The Massa of Morehouse

OMG, guys. This just in:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


*names have been changed to protect the Caucasian.

What Women Really Talk About Before a Date

ME: Hey girl. I'm meeting up with the older gentleman tonight.
High-Maintenance Homegirl: You're meeting him at his place for a date?
TOC: Yes, his place on the upper east side.
HMH::(
ME: Stop with the sad face. I've known him about 5 months; he's already been screened. We're just gonna chill, cause we've both had a long week.
HMH: Well, he better have some amenities.
ME: I told him to have baked goods and/or red wine on hand. I'm bringing the movie (aka, excuse to makeout--obvi). I don't need a guy to drop alot of cash on a date--i just don't want to have to spend any.
HMH:truth... and you will be able to tell a lot by the quality of the baked goods.
here is an easy grading guide:
entemann's: D (wow, could you put any less effort in?)
assorted dunkin donuts: C- (sorry, feels like you're dating an off-duty nypd officer)
pastries from the local bakery: B+ (we can definitely work with this)
magnolia cupcakes: A- (good taste but lacks originality)
something homemade: A+ (for effort, hopefully for taste as well!)
ME: damn, white girl, you just worked that out with the simplicity of an MIT student.
well he said he would buy me "the best cookies in new york city," which i thought was a bold statement.
HMH: hmmm yes that is a bold statement. i would be interested to know where these cookies are to be found. you will have to keep me posted.
ME: Obvi.
my response to him was: "they better not be oatmeal raisin, and they better not be hard," to which he replied: "oh god no. a hard cookie isn't even a cookie."
so far, i like where his head is at.
HMH: yes, good signs thus far. a man who knows his pastry is worth something in this world.

And Now a Word From Our Sponsor

I think I’ve found a potential sponsor.

Tuesday night, while doing some stand up at The Pinch, I watched the other comedians and learned what to do—and what not to do. Last night’s show was interesting for a few reasons:

1. There was a large crowd in the back of the bar glued to the basketball game on the television, and they were quite vocal—about the game. This meant that during a comedian’s set, there would be random loud groans and frustrated screams as basketball player Tony Parker (aka, Eva Longoria’s husband) dribbled up and down the court with his fine-ass self. This created awkwardness and discomfort.

2. 4 of the 7 comedians were female!! Woot, sexy lady time! AND there was a blacktor. AND one of the chicks was Canadian!! It’s like it was minority night at The Pinch—god bless it!

3. Quite a few randoms appeared, though not many of my die-hard fans. This made me slightly nervous, as I felt the need to win over the crowd.

4. Oh yeah, and I met my sponsor.
Let me explain.

Fellow woman of color and writer, Scribe, explained the concept of sponsorship to me. A sponsor is your Caucasian ally who will support your dreams and goals through financial support, reference writing, and generally vouching that you will not roll your eyes or snap your neck in public—they will help prove you’re a darkie that can be trusted. Basically, if we were still in slave days, a sponsor is the white person who would buy your freedom.

My future sponsor’s name is Debbie Shea, and she’s a funny comedian--and probably a strong black woman in her own way. She’s been on Comedy Central’s Premium Blend, won competitions, and even crosses her legs when she drops a doody in the toilet (her words, not mine. Actually, she didn’t say “drop a doody,” because she’s not 4 years old, but I think you get what I mean). She performed before I did, and I was instantly nervous because she had actual professional credits to her name. She was also sitting in the very front during my set, and I feared her judgment.

However, when the show was over, Miss Shea had praise for a blacktress. She was as cool and deadpan offstage as she was on, so when she said, “Hey, I’ve never seen you around. Do you perform a lot?” I felt a shiver down my spine, as though the cool kid in class had suddenly asked to borrow my pen. I told her no, and how I had been nervous to perform after someone “who was real”—I mean, after all, you’re nobody until you’ve been on television. I gave her my blacktress business card and asked her if she’d buy my freedom. She took this request in stride (as only a potential sponsor could), and gave me a link to her website.

I am swooning over her. I really want to keep doing comedy, but standing up in front of strangers who are basically looking at you with a face that says “dance, puppet, DANCE!!!” can be terrifying. When a seasoned pro tells me I’m good in a way that’s too cool for school, it gives the blacktress the boost she needs to keep spreading the TRUTH.

So, Debbie Shea, if you’re reading this… Thank you for the street cred. I promise, if you’re ever on the verge of getting into a bar fight, I will be your blackup.


The blacktress. Brought to you by Debbie Shea, the letter Q, and....readers like you.

Artists Are Retardists

I found this email in our general office inbox, which I was cleaning out to make room for more ridiculous emails:

From:crazyartist@i'mcrazyandalone.org
To:info@artmagazinefuntimes.gov
Subject: Have a quetion*

Did you have a story on Vincent Van Gogh's nephew go* into insurance? Please get back to me as fast as you can.

Thank you for your time
Jammie

Okay, the to and from lines are made up (names have been changed to protect the Caucasian--and Sojo's job!), but the body of that email is pure, unadulterated madness.

Oh, and "Jammie???" Really?

*I like to leave in the spelling errors so you can feel what I felt.

The Blacktress Does It Again

Guys, this is getting ridiculous.

I was walking across 12th street during my lunch hour, and I was stopped on the corner of 6th avenue, waiting for the light to change. As I stared off into space, enjoying the taste of summer weather, a voice called to the blacktress.
"Excuse me, miss, could you help me cross the street?"
I look down and to my left and see the tiniest, most precious old White lady.
"Yes, of course," I say.
Then, there's an awkward moment, cause the light doesn't say "WALK" yet, but we've already established a relationship. So, I make some small talk.
"It's such a nice day, isn't it?"
"Yes. I had a hip replacement, and my balance isn't what it used to be."
She says this as my attempt at small talk was actually a probe into her personal health.
The light changed and we crossed.

Dude, how does this keep happening to me? Old ladies see me and just want me to help them get across the street.

And, just like last time, I think this a get-out-of-jail-free card for the next week or so.

I guess I don't need to worry about all that unprotected sex anymore--JK (rowling), guys!!!!

Forget Me Not

Last night, while hanging out with my main gay JJS iii, I received a voicemail from a man with whom I engaged in a makeout session Saturday evening. I was mildly excited to see a missed call from an unidentified number, and had a sneaking suspicion it might be him.

The male in question was someone I had met months earlier at a stand up comedy show (we were both performing), and his wry wit and inherent dorkiness endeared him to me, and I asked him if we could go on a date (you know this blacktress is upfront!!). We went on a semi-date, and while there was a fun comedic rapport, I could tell he had about as much interest in me as a gay man has in a vagina.
But he isn’t gay.

Cut to 5 months later—May 10, 2008. At the party of blacktor Victor Varnado, the comedian/disinterested date and I are reunited, and there is much merrymaking. He’s suddenly all up in a blacktress’s George Foreman (grill) like a horndog on prom night, and I wonder what has changed. I figured I best not over-think it, especially with me Australia-bound in a few months time—now, more than ever, we don’t love these hos. I figured I could get my makeout on and end up just fine.
We had a nice time, and there was a bit of me that felt a little boost from getting with an unrequited crush, even though I was no longer crushing. I felt all was right in the world. Perhaps, like Joni Mitchell, he didn’t know what he’d got til it was gone, and now he was carpe-ing the diem and getting with this.
He kissed me again, before leaving the party at 3am, apparently to “go fishing with a friend in Long Island City, Queens”—a sentence that made little sense at the time, but I thought it best to overlook it.
I was pleasantly surprised to hear his voice on my answering machine Monday evening.
That is, until the message went on.
It went something like this:

Hey Sojourner, this is D-Bag McGee. It is 6:30 on Monday and I have an incredibly awkward question to ask you, and that is…uh…what did we do Saturday night at Victor’s party--because I have no recollection whatsoever because I drank too much and my mind is absolutely a blank slate, so there’s a big question mark as to what happened at Victor’s party--did I break some windows, did I steal things? I have no idea what happened, and uh…yeah…. [then, the following he said in a sing-song voice]: I hope everything’s okay, I hope I didn’t do anything bad, I feel embarrassed and awkward, bye!

I. Shit. You. Not.
I literally just transcribed the message from my phone, where it is eternally saved.

I honestly think when I was born, the man upstairs looked at my wet, placenta-juice-covered body and said, “let’s give this one something to blog about.”

Now, some of my most loyal readers know that I, too, have engaged in too much drink in one evening, and suffered from what I am now calling a Whiteout (see Friday Night Amstel Lights for details). I mean, we’ve all been there.

But we do NOT go there with a blacktress.

W. T. F?! I mean, nothing is more insulting than calling someone and saying, “I don’t remember making out with you.” This was no random mid-dance smooch. This was much dirty dancing foreplay (foreplay is MORE play—holla!), and then a hard-core makeout session, which was briefly interrupted by the party host (who jumped on top of us and called us tramps) and then resumed!!! It was then followed by a long conversation in the living room, where I sat on his lap as though he was Santa and he told me I was really hot and cute (I mean, he was speaking TRUTH, obvi).

How could he blackout on a blacktress?!

You know I called that bitch back posthaste and let him know what was what. Our conversation went something like this:

[phone rings. He answers.]
Sojo: You are such a d-bag.
D-Bag: What?
Sojo: I said, you are such a d-bag.
D-Bag (hesitantly): Why?
Sojo: We made out last night.
And I’m pregnant.
And I’m keeping it.
D-Bag (a quiet terror): Ha…?
Sojo (as though speaking to the character of Corky from the television series “Life Goes On”): Seriously, we made out. Like, what?! You don’t remember?!
D-Bag (quiet terror still seeps through the phone lines): No…. I just, like, don’t remember anything. The last thing I remember is us all talking in the DDR room, and then me waking up at my friend’s place.
Sojo: Well, you missed a good time, D-bag McGee. You should have been there.
D-Bag: I was soooo out of it.
Sojo: I’m sorry you were “so out of it,” I didn’t mean to take advantage of you by letting you kiss me. If I’d known you weren’t in your right mind, I certainly wouldn’t have put my lips on yours.
D-Bag: No, no, you shouldn’t feel bad, it’s my fault.
Sojo: I was being sarcastic. Of course I don’t feel bad—if anything, I now have the upper hand, because you feel silly.
D-Bag: God, I was sooo drunk.
Sojo: Um, could you stop saying that? You’re making me feel bad.
D-Bag (taking long pause): Um….sorry, I’m here, I’m just digesting all this….
Sojo: You blacked out on a blacktress!!!!
D-Bag: Yeah, um….
Sojo: You might want to handle your alcoholic scandal. Be careful out there. Bye.
[We hang up, and luckily, with my main gay by my side, I am able to resume my normal activities.]

Okay, let the record show that this dude is 33 years old—or, I should say, 33 years YOUNG. How are you 33, calling up a fine-ass blacktress such as myself, with no recollection? Shouldn’t you know how to hold your liquor by the age of 33?! And repeatedly saying he was drunk just made me feel like I was some gross mistake he made, like filling in the wrong bubble on a standardized test, or accidentally drinking baby’s blood.

I am seriously done with the male gender. This is what that random college student was talking about in that paper I graded a month back.
What has become of the world when a man can call you up and just TELL YOU he forgot about making out, and then, when hearing the news, instead of rejoicing, he openly expresses his horror and distaste?!!

WHAT IS MY LIFE???

Reason #249 I need to blow this popstand.

Ugly Bette (Davis)

Have you ever seen the film Now, Voyager? It’s one the films the students viewed in the class I’m grading papers for, and it was one that I saw as an undergraduate film hopeful back at Diversity U.
Made in 1942, it stars Bette Davis as Charlotte Vale, an unattractive spinster who lives with her overbearing mother, who convinces her that she’s nothing, “with her bushy eyebrows and glasses.” I was discussing this with my homegirl The Persian Excursion earlier today, and she made a good point:
The Excursion: do you think that is how they got the original idea for Ugly Betty?
i mean for real though
Ugly Bette Davis
HELLO!

Coincidence? I think not.

Anyway, back to the film:
Charlotte, a frumpy adult who has never known the touch of a man, is a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown (o, "una mujer al borde de una ataque de nervios," for all you Betty La Fea fans), when a psychiatrist comes to her rescue and tells her to come to his sanatorium, luring her with candies into his white van.
I jest. He’s not a perv.

In his crazy house (which is apparently where they put anybody who was stressed or different up until 1975), Charlotte learns that she’s in fact attractive, and they trade her busted clothes for stylish ones, much like the character of Tai in Clueless, and she takes off her glasses, much like Rachel Leigh Cook in She’s All That.

After bringing her own sexy back, Charlotte decides to go on a cruise and get her head right. There, she meets a man named Jerry, who doesn’t love his wife, but stays with her for their daughter. Jerry and Charlotte clearly have a connection, but he’s married, and Charlotte’s classy.

She returns home after her cruise feeling grown and sexy—and a little sad that she’s lost a man. She quickly finds a new one, a wealthy widower who is ready to marry her. Charlotte, however, can't get over Jerry, and breaks her engagement, making her mother so angry that she has a heart attack and dies (did I mention this was a 1942 melodrama?). So what does Charlotte do?

She goes back to the sanatorium to get her head right.

She, like Winona, is a Girl, Interrupted (but unlike Winona, she doesn’t steal).

At the sanatorium, she meets Tina—JERRY’S DAUGHTER (cue music). Tina, like, Charlotte, is called an “ugly duckling,” and, in the words of TLC, feels “unpretty.” She and Charlotte bond, with Charlotte taking her under her wing and bringing her back home with her to Boston.
Jerry clearly comes to her house to see where his daughter is, and you think they’ll finally get together, but…..

Should I spoil it? You may have to see this film.

Charlotte’s last line is, "Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon... we have the stars," one of the top 100 movie quotes in American cinema (seriously, look it up).

You may be saying to yourself, “Sojourner, Bette Davis isn’t a blacktress,” or “This movie sounds lame. Why are you giving me a plot summary of a melodrama starring a random white woman? What does this have to do with me?”

Nothing. It has to do with me.

Let me explain.
I, too, grew up as an ugly duckling, and at times my mamadukes could be rough and tough on a young blacktress (you don’t know drama until you know Black Mama Drama). I’m sure if laws weren’t so strict I would have been sent away to a sanatorium just so she could get peace and quiet.
I, too, in moments of confidence, have met a man while on a foreign journey (or a foreign man on a blacktress journey), but was unable to express my love due to circumstances outside of my control (you know, he lived in Australia and had a girlfriend—those kinds of hurdles).

And, I, too, am now a voyager.
However, unlike Ugly Bette, I WILL ask for the moon, the stars—and a condo on Mars!!! (sometimes the blacktress likes to freestyle)

As I sit on the plantation, embittered and bored, I think about the possibilities for the blacktress in a foreign land.
I could open up a beauty shop, a la Queen Latifah
I could open a soul food restaurant, and let people fetishize my otherness.
I could write a book, the eagerly anticipated follow-up to my speech “Ain’t I a Woman?!” in the vein of Eat, Pray, Love—only not whiny crap.


Lee from Brisbane said she’d pick me up from the airport. Girl, how far is Brisbane from Sydney? Holla at me via gmail--aka, gangstamail!