Sojo Goes Solo -- A Solo Show, That Is

So, as you all know, the Sojo has opinions. I’ve been inside Caucasia, got hos in different country codes, and love to share my business. This clearly means I need to have a one-blacktress show—first on LOGO, then on Bravo, then on EVERY CHANNEL POSSIBLE.

My first step on the path to world domination is taking a solo-show writing class, taught by a strong black woman in a white woman’s candy coating. I’ve heard great things about her, and although this brain of mine is teeming with ideas, I have no idea how to organize them, or what’s worth expanding upon.
And also I’m lazy and can’t motivate myself. (see any post regarding gchat, which often takes place at work).

So, I started this class on Saturday, and after hosting two shows the night before, was feeling excited to nurture the blacktress within. These feelings quickly disappeared when I walked into the classroom and found myself, yet again, in the heart of Caucasia.
And not just any Caucasia, but smiley, excited, creative types who, despite being able to tap into their emotions, seem to lack self-awareness.

The class was 11 girls and 1 guy, which actually could have been pleasant, given my last improv class experience, which consisted of 14 white boys and one blacktress (such a circle jerk!). But I walk in, and I suddenly felt like it was the first day of Dalton (NYC private school that blacktress attended in her youth. The school’s motto should have been, “Dalton: it’s where self-esteem goes to die.”) All the girls know each other from previous classes and shows, and are giggling and gabbing in their high-pitched tones, and everyone has taken a class with the teacher already—and is her BFF—except for myself. I swear, if there had been a stool in a corner, I would have sat in it.

To make matters worse, the first person I see when I walk in is this girl from my college who I could not stand. Although I’m open to her surprising me, I find her to be overly confident and she gets under my skin. Whatever, I need to let it go and let it flow, right?

So, I try to shake it off, take opposite action and engage in class, not make myself the last person to present as we go through exercises, and generally remind myself that I’m here to work on me, and I don’t need to be besties with anyone.

It’s not really working, though, and the last 30 minutes of the class are spent playing "questions," where one person gets in the circle and everyone else fires questions at them. This exercise is meant to get us closer, remove that awkward feeling, and foster a sense of comaraderie. Here are some highlights:
When asked her favorite book, one girl answers, "The one I wrote."
WHO DOES THAT?
Really? The one you wrote? She seems like a nice girl, but I’m sorry, that is a first-impression FAIL.
Another girl’s questions only consist of drug-related experiences. "When was the last time you were really fucked up?" she asked, or "What's the hardest drug you've ever done?" Of course, when placed in the center of the circle, she spent much of her time recounting the time she did 7 hits of liquid acid after several tequila shots.
I’m sorry, but like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon, I’m getting too old for this shit.

When asked, "When was the last time you stole something?" one girl, whose name I've blocked out, replies, "Oh, god, I stole some lipstick from CVS, some bracelets from H&M, and a sweater from Century 21--and I got caught for that one." This girl is 20-something, started class whining about crashing with her parents in Westchester while the person she's house-sitting for comes back to town for a week, and is a non-working actress. I don’t think she really needs to steal things. No one has oppressed her--why is she engaging in thievery?

These are basically long examples to explain that, as a blacktress working on a personal-story-driven solo show about time inside Caucasia, and my own conflicting feelings about race, class, and both of these things as modes of performance, these students may not be good for me.

So, this is a bit of a rant, but I had to get it out. Should I stay in the class? I think the teacher could be really great, very smart, and she’s kind of a bad-ass lesbian I’d want to hang out with on the weekends. But if I’m not comfortable and trusting of my fellow classmates, how can I really write and express myself freely? Ain’t I, Sojourner, a woman?! Don’t I deserve to be there? Don’t I need to hang up my hang-ups at the same time that I hang up my coat? I need to get it together, cause I am not being a strong black woman!

How are you today, gentle readers?

Jennifer Love Hewitt Has a Book!

Hey gang,

So, my girl KWalsh always has her finger on the pulse of celebrity culture. This is why I was not surprised to receive an IM from her, alerting me to a new book written by everyone’s favorite girl next door, Jennifer Love Hewitt.
It’s called “I Shot Cupid: My name is Jennifer Love Hewitt and I’m a Love-aholic.”
I kid you not.
Um, where’s my book deal? Do I have to know what you did twelve summers ago and date a bunch of lame dudes? I’ve clearly done both of those things throughout my life.

Anyway, I digress.
As you all know I kind of secretly love Jennifer Love Hewitt. She is so fucking fresh-faced and optimistic, and when everyone freaked out because she’s a size 2 and not a 0, she wasn’t having it, which implies that she may have a smidgen of common sense.
Alas, it would seem from some excerpts from her book,that it is I, Sojourner, who can’t handle the truth about J. Love.
I don’t know if I can handle randomness that is Jennifer Love Hewitt’s “pearls of wisdom”—or, should I say, crystals of wisdom. The girl actually suggests you bedazzle your vajayjay.
I believe the word she uses is “vagazzle.”
Again, I kid you not.

Left to process this alone in my cubicle, I couldn’t cope. I clearly had to g-chat KWalsh and get some answers.

Me: She says “a friend” did it. What friend would you have swarovski crystal your vag?
Walsh, would you do that for me?
KWalsh: No, I’m sorry
because I am morally opposed to vajazzling
KWalsh: and I would not enable you
me: hahahhaa, I am also morally opposed
this sounds insane
and unsanitary
KWalsh: would you like a nice friction based rash from rubbing your junk on crystals, potential male sex partner?!?!?!
me: HAHA
KWalsh: It doesn’t surprise me that JLH vajazzles
vajazzling seems entirely "sex less" to me because it would not enhance sex
It’s like, "I’m a pretty Barbie girl with sparkles on my lady bits, oops don't touch!"


*I think my favorite is number 9 – why on earth should a man have a coat for you? Why a coat? What is going on in her head? I think she was spoiled by Bailey back on Po5.

My Mom is Apparently Gangsta

Hey gang,

Sorry I’ve been MIA – I spent much of last week in Austin, Texas, enjoying the musical stylings and breakfast burritos of the South by Southwest Music Festival (SXSW). While that’s ripe for bloggery, I’m just getting back to the plantation and should keep my blatant procrastination to a minimum (details on Texan hipsters to come). However, I must share with you the conversation I had with madukes this morning:

It’s 8:15am. As I eat my oatmeal, I’m flipping through the channels. A music video comes on, and it’s featuring Ludacris. I mute it, because it’s too early for loudness. Just then, my mother emerges from her office…

Mom: That’s Ludacris? Turn it up.
Me: What?
Mom: I love Ludacris.
[I oblige. After all, she birthed me and lets me live rent free. I am shocked to find that she is staring at the tv screen.]
Me: It’s just featuring him, though.
Mom: He’s so good. Do you remember when he came on the rap scene. He had that big afro, and he was doing something different. Plus, he’s a good actor.
Me: What?
[mother does not respond, as she is entranced by Luda. We proceed to watch the video. The lead singer is some dude named “Taio,” and he basically sounds like an Akon wannabe. Ludacris proceeds to do his mid-song rap. It’s not particularly good, which does not surprise me.]
Mom: No, this is beneath Ludacris.
Me: What?
[I am still so baffled and confused by this. My mother is an attorney. She owns a Michael Buble CD. She loves Sarah Vaughn. I know a person can have layers, but damn.]
Mom: I thought he disappeared. He just left the rap game.
Me: I guess he’s got his money from his acting now.
[I don’t know how to keep up this conversation]
Mom: He was in Guy Ritchie’s “Rocknrolla.”
Me: I know, mom. You made me watch it.
Mom: It’s just like Ja Rule.
Me: What?
[WHO IS SHE??? HOW COULD THIS WOMAN HAVE BIRTHED ME???]
Mom: He just fell off, too.
Me: Okay.

The video is over. I finish my oatmeal and get ready to leave. As I head out the door, I tell her to have a nice day.
I don’t even know who she is anymore.

HAPPY(?) St. Patrick's Day

So, the St. Paddy’s Day Parade is taking place right outside my building. As I headed out for my lunch break, I was visually assaulted by waves of green, and men in kilts.

I was petrified.

Now, we all know I love a man in woman’s garb (hello, Drag Race). Rather, I was terrified by the hoards of Caucasians, smelling of booze and feeling really excited about being white. This, my friends, is when Caucasia is at its most fearful. As I weaved my way through the crowd, desperate to reach the subway station, my heart started to palpitate. There was no room to move. My purse—and my loins—were in grave danger of being snatched! I started to have a flashback to plantation days, when Massa would have me work during his big parties. Although I wasn’t allowed to look anyone in the eye, and my only job was to serve, after some mead and ale, those white men would ask me if I wanted to be serviced!! It’s dangerous for a young blacktress when Caucasia’s feeling frisky!!!

After a brief jaunt outside the office, I came back up and could not get down the street. As I took a circuitous route, I saw two girls who looked like they were Jersey Shore castoffs drinking “soda” out of a big gulp. One was screaming to the other:
“Rachel, where’s AAAAMy? Where’s AAAmy??”
Clearly, Amy’s somewhere turning 16 and pregnant. After all, we all learned from Britney Spears what happens If You Seek Amy!!!

As I made it to my office, my excitement for being black swelled. As I watched young girls become mothers, and grown men pee on the street to avoid the port-a-potty line, it felt nice to be young, gifted, and black.

My coworker, who just came back from being outside said:

“I just saw a drunk woman being carried by two friends, yelling to everyone she passed, ‘YOU’RE Retarded!’ And there were girls who were wearing t-shirts that, if I actually did what there shirts told me to do, I’d get arrested.”

I reminded him that the day would soon be over, and those girls would be back in geometry class tomorrow, tempting him no more.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day Everyone!!!

Here's the Good News - Black Love Lasts FOREVER

Sorry, gang, I totally got sidetracked at work and forgot to give you the good news. This heartwarming tidbit was brought to my attention yesterday by Scribe.

Drumroll please.....

The World's Longest Marriage is between a black man and woman!!!

After watching the episode of "Being Bobby Brown" in which Bobby talks about how he stuck his finger up Whitney's bum to help her poop and cites it as an example of "black love," I told myself I wanted no part of it. This, however, is the kind of black love I can get behind. Look at them:



Their names are Herbert and Zelmyra Fisher of New Bern, N.C. He's 104, and she's 101. They've been married 85 years!!!

Look how cute they are!!! They're over a century, but don't look a day over 8 decades. (I told y'all black don't crack). And even at 101, Zelmyra isn't afraid to wear some spring brights--no stretchy sweatpants for her--she knows how to keep her man at home (accentuate the hips--but not the one that got replaced.)

I want nothing more than to interview them. I bet Zelmyra was in the audience when I first gave my "Ain't I a Woman?" speech (j/k - she's not that old, guys!). Maybe we could sit down over some tea and soft foods and talk about what it takes to make a marriage last. Or maybe I could bring my 93-year-old G-Unit with me and they can shoot the shit about colored-only fountains and The Great Depression. I bet Zelmyra wouldn't want a younger woman around her man, though. I don't want a geriatric catfight on my hands!

So, I hope this tender tale of never-ending black love helps quell the rage-fires that burn in your heart after reading about black women's median income. It gives me just enough boost to keep on truckin'.

xoxo,
blacktress

Extra Extra, Read All About It!!!

Yesterday, two very interesting pieces of news were brought to my attention – it’s almost as though, when people think black, they think blacktress. Seeing as I’ve been waiting for this kind of power for years, I take no offense to such an association.

Let’s start with the bad news first. This bit of news actually came from my former boss—we still K.I.T like two friends from summer camp. I think the best part is that he provided no commentary whatsoever. He just emailed me an email with the subject line "wow," and posted the link below:
Study finds median wealth for single black women at $5

Y’all, we need to get this straightened out – seems like we’re still making slave wages!! Sojourner can’t handle this truth in 2010, recession or not!

For those who aren’t up for the reading, here are some highlights from the article:

For all working-age black women 18 to 64, the financial picture is bleak. Their median household wealth is only $100. Hispanic women in that age group have a median wealth of $120.

"That means half of [black women] have a net worth of more than $100 and half have a net worth of less than $100," Ms. Lui said. "So that gives you an idea of how far in debt some women of color are."

Married or cohabitating white women have a median wealth of $167,500.
Married or cohabitating black women have a median net worth of $31,500.


In a 2008 study of black women and their money, the ING Foundation found that black women -- who frequently manage the assets of their households -- financially support friends, family and their houses of worship to a much greater degree than the general population.They also are more likely to be employed in jobs and industries -- such as service occupations -- with lower pay and less access to health insurance.

"If wealth was based on hard work, African-Americans would be the wealthiest people in our nation," she said. "It's not about behavior. It's about government policies. Who does the government help and who is it not helping?

The huge disparity between the median wealth of cohabitating/married black women and cohabitating/married white women is particularly interesting, especially hot on the heels of this unofficial experiment conducted by a strong black women on a popular online dating site. She explains it in greater detail on her blog, but basically, she set up two profiles that were identical in terms of content (favorite movies, job, interests, etc), only one profile had her own photos, and the other featured those of a perky Caucasian friend. Needless to say, the responses were very different. Although we all have preferences, and the inherent “racism” of potential suitors is certainly up for debate, the one curious finding was this:
The fellas who were down with the brown weren’t down with the ejumucation. She notes:

Erin’s (fake girl’s) dudes are rocking the shit out of higher learning. 7 have Master’s degrees. There’s a frigging DOCTOR trying to get a piece. Her least educated suitor is currently in college.

More than half of my suitors didn’t finish or never even attempted college. 3 didn’t even bother listing their education level which can not be a good thing.

Even in the online world, the only men trying to get a piece of a strong black woman are unable to ultimately provide a lifestyle that could close the large income gap this article acknowledges.

WHAT ARE WE TO DO????

Okay, y’all, that was a little Thursday morning truth. Maybe not funny, but we all need to note these hot messes.
I’ll put the good news in my next post.

16 and Pregnant - DELAY!

Hello Gentle Readers,

I'm sure many of you are shocked to log onto the blog and find no news of "16 and Pregnant." Trust me, it hurts me more than it hurts you.
Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for pregnant teens, I had a stand-up show at Comix Comedy Club last night, and it directly conflicted with everyone's favorite reality show.
But do not fret, friends -- I'll be watching it online when I get home and posting tonight.

In the interim, here's a bit of what I'm sure it'll be like:

Two minutes before: Expression of excitement.

First five minutes: Expression of sadness and disdain.
Insert douchebag teen boyfriend. He will have a penchant for hair gel, and probably look like a Justin Bieber wannabe--only pubescent.

Minutes 8 - 14: Expression of shock at parental advice and/or opinion. One parent will have a boy or girlfriend close in age to the pregnant teen. It will be awkward. Hopefully there will be a mullet present.
Friends arrive to offer useless advice, except for that one smart one, who I approve of wholeheartedly.
There will be an explanation of how the teen got pregnant, probably something like. "We used the rhythm method-- like, we did it in time to this Lady Gaga song, and we figured if we stopped by the end of the track, it'd be fine."

And so on and so forth.

More deets on last night's show to come! Try not to get pregnant (or turn 16) til then!