Oh, how sad it was to learn you grew up in a home without your father. The severing may have begun during slavery. Or maybe, blame the sixties, when black men were denied opportunities to care for his family, and the government made it plain and bullhorn clear that we will feed your wife and kids, we will pay their rent and utilities, but we will not pay for lazy n*****s to eat free off the backs of hardworking white Americans. Men hate failure. A black man used to be a man. A man’s job is to provide for his family. When a man cannot provide for his family, his ego dies. Killing the man. So Papa, always baby steps from utter failure, laid his hat in somebody else’s home—so the song goes. And never came home.
Archives for : Over Bites
Certain Black girls are always complaining about biracial and multiracial girls “going on a natural hair journey” when to them they clearly have already arrived. It’s enough to make you think we have become natural enemies.
It’s an adventure. Starting out late makes everything an adventure. It’s a good day for being in a dark room and letting someone else do the entertaining. On the way, to lighten the mood, I remark about being the only ducks out as it gets darker and gloomier. My sister, who is half-listening, lurches forward, saying, “Where they at?”
When I used to think of Chicago, Illinois, what immediately came to mind was Oprah. The wind. Then the cold. An image of rush hour people hurrying to work with the anxiousness of New Yorkers comes to mind. But the Chicagoan does not clutch his head or neck because there are too many people packed in one place to breathe; he does it because the winters are always frigid, always insane. I see scarves and trench coats flying behind the Chicagoan, pulled by the wind like the tail of a kite. I see a beautiful city sort of dipping its feet in water. I see side-by-side bridges. I see bridges over water.
Lately, when I think of Chicago, I still see the bridges. But they all seem to be over troubled waters.
I used to think of Maybelline and L’Oréal as though they were a couple of cool, white girlfriends from New York and Paris. Black Radiance and Opal, although attractive, had long let me down. I even tried the Queen’s product but I was dissatisfied with the feel of it between my thumb and forefinger. Didn’t care for the consistency, it felt like oil—a little too rich for my taste.
The masses don’t usually have bad moods when they enter the pink and yellow sunshine of a Baskin-Robbins. In the city of Shaker Heights where the streets are named Yorkshire and Berkshire, running along the edge of the city like a river lies Chagrin Boulevard. An apt name, for within the walls of a certain Baskin-Robbins there sort of stands a miserable ogre, whose singular goal, in single scoops, is not to peddle ice cream dreams but 31 flavors of sadness.
For this reason, we shall deem him The Ice Cream Nazi.
Come close. As uncomfortable as I am with intimacy of this sort, come closer. No, closer still. I have a secret. The secret is that I am allergic to effing. Yes, effing. Effing has always made me uncomfortable. My eyes and nose become red, itchy, and runny. Effing makes me feel weak, especially if I’m looking up from the bottom. Too many bad memories of us replay in my mind when effing. And, being a Christian doesn’t help because as the world knows, effing is sometimes an even dirtier word to us Christians.
Here’s the problem with me and effing.