them in conversation. That’s how you get bitch slapped. How anyone like Dawson got his own creek in the first place is beyond me.
I remember the first time I fell in love with a boy. It was my junior year of high school on the plantation and he was a new potential Massa. We instantly became friends and spent all our time together--he treated me like an equal, and he even liked Negro music. And he. Was. Cute. He was smart and funny and wanted to be a filmmaker—he was my Dawson (though much less lame and slightly more hipster). I remember watching Dawson’s Creek one night and actually crying, because I could relate to feeling like the rejected friend.
And the night I decided to write “My Dawson” a letter telling him how I felt…. Yep, I’d watched an episode of “The Creek.” As I wrote, I was tragic and hopeful. I poured out my soul, inserted song lyrics, and wrote in my best handwriting using a purple pen.I re-wrote it and re-wrote it, and finally decided I couldn’t take the pain any longer. He had to know how I felt so that he could finally fall in love with me. I knew if I could muster beautiful, flowing prose, he was would reciprocate just like the real Dawson. Guys were capable of such self-expression, I just hadn’t given him the opportunity.
So I handed him the letter one day after gym class, as he headed home. I distinctly remember it. He was saying goodbye and I tried to breezily pass the letter to him. When he asked what it was, I just told him to read it later, “No big deal.” When I felt the weight of the letter travel from my hand to his, it felt heavy. Later that night, I wrote in my journal, “he didn’t even know he was holding my heart in his hands. Perhaps he will give me his.”
And the next day, he came to my locker and smiled. We chatted as though nothing had happened. I knew that once we had a moment alone, he would talk about the “romantic apotheosis.”
But he didn’t. He never said anything about it.
When I confronted him, he said he didn’t want to say anything cause he didn’t want us to stop being friends.
So much for life imitating art.
I cannot count how many times I sat in front of the television watching, let’s say, Saved By the Bell or Pimp My Ride and secretly thought, “I want that.” As kids, we wanted the toys or the Happy Meal; we were determined to “collect all four!” of whatever was being sold. As teenagers, we wanted it and the persona attached—whether it’s the hair color of a certain actress, a Quarter Pounder with cheese, or a ride that is indeed pimped. And these desires were far worse than a high-calorie nugget made of “chicken product.” After all, toys and food could be bought. But if you wanted to be popular or get a boyfriend, you had to change who you were to fit whatever standard was being held at the moment. Between commercials, teasers for the next episode, and the weekly onslaught of these television shows, it was impossible to shake these feelings unless you lived in an igloo. For so many young women, this want can extend far beyond material possessions and become an innate desire to change oneself and become someone that is not actually real. Such expectations set us up to fail and only reinforce feelings of inadequacy.
“Um, so what are you going to do about it, Sojourner?” You ask.
“I’m going to expose it for all it’s worth, like I did just now” I say to you confidently.
“And? We all know TV isn’t reality—“
“Even reality TV?” I lower my eyes over my spectacles.
“No, that’s different.” You mumble, taken aback by my clever word play.
“How so?”
“It’s real people in real situations, being forced to do crazy things. It doesn’t get any more real.”
I chuckle lightly and wipe my brow. “Oh, you poor naïve soul. That’s all editing and camera tricks. Nothing is unfiltered.”
“Wait, so you mean Survivor—?"
“Is simply a bunch of actors who got rejected from the cast of RENT, trying to make ends meet.”
“Yeah, well… your mom’s trying to make ends meet!”
“That was real mature,” I scoff, as you stop reading this bloggery.
“Oh, so you think you’re better than me now?!”
I don't.
You keep reading.
It's a hell of a lot better than watching TV.
Damn you, Caucasian youth!!! You get me every time!!!!!
Friday, February 22, 2008
A Conversation Among Heteros II
L: the virgin asked if i was going to have a last hurrah and if it could be with him!!!
me: WHAT??
men are so rude
L: i was like, NO not with you at least because i need someone who's not going to be emo
me: oh god!
why do they have such audacity?
L: i dont know
i fucking hate men
i think we are just a bunch of vag holes to them, who might feed them
me: hahahahhaha
L: say it, we're just all walking holes to them.
holes with the ability to cook dinner
and with better apartment amenities, so its like a hotel stay
me: hahaha
like a fancy brothel
with only one whore
.... We then move on to the Australian, who I am back to crushing on. He's allegedly returning to this hemisphere in May, and I'm already getting hot and bothered thinking about it.
me: WHAT??
men are so rude
L: i was like, NO not with you at least because i need someone who's not going to be emo
me: oh god!
why do they have such audacity?
L: i dont know
i fucking hate men
i think we are just a bunch of vag holes to them, who might feed them
me: hahahahhaha
L: say it, we're just all walking holes to them.
holes with the ability to cook dinner
and with better apartment amenities, so its like a hotel stay
me: hahaha
like a fancy brothel
with only one whore
.... We then move on to the Australian, who I am back to crushing on. He's allegedly returning to this hemisphere in May, and I'm already getting hot and bothered thinking about it.
me: I hate liking the Australian because even though he’s a big deal to me, the minute he wants a woman, he can get one.
L: i know! all girls are willing thats why it fucking sucks
decent men who don't think you are a walking vagina are a COMMODITY
Ain't that the (sojourner) truth?
Oh, by the by-- i attempted to include an image with this post, but when i looked up "walking vag holes," "vag holes" and "one-woman brothels," the images were not appropriate for children, pregnant women, or a blacktress.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Flavor of Love: Season 3
8 days left in this Black History Month, guys. We’ve gotta make it count. So far, Barack’s doing his part as a halfie to make sure our 40 acres didn’t go to waste, but other than that, it’s a poor Negro showing this month. I blame this primarily on the premiere of Season 3 of Flavor of Love—aka, Season 3 of “Why Negroes Can’t Have Nice Things—and Why Sojourner Can’t Find a Can-Do Black Husband."
Now, I think you all know my thoughts of Flava Flav—he’s a human cockroach with a gold retainer.
Yeah, I said it.
And, just like a cockroach, he never stops spawning. And he will never become extinct.
Now, like rapper T-Pain, I believe that Flav served his purpose back in his rap days. With Public Enemy, the young Flav gave ugly men hope, and proved that money CAN buy love—a theory which a young Patrick Dempsey tested shortly after the first Public Enemy album was released in 1987. See for yourself:
You never thought Demspey and Flav had a connection, did you?
Flavor of Love: Season 3, debuted on February 11, 2008—smack dab in the middle of the month of negrosity. Now, Flav—or his handlers who sign his checks and make sure the baby-mammas get a cut—must have known people would pick up on this. At the very least, he should have anticipated the blacktress’ wrath.
I’ve been trying to avoid this show since it began, not only due to Flav’s blinding hideousness, but because nothing makes me sadder than unintelligent black women yelling, arguing, and pulling out weaves over nothing. I mean, I didn’t fight for freedom so these chicks could act a damn fool!
While eating China Place at Litsa’s last night, we had no choice by to stare at the giant image of Flav on her flat screen. Luckily, it was episode 1, where the sluts get their nicknames for the duration of the show.
Sidebar: Historically in African cultures, babies are named by a powerful figure in the community or family shortly after birth. The name is often meaningful, determined not before the child’s birth, but after. It involves a communication with a higher power, where the child’s destiny and identity are determined. The name is meant to act, in a way, as a prophecy.
On Flavor of Love and I Love New York, a slut appears in a mansion—primarily for free food, drink, and the chance to go from appearing in pornography on public access television to pay-cable—and is given a name that is easy to remember, touches on some trivial aspect of his/her/hir’s personality, and is often misspelled.
As the woman stood in line and waited to be named, Flav announced that this season he would do something different: The women would name themselves!!!
Who said pimps up, hos down? Not this time around! The women approached flav one by one, and explained why they should be named. One girl called herself “Bunz”—yes, with a ‘z’—because of her large posterior. Two identical twins (in bad need of pilates and orthodontia, if you really want to know) said they were “Sugar” and “Spice,” because that’s all a man could need.
As trite as this was, Flav was not satisfied with these monikers. In this instance, he decided to name them himself, giving them titles that were meaningful to him.
“My favorite book when I was little was Cat in the Hat,” he explained to the scary-looking ladies. “And my favorite characters were those little bad monsters—Thing 1 and Thing 2. So I’m call y’all Thing 1 and Thing 2.”
I kid you not.
We’ve come a long way, Negroes!!!
The women laughed, which is all one could really do in such a situation. Unless you’re me, and you stare at the TV with your mouth open and a lone tear in your eye.
As everyone gets acclimated and the women take their turns trying to woo flav, one woman shows herself as the next New York—her name is SHY, precisely because she is not shy at all. Two at a time bond with Flav, and the rest of the women are left to drink and intimidate each other, and Shy wastes no time.
One large white woman, nicknamed Peeches (yes, PEEches), is immediately attacked. Shy asks her why she’s here, and Peeches says she “wants to be his queen.” (um, really? Ew.)
Shy then gets louder and louder, screaming, “Are you ready to do what you gotta do? Do you want 10 babies? ARE YOU READY TO HAVE HIS 10 BABIES?!” She then begins pointing to her nether regions as she says each syllable, just in case Peeches doesn’t know where babies come from.
She's not shy at all. And she wants to be the new New York.
Once she makes herself clear, she begins to say, “See, me, 24-healthy, fit”—she flexes her bicep at this moment—“I’m all ready. Are YOU ready?!”
Okay, now, the last thing anyone should be trying to do is procreate with Flav. He is clearly genetically inferior, from his oral hygiene to his stature to his balding (though he tries to wear real jacked up cornrows). There is no reason why having his babies would be a good idea—we’re trying to LIFT UP the black race!! Listen, I’m only having kids if I know they’ll be in The Talented Tenth. I’m not popping out babies just keep some steady income. I mean, how do you think I’ve lived so long since the abolition of slavery? Cause I ain’t givin’ it away!!!
These women should also keep in mind that Flav already has about 8 children (like I said, cockroaches reproduce rapidly), and, like, 7 baby-mammas. And this is the THIRD SEASON of the show—his track record ain’t so great.
I honestly don’t get why these women don’t have higher aspirations than mating with an unattractive man. I mean, the only one who is showing her true colors is the white girl—who wanted to be called “Vanilla,” but instead he calls her ICE. Ice admits that she’s a budding radio personality, and is most likely on the show to earn some sort of “Street Cred.”
It’s a sad world when the only person clever enough on Flavor of Love is the white girl.
Okay, readers, I could go on, but I would probably end up crying, or nauseous.
Happy February 21st!!!!!!!!!
Now, I think you all know my thoughts of Flava Flav—he’s a human cockroach with a gold retainer.
Yeah, I said it.
And, just like a cockroach, he never stops spawning. And he will never become extinct.
Now, like rapper T-Pain, I believe that Flav served his purpose back in his rap days. With Public Enemy, the young Flav gave ugly men hope, and proved that money CAN buy love—a theory which a young Patrick Dempsey tested shortly after the first Public Enemy album was released in 1987. See for yourself:
You never thought Demspey and Flav had a connection, did you?Flavor of Love: Season 3, debuted on February 11, 2008—smack dab in the middle of the month of negrosity. Now, Flav—or his handlers who sign his checks and make sure the baby-mammas get a cut—must have known people would pick up on this. At the very least, he should have anticipated the blacktress’ wrath.
I’ve been trying to avoid this show since it began, not only due to Flav’s blinding hideousness, but because nothing makes me sadder than unintelligent black women yelling, arguing, and pulling out weaves over nothing. I mean, I didn’t fight for freedom so these chicks could act a damn fool!
While eating China Place at Litsa’s last night, we had no choice by to stare at the giant image of Flav on her flat screen. Luckily, it was episode 1, where the sluts get their nicknames for the duration of the show.
Sidebar: Historically in African cultures, babies are named by a powerful figure in the community or family shortly after birth. The name is often meaningful, determined not before the child’s birth, but after. It involves a communication with a higher power, where the child’s destiny and identity are determined. The name is meant to act, in a way, as a prophecy.
On Flavor of Love and I Love New York, a slut appears in a mansion—primarily for free food, drink, and the chance to go from appearing in pornography on public access television to pay-cable—and is given a name that is easy to remember, touches on some trivial aspect of his/her/hir’s personality, and is often misspelled.
As the woman stood in line and waited to be named, Flav announced that this season he would do something different: The women would name themselves!!!
Who said pimps up, hos down? Not this time around! The women approached flav one by one, and explained why they should be named. One girl called herself “Bunz”—yes, with a ‘z’—because of her large posterior. Two identical twins (in bad need of pilates and orthodontia, if you really want to know) said they were “Sugar” and “Spice,” because that’s all a man could need.
As trite as this was, Flav was not satisfied with these monikers. In this instance, he decided to name them himself, giving them titles that were meaningful to him.
“My favorite book when I was little was Cat in the Hat,” he explained to the scary-looking ladies. “And my favorite characters were those little bad monsters—Thing 1 and Thing 2. So I’m call y’all Thing 1 and Thing 2.”
I kid you not.
We’ve come a long way, Negroes!!!
The women laughed, which is all one could really do in such a situation. Unless you’re me, and you stare at the TV with your mouth open and a lone tear in your eye.
As everyone gets acclimated and the women take their turns trying to woo flav, one woman shows herself as the next New York—her name is SHY, precisely because she is not shy at all. Two at a time bond with Flav, and the rest of the women are left to drink and intimidate each other, and Shy wastes no time.
One large white woman, nicknamed Peeches (yes, PEEches), is immediately attacked. Shy asks her why she’s here, and Peeches says she “wants to be his queen.” (um, really? Ew.)
Shy then gets louder and louder, screaming, “Are you ready to do what you gotta do? Do you want 10 babies? ARE YOU READY TO HAVE HIS 10 BABIES?!” She then begins pointing to her nether regions as she says each syllable, just in case Peeches doesn’t know where babies come from.
She's not shy at all. And she wants to be the new New York.Once she makes herself clear, she begins to say, “See, me, 24-healthy, fit”—she flexes her bicep at this moment—“I’m all ready. Are YOU ready?!”
Okay, now, the last thing anyone should be trying to do is procreate with Flav. He is clearly genetically inferior, from his oral hygiene to his stature to his balding (though he tries to wear real jacked up cornrows). There is no reason why having his babies would be a good idea—we’re trying to LIFT UP the black race!! Listen, I’m only having kids if I know they’ll be in The Talented Tenth. I’m not popping out babies just keep some steady income. I mean, how do you think I’ve lived so long since the abolition of slavery? Cause I ain’t givin’ it away!!!
These women should also keep in mind that Flav already has about 8 children (like I said, cockroaches reproduce rapidly), and, like, 7 baby-mammas. And this is the THIRD SEASON of the show—his track record ain’t so great.
I honestly don’t get why these women don’t have higher aspirations than mating with an unattractive man. I mean, the only one who is showing her true colors is the white girl—who wanted to be called “Vanilla,” but instead he calls her ICE. Ice admits that she’s a budding radio personality, and is most likely on the show to earn some sort of “Street Cred.”
It’s a sad world when the only person clever enough on Flavor of Love is the white girl.
Okay, readers, I could go on, but I would probably end up crying, or nauseous.
Happy February 21st!!!!!!!!!
Friday, February 15, 2008
Ode to Katie Walsh
I know I promised to talk about one important black person—a Negro of Note, if you will—each day during this month of blackness. However, today I must celebrate the birth of Katie Walsh. I think that, although Katie is biologically of the “Caucasian persuasion,” as it were, she is a strong black woman at heart. Here’s why:
Katie’s from the US Virgin Islands. She never had to go anywhere to get her groove back—she was born with it.
Katie isn’t afraid to give tough love. Much like my own mother, Katie will speak truth and tell you what you need to hear even when you don’t want to hear it.
Katie knows how to get free stuff. I mean, if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a po’ slave, it’s how to make something out of nothing. Katie’s a PR squirrel trying to get a nut, and she knows how to work it.
She’s street. I’ve received the following text message from Katie in total seriousness: “I’m in a Wal-Mart with Master P and Tyler Perry, and it is so crazy.” Um, if that’s not street tough, what is? Oh, I know—this photo:
Katie’s down with Tyler Perry.
I don’t think I’m doing my sister from another mister true justice. I think poetry is the only way I can express what is truly in my heart.
February 15, 2008: KATIE WALSH
I think it was that day in film class
You were wearing that hot dress that accentuated your sweet ass
I knew then, you were my friend crush.
We made a movie about mating season
And we got an A-, for no good reason
I took time to get to know you, there was no rush.
You’ve taken a blacktress out of her borough
And calmed me when my brow was furrowed
Your couch has been my second bed.
You showed me your green apples
You were there when I invented peach Schnapple
I can’t wait for our promise ceremony in Christiansted.
I can tell you when I’m trolling for vampires
And you don’t judge—and you ain’t no liar
Thank god for your 3 a.m. egg-and-cheese sammies.
Here’s to 25 more years of you and me
Drinking red wine and co-hosting dinner parties
Honestly, if it wasn’t racist, I’d have no problem being your mammy.
Katie’s from the US Virgin Islands. She never had to go anywhere to get her groove back—she was born with it.
Katie isn’t afraid to give tough love. Much like my own mother, Katie will speak truth and tell you what you need to hear even when you don’t want to hear it.
Katie knows how to get free stuff. I mean, if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a po’ slave, it’s how to make something out of nothing. Katie’s a PR squirrel trying to get a nut, and she knows how to work it.
She’s street. I’ve received the following text message from Katie in total seriousness: “I’m in a Wal-Mart with Master P and Tyler Perry, and it is so crazy.” Um, if that’s not street tough, what is? Oh, I know—this photo:
Katie’s down with Tyler Perry.I don’t think I’m doing my sister from another mister true justice. I think poetry is the only way I can express what is truly in my heart.
February 15, 2008: KATIE WALSH
I think it was that day in film class
You were wearing that hot dress that accentuated your sweet ass
I knew then, you were my friend crush.
We made a movie about mating season
And we got an A-, for no good reason
I took time to get to know you, there was no rush.
You’ve taken a blacktress out of her borough
And calmed me when my brow was furrowed
Your couch has been my second bed.
You showed me your green apples
You were there when I invented peach Schnapple
I can’t wait for our promise ceremony in Christiansted.
I can tell you when I’m trolling for vampires
And you don’t judge—and you ain’t no liar
Thank god for your 3 a.m. egg-and-cheese sammies.
Here’s to 25 more years of you and me
Drinking red wine and co-hosting dinner parties
Honestly, if it wasn’t racist, I’d have no problem being your mammy.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Happy Lovers Day-- Negro Lovers, That Is!!!
Yeah, that's how I feel about this "holiday."Sorry to get all “angry black woman” on y’all, but I just don’t think there’s any point in Valentine’s Day. If you’re with someone, you should be good to them all the time, and all V-day does is allow everyday establishments to raise prices on goods and services as well as decorate their areas a hideous pink-and-red combination—which is flattering on no one.
Today is a day for celebrating one’s significant other, right? Well, I’ve decided I will celebrate myself, for I am quite the significant… other--get it?! Oh, my pseudo-intellectual race jokes are the best!!
Anyway, let’s get back to why black people are so great, shall we? Here’s a quick list.
Reasons I Love Black People
- We use wash cloths
- We have created a hip hop culture which has given suburban white males a means of channeling their misplaced anger at their parents for such atrocities as Little League, SAT Prep, and music lessons.
- The women of the race give white men something to fetishize.
- Without black people, Duane Reade would have no employees.
- Drag queens would have never learned to be so sassy!
- Gay men would have never had anyone to come out to, if not for the SBW—strong black woman.
- We may not have built this city on rock and roll, but we built this country on…slavery. I think we all know who won in that chapter of history.
- We have created a hip hop culture which has given suburban white males a means of channeling their misplaced anger at their parents for such atrocities as Little League, SAT Prep, and music lessons.
- The women of the race give white men something to fetishize.
- Without black people, Duane Reade would have no employees.
- Drag queens would have never learned to be so sassy!
- Gay men would have never had anyone to come out to, if not for the SBW—strong black woman.
- We may not have built this city on rock and roll, but we built this country on…slavery. I think we all know who won in that chapter of history.
So, on this day of both lovers and Negroes, and I’ve decided that my true love is none other than Sojo herself. And, unlike a man, I won’t oppress myself, I won’t hook up with myself and not call, and I will make sense in all my speech and only speak TRUTH.
God, it’s good to be me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)