Mondays With Artists

As you know, I work for a major publication. This comes with many risks, such as: people assuming you know about art, geriatrics seeking your support for their cockamamie schemes (hello, plasticize board, anyone?!), crazy artists thinking you have some sort of control over their failing careers and marriages.

Oftentimes, this madness comes in the form of telephone calls, and in the last few months I’ve become like Naomi Watts in The Ring: when my phone rings at the office, I freeze in terror and refuse to answer it. When coworkers ask if I’m “gonna get that,” I tell them I know who’s calling and I can take it later—even when I don’t.

Recently, I’ve been contacted via postcard by an unidentified artist. The first postcard arrived at the end of BHM, and was this (click on image to enlarge):

Can you read that? It says "I draw sock monkeys"

What does this mean?! What is a sock monkey? Is it made with socks? Am I looking at a picture of a puppet, a painting, or some sort of mixed media piece?

Not only is the image frightening and unappealing, the one-word sentence (is it even a sentence if there’s no punctuation mark?) is almost menacing, with its tiny handwriting and lack of a signature.

I kept this postcard because it was hilarious—obvi—and felt no guilt, seeing as the artist left no way of being contacted and did not connect his/her/hir’s name to it. I thought nothing of it, but occasionally laughed at the idea of a sock monkey during moments of procrastination.

Then, three weeks later, another one arrived.



This time the sock monkey was dark brown—is this a racial thing? What was this artist trying to say? I flipped it over, hoping for a clue.

Again, with the sentence fragment! I began to get frightened. With no return address, and only a San Francisco postmark, I had to wonder: was this a San Francisco Treat…or Trick?????

I kept this one, too, hoping to piece together clues like Columbo when the time was right. Then, a week later (today), this arrived:


Oh. MY. GOD. There’s more. There’s an “and.” But what, gentle reader, is a “sock monkey fertility cult figure”? Why does this person keep sending me this information without any name or address attached???? This is clearly a cry for attention and/or help, yet they do not actually want to be located.

My fear is mounting.

You can’t see it here, but if you look very closely at this last postcard, there is writing around one of the images. I can’t make out all of it, but it begins with, “I prayed for you last night but you did not come true…”

Is this me? Is someone in love with me in San Francisco? Is my fertility at risk? Is this person saying that I’m no more than a damned dirty ape?

These artists are really starting to freak me out.

Celebrating a White Woman

Yes, I'm doing it.

29 years ago today, my office wife was squeezed out into this world. She grew up in the suburbs of New Jersey, where she cultivated a love of whole wheat and grains, physical activity, and positive thinking. She went on to work in advertising, and then magazine publishing.

And there she changed a blacktress' life.

As a woman of color and a writer, it is behoovy of me to express my appreciation in the written form, as I've done for so many others, from Harry Potter to Katie Walsh-- you know, the people who really matter. Below, I look back on the year that has been and celebrate the birth of Alli Mali.

From the very first day, you knew all the answers
Wielding your red pen like a sword, you showed me it's the deck that really matters.
From our first lunch time walk en plein air
I knew we'd be besties--especially when that bird pooped in your hair.
Halfway through the year we moved into veal pens
But, surprisingly, our tender office love did not end.
Now we lean back in our rolly chairs,
sharing our worries and cares
Then bitch and moan at Lemongrass on Fridays.
You have the youthful joy of someone a mere 18 years old,
yet you always know I have a date if I'm wearing my reflections in gold.
And when I'm a hot mess you don't judge me in any way.
I feel great joy when I hand you an article I think is DONE AND DONE.
Then I see your red marks and I know the learning has just begun.
You push me to be the best blacktress I can be--
But no matter what you say, I won't drink that damn algae.
You're so kind to everyone, the mail guys say you're hot.
Then there's that darn Sal, who's just waiting for you to give him a shot.
You're my nine-to-five soul sister, twenty-four seven, three-sixty-five
Except for those ten vacation days, and the fact that you're white.


Alli, remember that time you and I were working on an article (you know, every day) and you taught me new and exciting things? Well, I never told you, but you just treated me like such an equal, I actually felt white.

Goosebumps--Tales of TRUTH

me: i know you're busy, but i just found a NEW office gay

Kathleen: nice

me: i was in the kitchen, talking to katey about how i hate men

and i just looked over at this dude who was at the vending machine and was like, "WHY AM I SINGLE?"

and turns out he's gayer than a christmas goose!

he goes, "all my girl friends ask me that. you need to leave new york and find a man somewhere else, club him over the head, and drag him back here."

Kathleen: haha

nice

so true as well

how is a christmas goose gay??

me: katie

that's not the point.


What is the point is that this man--a total stranger just in need of a can of Schweppes--knew the problem. He went on to say, "The thing is, to make it in this city, you have to be sort of an egomaniac [TRUTH], and it's hard for an egomaniac to be in a relationship with another person. And then, being a strong woman, it's even harder."

I mean, does he get me or what?
God bless a gay Christmas goose.

This is what I would cook for my boyfriend every night, if he ever decided to love me. Notice the two glasses of red wine.

The Last Unicorn

Ladies, Gentlemen, Friends, Foes, and Hos:

Today is a sad day. Another one bites the dust.

It is currently day 5 of “OPERATION: Why won’t he call me? WHY?! WHY?!” and still no word. Not one to roll over and play dead (I did free myself from the shackles of slavery, didn’t I?) I even called the wandering minstrel last night, just to put out there—this body ain’t getting any younger, people!!!

As of now, I have received no return call.

This, coming from a man who said I was “Excrutiatingly attractive”—when ‘excrutiatingly’ isn’t even a word! I mean, when you’re altering the dictionary to find the right compliment, it has to be for real, right?

This, coming from a man who had a moment in the Nubian sunshine, and came all the way to Harlem to attend a gathering hosted by Sojo when he didn’t know a single soul in attendance.

This, from a fellow who cleaned the red wine I spilled all over the couch and still wanted to make out with me.

I am seriously lost and delirious.

Let me tell you some things I like about my crush:

He is a 6-foot 3-inch tall glass of milk—Sojourner's not getting osteoporosis on his watch!

He has curly hair—it's like white people's version of nappiness!

He plays magic cards—which clearly means he is smart, has an nerdy past, and won't be scared off by my Harry Potter fetish.

And, most importantly:

He was recently on The Tyra Banks Show.

Um, need a say more???

Ok, I will!!!!!!!!!

A tall hot nerd who doesn’t know he’s hot is an urban legend—like razor-blades in apples, and getting AIDS from a toilet seat—only he’s more fun than those. A hot nerd who wants a blacktress is simply magical—the male equivalent of a unicorn. Like an audience member at his Las Vegas run of Cirque du Soleil, I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I dazzled him in my freakum dress and my gays said my “tats looked great.” Our interactions were effortless, and it felt like I’d known him way more than a hot minute. I thought I could finally stop kissing frogs and end up with a prince.

Apparently, that’s not in the (magic) cards for a blacktress.

My beeper has not beeped and my phone has not phoned, and I feel like an ugly normal person who no one wants to spend time with—not even Jesus (and he’s everyone’s homeboy).

Possible Reasons He No Longer Has Love for the Blacktress:
1. He’s gotten with that tramp Felicia from the Tyra Show.
2. Hotter women have come out of the woodwork ever since Tyra called him sexy.
3. He’s going on tour with a wandering minstrel show.
4. He’s been stop-lossed and is going back into the trenches, like Ryan Phillippe
5. He’s racist.
6. He’s lazy and crazy.
7. My vagina dentata scared him away (JK (rowling)!!! I don’t have TEETH)
8. Perhaps it’s because I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him til EL CINCO DE MAYO (Mexican Independence Day)?
9. Because I asked him to teach me to play magic cards because I wanted to “know his world.” (which I personally think is endearing as shit, and should have made him swoon with delight)

So, today, we self-soothe with episodes of "The Office" online. We shed a tear for the pretty, tall, mixie babies that would have been. We light a candle for the mocha acting troupe we would have undoubtedly started. We pour 1/5 of gin on the ground for our dead minstrel, and just praise White Jesus that he didn’t put his p in my v without a c.

The Emperor Club’s New Groove

Okay, so as you all know by now, former NY governor Eliot Spitzer resigned after he was discovered to be part of a prostitution ring known as the Emperor’s Club VIP. A high-priced international call-girl ring that serviced wealthy men in major cities around the globe, The Emperor’s Club’s clients paid upwards of $3,000 per hour for a moment of magic with some classy broads. They say on their website (which has been taken down):

We specialize in introductions of: fashion models, pageant winners, and exquisite students, graduates and women of successful careers (finance, art, media, etc…) to gentlemen of exceptional standards.

Women are rated on a diamond scale (cause, really, who doesn’t love bling?) of three to seven, with their rating directly proportional to a price of an evening or hour with them. A three-diamond ho costs $10,000 per day; a four-diamond ho costs $12,000; a five-diamond trick costs $15,000; a six-diamond tramp costs $21,000; and a seven-diamond lady of the night will set you back $31,000.

Um, let’s take a look at the chick Spitzer was caught with:

How many diamonds do you think this homegirl’s worth?

Here’s a screen capture of some of the ladies of the Emperor’s Club:

Notice that none of them are darker than a paper bag—at least, not without the help of a tanning bed.

Clearly, this is where Sojo comes in.

I’ve been inspired by the work of fellow blacktivist Scribe, who recently ended her Adopt-A-Darkie Campaign. Capitalizing on White celebrities’ preference for brown babies, she put herself up for adoption, even offering to wear a diaper and call Gwyneth Paltrow “mammy” if she helped eradicate her student loans.

This, to me, is genius. Some may call it “Selling Out” or acting as a “brazen race traitor,” but I call it acting on the freakonomics of the day and letting a rich white person work for you.

So here I sit, in all my mocha brownness.

Emperor’s Club, I offer my services to you.

Looking at the screen capture above, it’s clear they are missing some key flavors of dark chocolate. The only black girl they feature—a “Caribbean Beauty”—is lighter than Halle Berry, and certainly won’t cure any of these wealthy men’s chocolate addictions.

(You won't piss of the Spitzers at Seder dinner with that light skin!)

And we all know they have them. In fact, there is nothing a powerful white male wants more than for a black woman to say he has a big penis and let him….colonize her dark CUNTtry, if you will.

How do I know?
You don’t want to know.

I think I’d be an excellent addition to the Emperor’s Club—especially if I’m getting a substantial cut of that $31,000 per day (oh yes, I’m a seven-diamond sister). This is also payable in euros and pounds, which means I’ll be doing some international travel—to lands where all the men are down with the brown.

Reasons I’d Be a Good Emperor’s Club Trick

1. I’m young and fertile, but I won’t get knocked up.
2. I’m discreet (um, you will not find Sojo on myspace, with her crotch out and about, bent over a Vespa)
3. I’m really dark-skinned. I mean, I Am. Black. You won’t have any doubt that you’re doing something taboo when I’m in your boudoir!!
4. I, too, was an “exquisite student” (HIGH HONORS from a prestigious New England private university, what what?!)—the epitome of high-class ladies that the Emperor’s Club takes in.
5. I don’t talk White, I talk right. I can be your arm candy at all your events, and I’ll be even more well-spoken and dazzling than your wife.
6. For the right tip, we can even play “Thomas Jefferson and the Slave Girl”….. let the hate mail begin….

Basically, what I’m trying to say is: if Spitzer had gotten down with a sister, he might still be governor today.

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.

Answering the Unanswerable Question

And that question is, “Why hasn’t he called me? Why? WHY?!”

This is a question I’ve asked myself many a-time, as I’ve traversed this dangerous NYC dating scene. Some of my favorite reasons have been:

“Maybe he’s in the midst of moving”
– 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 Australia”
– 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!

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.