How to go from a "Maybe" to a "Hell to the No"

Just when I think these artists can't get to me, an email comes in that amazes me to no end. 

We got a submission from a woman a while back and unfortunately can't do much with her work, so we sent a perfectly succinct rejection letter that read:

Dear [Cray Lady],

Thank you for submitting your artwork to our magazine. We don’t currently have an opening to feature your artwork. But the drawings are most impressive, and if the appropriate occasion arises, we will be in touch.

Sincerely,

[A respectful and competent adult who serves as the editor of this magazine.]


Maybe that was a bit impersonal, but we don't have all day to be buttering up egos. 
Apparently, we're also mentally ill. Her response:

Look at my web site I am included in every major museum collection in the country  you do not think you can do an article ?   What are you thinking [Cray Lady]. Connection

Sent from my iPhone

I have no idea what "connection" means. I also don't think that you can be that bitchy when you seem to lack a grasp of basic punctuation and grammar. I swear, they are TOO MUCH. 

If You Prick Me, Do I Not BLOG?

I realized that one of the main reasons my blogging has taken a dip is that, as my readership increases among people who actually know me, there's less room for self-expression. I'm not saying everyone should be able to handle Sojourner's Truths, but if you prick me, do I not bleed (and then blog about it to help heal)?? I've been holding out on you, gentle readers, and it just feels wrong. Here's what you've missed:

1. Two weeks ago I was denied my dream apartment. It was huge, the rent included all utilities and cable/internet, and the guy's youngest daughter is a student at my high school! When I walked in and saw books on Venus Hottentot and "Race and Gender in Post-Colonial America," I knew this potential landlord could handle my truth. He told me about his trans-racial adopted daughter (look it up, it's a term), and also said that she was interested in attending my alma mater, Diversity University. So when he ignored my emails for a week, I was shocked and dismayed--the man was a professor of Divinity, no less! How could he let me down???

2. Perhaps it was for the best, though....I did my taxes last week and apparently I'm taking too many deductions and now owe the tax man some real money--money that I don't have!!! I guess I gotta get myself out of debt before I can go signing a lease.

3. I had a job interview just a few days after the apartment/tax debacle, and thought things might be looking up. We all know how I feel about the plantation, so I'm ready to leave whenever. Add to that the fact that the overseer got fired 5 days ago (the one above the massa, not in our office), and they're cutting people's pay like a pimp with shiv, and it would seem that this interview was a gift from the heavens. The job was an admin position, but I'm just looking for something that lets me pursue my blackting dreams and pay my bills. I met with the entire staff for three hours, and they seemed to like me.

Unfortunately, I didn't like them.

Although the benefits would have been good, there was zero flexibility. I would have been manning the phones, doing spreadsheets, and planning events non-stop. "But it's really relaxed in June and July," the current admin said encouragingly. "You can take more than 10 minutes for lunch, you know?"

No, I don't know. For all the drama of my current position, I am able to run off for auditions, doctor's appointments, and generally handle my business as long as the magazine gets written.
I was going back and forth on even going back in for a 2nd interview when I got the following email from my potential boss--at 11pm last Saturday night, no less:

Please accept an apology for my delay in getting back to you. Friday turned into a nightmare because we had to completely change meetings we'd scheduled with an editor of [An Important Newspaper]. One of the paper's reporters was taken into custody early Friday by Col. Qaddafi's troops in Libya so the editor had to change his schedule for the interviews.

Y'all, I can't working in an office where Qaddafi's messin' up the flow! I get frazzled when an artist doesn't send high-resolution digital images--detainees would be a whole 'nother Oprah!

But am I an idiot? Should I have gotten out while the gettin' was good? I had dinner with a friend last night who didn't mince words, basically saying that I was a fool and lazy to not get a new apt and leave the sinking ship that is my current job.

But what about my blackting dreams? Should they wither like a raisin in the sun?

Last week's showcase was lackluster, with 15 comics performing at 6 minutes each--it was like speed-dating the audience, only they weren't interested in making a love connection. I was un-lucky number 13, and by the time I went up, their eyes had glazed over, and many were fighting with the waitresses over the bill (that drink minimum's no joke!). The producer did say he liked my energy and presence and wanted to see more work, and another comic told me to contact him about doing a set on his show, but it's not exactly momentum building.

I've been given a copy of "The Artist's Way," along with several rhyming platitudes. I think my favorite is "Man's Rejection is God's Protection." This came after my pitches to The Hairpin kept getting rejected. The editor is treating me like every man I've ever been on a date with, saying, "You're funny, but not quite right."

Le sigh. (it's more dramatic if it's French)

So here are a couple of tidbits that missed the Hairpin by a hair (how could she not love such puns?!):

Filed Under: Childhood, Television, Memories

I was cleaning stuff out of my old bedroom, and had to sort through a bunch of boxes, two of which were filled with the entire Babysitter's Club Collection. A bunch of other boxes were filled with paper, and as I prepared to dump them all in the recycling bin, the hoarder in me had to pore over every single one to make sure it was all really junk. I came across many gems, and figured the best way to preserve the memories would be to type them up and share them with strangers. Here is one of many letter I wrote to actors in my favorite TV shows.


Written in October of 1993. I was 9 years old (in my best attempt at cursive):

Dear Rider,

My name is [Sojourner], and I'm a HUGE fan of your show. You're a really good actor, and I think you're really cute. :)
When did you know you wanted to be an actor? I want to be an actress, but I don't think there are black people on Boy Meets World, so I'm trying to get on The Cosby Show. Or GHOSTWRITER--have you ever seen that show? It's about a ghost that solves mysteries by rearranging letters. It's cool.

I don't normally write fan letters, and I don't want you to think I'm a creepy stalker [note: "I am not a creepy stalker" was written on the black flap of the envelope as well...which i think is the same as saying 'i'm mentally ill'.]. I just wanted to say how much I liked your show and how cool I think you are. Is Topanga nice in real life? Do you still have to go to school, or are you done with it forever?

Sorry if my handwriting's messy. I kept trying to start over and this is my last piece of good paper, so I hope it's okay.

Sincerely,
[Sojourner 'You Can't Handle The' Truth]

When Rider got a black girlfriend in the last two seasons of the show, I knew it was no coincidence.

File under: Accomplishments, Beauty, How to be a Girl
Thai Tween is Named World's Hairiest Girl

Supatra Sasuphan has told of her delight at being named the 'World's Hairiest Girl.' She has been teased her entire life by other children calling her “monkey face” and “wolf girl”, but now the 11-year-old has been given a Guinness World Record and she says it has helped her become extremely popular at school. "I'm very happy to be in the Guinness World Records! A lot of people have to do a lot to get in," she said. "All I did was answer a few questions and then they gave it to me."



I think the questions were:

1. Are you hairy?
2. Are you pre-pubescent?
3. Is your self-esteem so healthy that grown women wanna be you?

I wonder if she's got a hip buddy named Styles who lets her surf on the hood of his van.

There's also another one about how to get through weddings as the single, my-life's-not-remotely-together-enough-to-even-begin-to-dream-about-such-a-thing friend, but I'll save that for next week.

Have a good weekend!

xoxo,

blacktress!

Casting Call (A Metaphor)

**WARNING: This post is not what you're used to. Read on and bear with the blacktress, or wait for the next post, which will hopefully be funny. **

So, I've been alluding to a certain young gentleman in a few of my October and September posts. And, as is usual for the blacktress -- and, as the hit song goes -- another one bites the dust.

I take these things harder than one probably should. I agonize in ways that, although can be HI-larious (where's my book deal?!), they can also drive me cray. And, I think I've finally figured out why I freak out. This information is nothing new, but as it goes with Sojo, I need to write out the TRUTH for it to set me free.

I am great on first dates. First dates are, for me, similar to an audition. I walk in effortlessly, taking a shot in the dark, and that energy and devil-may-care attitude is appealing. I play with my lines, I swallow my direction whole and give it back, because...well, why not? This person doesn't know what I've got, has nothing to compare my behavior to, and we're just gonna have fun for a couple minutes. Sometimes it doesn't stick, and I don't get the part. But that's usually okay, because I never knew more than those 3 or 4 pages of dialogue I had to audition with.

But then there are the callbacks. The second, third, fourth--and, if i'm lucky, fifth--dates, where I'm getting to know more about what I'm up against. Where I start to imagine myself in the role, see the possibilities, and get excited.

And I become terrified. The stakes are 40 stories high because I actually have a shot. It means he sees something in me that is better than the majority. So the sweat begins. The pacing, the worrying, the babbling. My lines no longer flow, because I've got one eye on the director, checking his response before I continue. Statements previously made with ease now end in question marks.

"I really like Ani Difranco? [Unless that intimidates you, in which case, I won't bring up music at all, and deflect to your interests.]" Things I know in my heart to be true, I become afraid to say, because in the past, it's been the "wrong direction for that character."

Don't get me wrong. My sense of self is strong. I know who I am, and sometimes I'm a hot-ass R. Kelly-style mess, and other times I'm RuPaul fabulous. I cannot change my core, and I don't aim to when I put myself out there. I just see myself as malleable, able to win over all sorts of people--depending on the order in which I choose to show you my range.

Because, when you're in a callback--when you're really being considered--the difference between scoring the role and not getting a phone call comes down to the minutiae. It's not that you don't fit--it's that you don't slide in effortlessly.

It could come down to your height. Or the way the camera captures you. Or the tiniest tick or gesture that, when magnified, suddenly becomes grating. Or it could be the way you turn a phrase that reminds the director of someone they hated, and now, no matter what, there's that association. Or it could simply be the color of your hair. And, although you could dye it (you'd still be yourself, it'd still be your skill), they don't really need you to when the girl two seats down is a natural. And although you've got the goods, they don't quite see you in their big picture.

Remember that this is a metaphor--forming relationships isn't this simple, and the status differences inherent in a director-desperate actor relationship are not always the way the get-to-know-you phase is constructed. And, as most people know, half the battle of "getting to production" is the deep desire to create something in the first place. It's the desire to put up with the difficulties.

So I know these are broad stream-of-consciousness strokes that don't get at the details. But I find the end emotion is similar because, when you consciously date, you present yourself. You package yourself in the most attractive way. You are a product, and you're trying to prove that product's worth. The frustration for both actors and lovers comes from knowing that you've got the goods, that you are good, and yet you don't have your shot yet. So do you keep on getting up and out there, knowing that all you can do is your best? How do you keep bringing your best stuff when you know that most times your best won't be good enough?

Or do you just stay in the bubble of acting classes and rehearsals, talking it out with friends and doing exercises that strengthen both your skills and your resolve?

I don't know.

So, I guess I don't really have a point. Just a different kind of post.

The Summer of New Lows

So, as I said in my previous post, this summer is definitely falling under the category of "Summer of New Lows." This title comes from fellow blogger and strong black woman KWalsh, with whom I can always share the lowest of the low moments. As we are both in a transition, surfing the interwebs at all sorts of hours, and trying to put the recess in recession, the opportunities for self-loathing are abundant. However, we make lemonade out of these lemons, mostly by entertaining each other (it probably also helps that she lives on an island, and goes to the beach as often as most people brush their teeth).

But for some reason, the website "Texts From Last Night" (TFLN) doesn't seem to find us hysterical. In one of our mind-meld moments, we revealed to each other that we'd submitted texts to the site and were brutally rebuffed. After all, we'd done some pretty f'ed up ish, and who was TFLN to say that we weren't raunchy/crazy/racist enough for the world to know? I mean, they even have a section called "NEW LOW"--for those moments when "hot mess" just doesn't cover it.

So, as Sojourner has always had to do, I am making my own forum for self-expression, refusing to let the white man silence my voice as it shouts new lows. And, as is often my goal on this blog, I share my lows, so you may find a moment of joy (which, ironically, is the first word my cell comes up with when I try to type 'low' with the T9 feature).

Here are some texts from The Summer of New Lows-- or as I like to call it, TFTSNL.


Judge not lest ye be judged. (note: when demanding something of someone, quoting the bible is always a good start)


(917): new low: drinking red wine and eating taco bell* at 3pm on thursday.
you are not alone in this.


(917): made out with a businessman from minnesota last night.
(860): it was sunday!
(917): i know. i reek of booze and bad choices.


(917): i forgot to mention the epic fail of last night's hook up. he was covered in body hair and had a belly button ring.
what's wrong with me?

(860): eating mozzarella straight out of a five pound bag. summer of new lows!

(917): always chase your birth control with port. it doesn't really matter when you're not getting laid.


(860): looking at the ex-bf's wedding pics on facebook. new low


*Never do this. Your stomach will hold a grudge like a middle school girl.

Scorned Cards Are on the Rise

And it's all thanks to Facebook.
_______________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________

I hate social networking sites.

I am Danny Glover.

Have you ever seen the movie Lethal Weapon? One of the great buddy-cop comedies of the 20th century, it stars Mel “Before I Went Crazy and Started Slamming Jews” Gibson and Danny “Proud to be a Brother” Glover. Mel plays Riggs, a young homicidal cop all bent out of shape after the untimely death of his wife, and Danny is veteran cop Murtaugh, who’s just looking to retire and get off the mean streets. Throughout the film, as cars flip over, bullets graze their heads, and they fight for justice—and their lives—Murtaugh says “I’m too old for this shit.”

This line is repeated throughout Lethal Weapons 1, 2, 3, and 4.

I can currently relate to this line like no other.

As you know, Sojourner’s no spring chicken. And as you know if you’ve been following this blog, I can’t keep a sane, straight man to save my life. From Australia to Astoria to the depths of Brooklyn, these dudes are not treating me right. The latest blow comes from a “man” I thought was a tender gentleman caller, who spent the last month calling, texting, and wooing Sojourner with invitations to 8th grade prom and other classy dates. After asking me to spend the night on a weeknight (for the second week in a row), and speaking in more future tenses than a confused ESL student, I asked him what was going on with us.
You know, a simple state-of-the-union address.
You know, perhaps a little reassurance that this was more than a hook-up thing.
It had been a month.
There was constant texting—initiated by him. He even went so far as to respond to my telephone message with a text when he was unable to answer the phone, and then promised to call the next day.
AND HE DID.

So, you can imagine my surprise when he said I seemed to want more than he wanted, as though I was the crazy one.
And he did this an hour before we were supposed to go see a friend's improv show, meaning that not only was I left depressed and jilted, I had no Friday night plans while he got to scamper off and laugh at comedic improvisation.
One of my first thoughts (after "Why is this happening again?" and "What is wrong with me?") was "I am sick and tired of this shit"--much like Murtaugh throughout the Lethal Weapon quadrilogy (is that a word? Probably not). Like him, I just want to settle down, get out of the crossfire of single life in NYC, and retire from this dangerous game before I become a walking STD with a heart made of stone.


(remember this?)

As I lick my wounds in solitary confinement, here is a handy list that should help anyone who tries to reach out to me during this dark time.

Words and Phrases That Will Make Me Cry and Make You Feel Awkward
(Please Omit From All Sentences/Conversations/Email):

Date
Boyfriend
Happy/Happiness (also: Future Happiness)
The Bible (also: King James Version)
Television actor Dean Cain
Able-bodied
Lucky
Sex
Coitus
Relations
Relationship
Battleship (including Russian Montage film “Battleship Potemkin”)
Barren Womb
Nice Guy
Bears
8th grade
Prom
Massachusetts
“Sex and the City” Movie(who takes a girl to see that WILLINGLY, then says she’s being too much?!)
Intense
“I don’t think we should do this.”
Teach for America (also: NYC Teaching Fellows, teaching in general, or "school")
Brooklyn
Q Train
Self-respect
“I don’t know.” (Please be completely certain when we speak. I won’t take it well.)

Neutral Ground -- No Longer Neutral

I did it, guys. Friday night, at 6:30 pm, I met my tutor for my first lesson in Magic Cards. We met outside of Neutral Ground—or, as I like to call it, the Magic Kingdom—on West 37^th Street. Through the glass, one could see cards and games for sale, and a line of people, who I soon discovered were registering for a tournament.

Among them, the man who started it all. The man who inspired this post and this scorned card. It was him.

I almost had a heart attack. My tutor, who is married to a white strong black woman, offered to put his wedding ring in his pocket to help me look cool. I told him it was all right (meanwhile, I slipped my ring from my right to left hand—just, you know, so Mr. Magic would think he’d really missed the boat—or, in my case, the slave ship?). We went inside, and my nostrils were immediately assaulted with a scent that can only be described as a combination of body odor and insecurity, as young boys and a few masculine females of all ages sat at long cafeteria-style tables playing card games. Flat-screen PCs lined the walls, where high-tech kids could play various computer games. Mr. Magic was well ahead of us, but I saw him again when we went upstairs to find a place to play.

He sat, cockily swigging his cola, as some angry pale man told me and my tutor that we couldn’t sit up there because “a tourney was about to start and it’s reserved.”

TRUTHfully, I was glad we wouldn’t have to sit near magic. I knew I’d need to focus all my energies on mastering the game, and couldn’t be distracted by thoughts of vengeance.

We took a seat downstairs, and my tutor—a 27-year-old Diversity University graduate with a high-falutin’ job—began to pull out huge packages of various magic cards from his backpack.

“I was going to make you a deck at work today, but I got really busy, so we’ll have to make it now,” he said, as he sorted through the booty he’d collected over the years.

I sat, feeling about as nervous and awkward as the chubby dateless girl at a middle school dance. And although I knew I was a strong black woman, I kept glancing around to see if Mr. Magic was around.

Either that lying sack of mana (which means land, I’ve learned, and provides the strength needed to cast spells) didn’t see me, or he really is a talented—albeit UNEMPLOYED—actor, who just pretended not to see a blacktress. We never acknowledged each other’s presence, but I saw him up in there, playing a magic tournament on a damn Friday night, like he was too good for a blacktress.

Although I know I should relax, relate, and release my anger, I don’t do well with seeing old rejectors after the fact. One of the primary reasons I date people who live in outer boroughs is because I want them to disappear after the inevitable fallout. While dating a dude who lives in Sunset Park may be a pain in the ass, breaking up ain’t so hard to do. I often like to think that men who have wronged me have died in a car crash—the same one that killed Boyz II Men and the talented Michael Jackson (I miss them so much!). It’s not gruesome or violent, it’s more like their car hits a tree that then shuttles them into an alternate universe or place in time, much like the Delorean in Back to the Future. The presence of Mr. Magic, in all his magic-playing glory, still alive and kicking as though he’s better off without a blacktress almost stopped me from honing my skills as a true Magician.

So, for all of you dying to know, here’s how you play:

You shuffle your deck of cards. Each deck has a color, and with each color comes a different strategy. Oppresively enough, the black deck is the most dangerous (I’ll have to talk to someone about that), with the white deck being the simplest and most straightforward, strategy-wise. Colors can be combined to form a super-strategy deck of magical power, but I was advised not to get ahead of myself.

You and your opponent each pick 7 cards from your deck, and leave the rest to draw from (most decks have 60 cards, but as a newbie, I started off with about 30).

Lands are cards that represent just that—land. You want to lay out as many lands as possible, for the number of lands you have allows you to cast certain spells (eg: summoning a lion requires 2 lands and 1 of another other card. If you only have 1 land on the board, then you can’t summon—oh no!).

Okay, I could go on, but I’m getting kinda bored just writing it.

Basically, you want to get your opponents life points down from 20 to 0, and when you do that, you’ve won. You attack them with various spells, creatures, and hexes, and if they can’t defend themselves, the points are yours.

Playing the game, I imagined what young wizard Harry Potter must have felt when he had to cast spells at Hogwarts. My tutor was my very own Dumbledore—or, rather, Remus Lupin—who taught me to think positive thoughts and stay focused as the dementor that was Mr. Magic loomed above.

The things you can learn from this post are:

1. Magic cards is hard.
2. Spiking your cranberry juice with vodka will add a fun layer to the experience of being in Neutral Ground.
3. Only a blacktress can go to a gaming center and have Gossip-Girl style drama with one of the other dudes playing.
4. A married male friend who is willing to take off his ring to make you look cool is a true friend indeed.
5. Just because a guy doesn’t call you back doesn’t mean he’s dead. He may very well be in midtown playing in a magic card tournament.