You Don't Have to Go Far to Go INSIDE CAUCASIA

Sorry for the delayed blogging--I'm still regaining my strength after my intense journey into Caucasia. For some reason, it was even more nerve-racking than that time I lived in Australia, right in the center of it all. I think it's because of the shock--you don't expect to find such a non-diverse population in your same time zone in 2011. Add to that the abundance of nature and I felt so out of my element that I almost demanded that the toll booth worker stamp my passport!

Before I go into my visits with my married friends, I must show you a photograph of my #1 New Hampshire Fan:


Yes, that is a handlebar mustache. Yes, that is a Hawaiian shirt under his windbreaker. Yes, his head like a supremacist.
And yes, his hand is inappropriately close to my breast area.

I have arrived.

He didn't tell me his name, but he did tell me that I could "tug on these [his handlebars] whenever you want!!!"
No, there was no drink minimum.

All in all, I'd say the set went fine. I did, however, experience a mild fail: I completely forgot my train of thought during my set. I am not kidding. I was doing a lot of crowd work, thinking I'd need to fill my 20 minutes (and realizing that any and all Jewmor--Jew Humor--was lost on the crowd), and it just sidetracked me. I wasn't able to make my Tyler Perry references, nor could I reference anything else that took place in pop culture over the last 20 years.

And, mid-joke, I realized it was probably poor form to talk about comparing parenting to having a terminal illness at a breast cancer fundraiser. (#awkward) There was much awkward back-pedaling.

But all in all, I think the crowd was okay with it. It definitely wasn't my target demographic, so the fact that I got laughs at all--and wasn't actively boo'd offstage or heckled--is a success, I guess. It was a bit weird--as you all know, I'm used to highs and lows when it comes to emotions. When this set was done, I was relatively "meh." I didn't feel horrible or terrible--so I didn't really know how to cope. As I stood in the "talent area" watching the remainder of the show, a bald, old Caucasian man wearing a salmon-pink sweater approached. As he walked by to get to the bathroom (yes, the talent area was near the bathroom), he pointed his fist toward me. I wondered if this was his geriatric attempt at assaulting me but then I realized that he wanted to give me a fist bump!!!

Yes, guys, it happened. An old man gave me a fist bump. I guess he was the one who got my slavery humor.

Other than the show, I got to see some friends I hadn't seen in a while, which was nice. It was also a bit surreal, because they are both mature married couples, with property and children and such. My New Hampshire friends are out of control. Have you ever had a moment with someone where you just think, "How are you this White and I never knew it?" Well, yeah, that's what happened.

As we drove the two hours outside of Boston to their acreage, I watched as the number of bars on my cell phone decreased. As we drove up the winding backroads, I figured out that the trees outnumbered the people about 14 to 1. As we turned onto the private road that leads to their gorgeous house, I wondered if anyone would be able to hear me scream--not that I planned to, but I was just wondering.

We walked to the door and with a gentle push, it opened--they aren't even locking this shit up, y'all! You know it's backwoods when you don't have to say something when you see something and can just sleep without the door locked. The door opened and through the open back door, I could see the lady of the house--like I'd never seen her before.

She stood outside doling out food to the full-grown chickens in the chicken coop, with the 10-month-old baby on her hip!!

For those of you who can't imagine what this could look like, here's a visual aid:

She has become a pioneer wife, I thought to myself. It got really intense, though, when I had hit my bedtime and wanted to rest up before the big show. I couldn't tuck in, however, until the hubby had started a fire in the wood stove downstairs. WHAT?!

This historical relic kept my room both toasty warm and smelling of pine.

I was out of my element; I started having slavery flashbacks. I think part of why Caucasia enjoys living like it's the 1890s is because back then, they were running thangs! I mean, if I could travel back in time and bring my educational opportunities and tampons, I'd be willing to check out the days of yore, too. But as it stands, I'm just glad I'm in a time and place where hate crimes can at least be caught on camera phones and punished.

I gotta run and interview a student, but let's talk soon!

Greetings From Your Black Friend!

Hellooooooo readers!!!! It feels so good to blog again!

Apologies for my absence--it hasn't been for lack of fodder. This Memorial Day weekend Jewboo and I made great strides in our interracial love affair. We embarked on air travel to Minneapolis to attend a friend's wedding, and dealt with the shitshow that is American Airlines--and even ran into my high-school history teacher at the gate!
[Mr. Werth was my very first gay, and even though he wasn't out to me, there was something about his skinny jeans and ageless face that, even at the age of 14, told me that his date with "Leslie" was Queer As Folk.]

Through the high-school reunions, plane delays, and engaged upwardly mobile couples, Jewboo and I didn't fight with each other AND we looked really cute in photographs. Success!!!

But let me be real with you, readers--after all, this is the diary of a mad blacktress--it wasn't all roses and hotel sex. Both our outbound and return flights were canceled and moved to 6am the following day, resulting in a lot of sleeplessness and hunger. After my heinous experience with Delta Burke Airlines a few years ago, my attitude toward air travel has changed--I know people got jobs to do, but if you're going to insist on stripping me of my shoes, liquids, and dignity, can you at least have a plane take off a tiempo?

I could go into detail, but I'm only finally getting my sanity back.
Instead, I will copy and paste the tweets I sent to help me get through the frustration:
May 26:
@hiyellanegress They wont let us get to Minneapolis. Going back to Harlem to catch a 6am tomorrow. #weddingseason

May 27
Back at laguardia airport. Trying to get to minneapolis. This is cuckoo bananas. #weddingseason #fatigue

May 29 [My rage really picked up here, as we were so ready to go home--I took to directly tweeting the airline in hopes of getting some acknowledgement]
Sick of reaching your destination on time and with few complications? Then fly @AmericanAir!

After all, nothing makes more sense than having the crew for a delayed flight scheduled to work on the next flight! @AmericanAir

@AmericanAir, quick Q: with chicago's bad weather, why would you hinge other flights on chi crews? do you not want people to like you?
[I was just being a bitchy brat at this point, but sometimes you gotta go a little Miley Cyrus on an airline.]


The wedding was quite loverly, though. It's always nice to see well-to-do Caucasians coming together to create more of themselves. [Seeing as the bride-now-wifey is an avid diary reader, I hope none of this comes as a shock.] But there was one moment when I felt a bit out of place-- isn't it always weird when you find out that you're someone's only black friend?

We've all heard jokes about having "the black friend," but in this case, it was the real deal. There was one older black couple, but the guy was her former boss. Of course, if Friends and Candace Bushnell taught us anything, it's that a lot of white people don't get down with the brown and it's not anything personal. But it was still odd to enter a room full of people celebrating a friend I attended diversity university with and see that maybe diversity is just a thing you try once in college.
But let me not hate over my own insecurities about feeling bigger and blacker than the rest--I mean, I've been in the heart of Caucasia, and Minnesota was a piece of cake after Middle Earth. Besides, I can't really blame the girl for keeping Sojourner in her corner. A blacktress is more than just your token black friend--I'm like a cross-over Moesha-style sensation! So, you know, if you're going to go black, you may as well go blacktress.




For the reading I chose a poem by James Kavanaugh that I thought would speak to an independent woman such as the bride--"To Love Is Not to Possess" (it immediately jumped out at me as a freed slave, natch.) I practiced a bit beforehand, but lately I've been really trying to take a page out of Avril's book and not make things so complicated. The reading wasn't about me--it was about setting a tone and supporting a union. With that in mind, I decided to leave my flowing Maya Angelou robes at home and tone it down with the enunciation. (I did, however, make sure to direct the lines "to love is not to own / or imprison" at the groom.)

But oh, how I would have loved to deliver it something like this:
Chocolate News

People kept coming up to me and complimenting me on the reading, though. I was surprised, seeing as I hadn't done all that much in my opinion. Jewboo had to remind me that they weren't aware that they were dealing with a professional, and my innate ability to work a mic and breathe life into love poems isn't a gift we're all lucky enough to possess. But once one of the uncles started going on and on about how "articulate" I was, and an aunt told me I was "well-spoken," even Jewboo had to admit it was a little racial America up in the twin cities. #notyouraveragenegress

Lil' Massa

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.