“I think I grew up with a more African-American background than you do!”
–Someone I Know (who really should know better)
Well, I guess he should get a kudos for attempting political correctness. But it’s a bit like drizzling chocolate sprinkles on a branding iron. Or letting your pinky swan dive in someone’s creme brulee. I still don’t GET why people say shit like this to me. What’s the friggin point? Humor? Discomfort? Making sure the little brown circle knows she lives in a big square? What?? What if I were to retort with a “If I couldn’t dance, then I would have more of a White background than you!” or “Since I’m the one with the advanced degree, you’re really the ni**er. Go get me some watermelon, bitch!”
So once more, for those of you in the nosebleed seats…
My Black is not measured by the food I choose to eat with a 3-prong fork or lick from my fingers
It’s not what kind of comb I pull through my hair
Or what kind of hair I choose to attach to my own
It’s not MAC or Fashion Fair
Baby Phat or Lacoste
My Black is not whether I say ‘earth’ or ‘erph’
It’s not Morrissey or Kanye
It’s not this or that
My Black is not who I marry, what color my besties are or if I squeal when I see them
It’s not Living Single or Friends
High-fives or fist bump
It’s not the mold, the box, expectation you have about who I, as a Black woman, should be
Black is what I make of it. It’s the traditions I carry on and celebrate. It’s what I get from my ancestors and what I leave my (imaginary) children. It’s how I carry plow through adversity and celebrate my wins. It’s how I choose to welcome you, build you, and warm you. To make a better me.
Inside.
That melting, gooey, mushy, sweet center of me.
For nougat knows no color.
But, if it makes you feel better, I typed this while swinging my neck in a circular motion with my illegitimate crackbaby on my hip as stood in the unemployment line drinking Colt 45 and running my hands through my Jheri Curl in my Apple Bottom jeans and gold-plated grill eating chicken wings and stepping on the bones in my knock-off Manolos that I bought at my hair salon for $10.
It’s a universally accepted truth that the success of any given episode of Oprah is measured in (a) the number of people she can move to tears and/or (b) how many people, out of sheer guilt and shame, are moved to action. Yesterday’s episode must have been off the charts because she succeeded in having me do both in less than 60 minutes. You go, girl.
I’ve jumped ship from The View to Oprah because Elisabeth Hasselbeck and Barbara Walters get on my damn nerves. Hey, Lizzie Not-So-Liberal, you’re Conservative. We got it. How ’bout you stop worrying about the media’s treatment of Sarah Palin and start getting a treatment for those roots! And Barbara, I get that it’s YOUR SHOW, but the fact that you only appear when you have a book or a ’special’ to promote is lame. Take that shit to QVC. If it’s good enough for Paula Abdul and Tori Spelling, it is certainly good enough for you.
End rant.
My favorite show in the world is To Catch A Predator, but a close second is What Would You Do? WWYD is ABC’s hidden camera experiment where they put actors in a variety of situations and record the reactions of passersby. Then a camera crew bum rushes the poor, unsuspecting subject with “Hi! I’m John Quinones from ABC! You’re on camera! Why did you react that way in our totally contrived situation? (thrusts microphone in their face). ” When the series first began it was light-hearted stuff- WWYD if you saw your friend’s fiance with another woman? Or you saw an old man with his pants around his ankles? Then someone got smart and decided to infuse significant topics like, WWYD if you saw a young girl being bullied by 3 other girls? Or a group of teenage boys harassing a homeless person? Or an obviously intoxicated person attempting to drive? Then they upped the social significance ante by varying race and gender in each scenario to see if people’s reactions changed.
In one scene, a group of teenage boys vandalize a car in a park, in broad daylight. It was an obvious vandalization. Spray paint, broken window, boys jumping on the hood. There was no mistaking this situation. When the boys were white, people approached, some called 911; but not in the volume they did when the boys were black. In fact, when the boys were white, 911 received calls about some black kids who were sleeping in a car in that same park. The ones that moved me to tears, either out of frustration or fear, were scenes with abusive couples. The man was clearly going to do some harm to the woman. He calls her names, pushes her, yells. ABC comprised couples that were white, black and interracial (see video below). When the couple was white, people came to the woman’s assistance the majority of the time. Whether they approached the victim directly or stood nearby while calling 911 on a cell phone, they did something. When the couple was black, 58 passed. And did nothing. For 5 hours. Some people shouted things like “This is not the appropriate place. Take that somewhere else.”
On one hand, it is awesome to see that, in all of the experiments, the people who stepped in to help were women. (Girl Power!) On the other hand, it is scary to know if I was ever in a dangerous situation with a black man, I’m kinda fucked. To be fair, it appears that most of these scenarios are set up in some east coast, predominantly white , suburban neighborhood; so there is no denying those demographics have a significant impact on the results of this study. So to be un-fucked, my only hope for help is to stay out of those neighborhoods. Awesome.
That’s clearly the tears, but what about the guilt?
I’m glad you asked.
(Here is where you lose all respect for me)
The Hubster: (home from work at 11pm) Hey, did you see all that blood in front of our neighbor’s front door?
Me: What?!? No!
The Hubster: Yeah, there’s blood all in front of his door. It looks like drops, but a lot of them.
Me: Did you call security???
The Hubster: No. It wasn’t all smeared like there was a struggle or anything. It just looks like he had a really bad bloody nose or something.
Me: I think we should call the cops. What if something is really wrong? What if he’s being murdered right now??
The Hubster: Our security guards patrol here 24 hours a day, they’ll see it.
Me: What if they don’t?
The Hubster: I’m sure it’s fine. If anything happens, we’ll know.
Me: OK, but if I get murdered in my sleep, I am haunting you.
I called our apartment manager in the morning and they couldn’t divulge any information other than to say no one was in danger and no criminal activity took place. When The Hubster left for work, there were police officers at the door.
So this is the guilt.
WWYD I do if my neighbor had blood all over his doorstep? Nothing, apparently. We’ve lived here almost a year and I don’t know him. Never seen him. Never said hello or goodbye. Now I’m stuck with this burning desire to knock on his door. Introduce myself. Ask if he’s OK. Bake him cake. Because that’s what neighbors should do.
Because there’s a chance no one else will.
This post is not a plea for sympathy. To tell me that not knowing my neighbor justifies my inaction. Nor is it a forum to chastise The Hubster and I for being so lame. I guess it’s me doing what Oprah wants me to do- to move to action out of guilt and shame. So, this holiday season, introduce yourself to your neighbor so that when you’re asked WWYD, you’ll have an answer.
TCD
P.S. If I lived next to any you, my faceless internet pals, I would certainly call the cops. I may even knock on the door with The Hubster’s hand cannon gun!
