Public emotions are rarely emitted from this particular black. Movies, in particular, love to exhibit and portray the Strong Black. One doesn’t question what they’ve been through to make them so strong; we just accept their emotionless state as is.
THE APPROACH: These blacks are extremely reliable, but why would you want to add to the burden they already carry? Offer help and a listening ear when you can. They will be appreciative.
KEY PHRASES: “What’s on your mind?”; “Can I help you with that?”; “Would you like some ice cream?”
The Woe-Is-Me Black:
These blacks will never shut the hell up about their plight. They are victims, tortured by their blackness. Every ailment, struggle, andmistreatment is directly correlated with the color of their skin and their entire lives are tragedies. Victims are typically in the category of Tragic Mulatto/Quadroon/Octoroon/Quintroon/Hexadecaroon.
THE APPROACH: If you want to have a prosperous, joy-filled day, avoid these blacks at all costs. If you’re cornered by one, briefly sympathize as you walk away. Sympathy is the key, not empathy, as you can never understand all that they have endured.
KEY PHRASES: “Aw, man”; “Yeah, that sucks”; “Oh nooo”; “I’m so sorry you’re black.”
----
As time moves forward and blackness expands, many of these blacks may become obsolete (some will undoubtedly be relieved). Until then, please carry this list with you everywhere, so as to promote the harmony of intra- and interracial race relations. The onus is on you.
When You Can’t Dance
A nyone who knows me personally, or even remotely, knows that I can’t dance. It’s sad. I just cannot. No matter how many Twerk Team videos I watch on YouTube, I can’t isolate my booty in a way that rappers would find acceptable. And it’s always been expected of me (see situations #1 and #2 in “The Struggle”).
Being the only American girl in my Senegalese elementary school, I was asked:
“Jo-Issa, teach us what they do in the States!”
Being one of the few African-American girls in a gifted, nerdy elementary school in Potomac, Maryland, I overheard:
“Jo-Issa knows how to do the running man, right?”
I don’t think it was until I met my first friend in Los Angeles that I realized I didn’t dance the way some of the other black girls in my school did.
I’m not horrible. On a scale of Michael Jackson to Drunk White Girl, I come in at Drunk Black Girl. I can keep time really well.I have great rhythm and can bounce to said rhythm accordingly. But seeing the way girls in my middle school moved and swayed their bodies like the women I sometimes noticed in adult music videos like “Rump Shaker” was a shock to me. Was I supposed to preternaturally know how to dance like this already? Was there a course I wasn’t privy to? Had I known the social advantage to the dance classes my mother attempted to enroll me in, hoping to dilute my tomboy tendencies, I’d have obliged. But I refused. Even now, I can’t go to a Zumba class filled with old Latina women without feeling self-conscious and inadequate.
It’s not just that I couldn’t put my hands on my knees, pop my booty, and do the Tootsie Roll, but this freak-dancing phenomenon was intimidating. I hadn’t even seen a guy’s privates before, and now I was required to put my butt on some random boy’s junk and gyrate in an attractive way while he stood there? For the benefit of whom? Looking back at some of the dances we did in middle school and college, I realize they resembled animalistic mating calls. I can easily imagine Morgan Freeman narrating some of my high school dances. And with that same voice pointing out that my particular mating dance was unappealing to the entire male high school population.
Yes, past experiences had taught me to never again shine a light on my dance moves. Besides, nobody in my family is particularly gifted in dance. We all just “get by.”
My sophomore year of high school,
THE APPROACH: These blacks are extremely reliable, but why would you want to add to the burden they already carry? Offer help and a listening ear when you can. They will be appreciative.
KEY PHRASES: “What’s on your mind?”; “Can I help you with that?”; “Would you like some ice cream?”
The Woe-Is-Me Black:
These blacks will never shut the hell up about their plight. They are victims, tortured by their blackness. Every ailment, struggle, andmistreatment is directly correlated with the color of their skin and their entire lives are tragedies. Victims are typically in the category of Tragic Mulatto/Quadroon/Octoroon/Quintroon/Hexadecaroon.
THE APPROACH: If you want to have a prosperous, joy-filled day, avoid these blacks at all costs. If you’re cornered by one, briefly sympathize as you walk away. Sympathy is the key, not empathy, as you can never understand all that they have endured.
KEY PHRASES: “Aw, man”; “Yeah, that sucks”; “Oh nooo”; “I’m so sorry you’re black.”
----
As time moves forward and blackness expands, many of these blacks may become obsolete (some will undoubtedly be relieved). Until then, please carry this list with you everywhere, so as to promote the harmony of intra- and interracial race relations. The onus is on you.
When You Can’t Dance
A nyone who knows me personally, or even remotely, knows that I can’t dance. It’s sad. I just cannot. No matter how many Twerk Team videos I watch on YouTube, I can’t isolate my booty in a way that rappers would find acceptable. And it’s always been expected of me (see situations #1 and #2 in “The Struggle”).
Being the only American girl in my Senegalese elementary school, I was asked:
“Jo-Issa, teach us what they do in the States!”
Being one of the few African-American girls in a gifted, nerdy elementary school in Potomac, Maryland, I overheard:
“Jo-Issa knows how to do the running man, right?”
I don’t think it was until I met my first friend in Los Angeles that I realized I didn’t dance the way some of the other black girls in my school did.
I’m not horrible. On a scale of Michael Jackson to Drunk White Girl, I come in at Drunk Black Girl. I can keep time really well.I have great rhythm and can bounce to said rhythm accordingly. But seeing the way girls in my middle school moved and swayed their bodies like the women I sometimes noticed in adult music videos like “Rump Shaker” was a shock to me. Was I supposed to preternaturally know how to dance like this already? Was there a course I wasn’t privy to? Had I known the social advantage to the dance classes my mother attempted to enroll me in, hoping to dilute my tomboy tendencies, I’d have obliged. But I refused. Even now, I can’t go to a Zumba class filled with old Latina women without feeling self-conscious and inadequate.
It’s not just that I couldn’t put my hands on my knees, pop my booty, and do the Tootsie Roll, but this freak-dancing phenomenon was intimidating. I hadn’t even seen a guy’s privates before, and now I was required to put my butt on some random boy’s junk and gyrate in an attractive way while he stood there? For the benefit of whom? Looking back at some of the dances we did in middle school and college, I realize they resembled animalistic mating calls. I can easily imagine Morgan Freeman narrating some of my high school dances. And with that same voice pointing out that my particular mating dance was unappealing to the entire male high school population.
Yes, past experiences had taught me to never again shine a light on my dance moves. Besides, nobody in my family is particularly gifted in dance. We all just “get by.”
My sophomore year of high school,
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