Either She Homeless, Or She Got Problems

ap_mario_williams_dm_130506_wblog

A couple weeks ago, the Gay Reindeer and I were sitting in my car, people watching and eating applesauce (don’t ask), when a conversation about Pittsburgh neighborhoods segued into gentrification, which then segued into the surreal experience of seeing White joggers trying to navigate past the hordes of people standing outside of liquor stores and check cashing marts, which then finally landed on a point she brought up: Those anonymous people hanging outside of those stores all day long—people who usually are middle-aged, Black, and poor—often serve as the neighborhood’s Shakespearean fools.

Perhaps they don’t seem particularly lucid or observant, and maybe their English isn’t the best, but they’re watching, recording, and assessing everything that’s going on in the surrounding area. And, if you ever have the opportunity to talk to one of them—like, seriously sitdown and talk—they have the tendency to provide plain-spoken insights and witticisms about the community and the people who inhabit it that would make you wonder if they were secretly undercover PhDs doing a years-long anthropological study.

Anyway, I’m bringing this up because this was the first thing I thought of when listening to Charles Ramsey’s entire interview. (Actually, that was the second thing. The first? That’s a really nice white tee he’s wearing. It must have been brand new.) Like a true Shakespearean fool, Ramsey’s appearance and “commoner” sensibilities belied the wit and bravery he so obviously possessed. And, also true to Shakespearean fool form, an off-hand, matter-of-fact statement made towards the end of the interview ended up being the most memorable (and insightful) thing he said.

(Paraphrasing) “If you see a pretty White woman running towards a Black man, either she homeless or she got problems.”

You know, out of all the interracial dating/relationship-related conversations I remember having, I can recall in-depth, nuanced, emotionally charged, and surprisingly sober discussions about…

1. The type of Black man who dates White women

2. The type of Black woman who dates White men

3. The type of White man who dates Black women

…conversations where everything from the way they typically look to the base reasoning behind their choices is examined and assessed with care.

But, there doesn’t seem to be that same level of discourse among us about attractive White women who choose to date Black men, mainly because we have a tendency to dismiss whatever attraction they may have for brothas as some sort of sexual fetish, a way of “getting back” at her family in some way, or a blatant cash grab.

Basically, if she runs to a Black man, either she homeless, or she got problems.

While this line of thinking is usually thought to be an indictment on White women—or, rather, the type of White woman who primarily dates Black men—it actually is a bigger insult to brothas. By believing that White women who choose Black men are effed up in some way, you’re also implying that there’s no reason for a normal, well-adjusted White woman to want to be in a serious relationship with a Black man.

Admittedly, I’ve fallen victim to this line of thinking as well. I’ve joked before about the type of White woman you might find at a predominately Black nightclub (I even have a name for them: “snizzles”—a term that derives from “snowbunnies”), but those jokes were rooted in a very real belief that something had to be wrong with a White chick who was into Black dudes. While I do believe that there has to be something wrong with someone who only dates outside of their race, I make concessions and justifications for Black men, Black women, and White men who do this that I never have with White women, and this lack of interracial dating-based empathy boxes me into a very awkward corner.

“If I believe that there’s something seriously wrong with her if she’s into me, that a decision to date a Black man is a seriously bad one, doesn’t that also suggest that I believe there’s something seriously wrong with me?”

I haven’t answered that question yet. Maybe I just don’t want to hear the answer. And, maybe I’m just not smart enough to be a fool.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

So, She’s Down With The Swirl…And So Is She…And So Is She…And So Is She…And So Is She

Bradley Cooper and Zoe Saldana Have a Night Out at the Theater

I’m going to assume that the 25 to 40 year old Black people in my sphere of influence probably aren’t that much different than than the type of Black person a typical reader of VSB interacts with regularly. (Basically, the n*ggas I know are exactly like the n*ggas the rest of y’all n*ggas know.)

Why does this matter? Well, the statement I’m about to make is completely unscientific, completely unresearched, and completely dependent on anecdote and observation. You could even argue that I’m pulling it completely out of my ass. But, I doubt you’ll make that argument because, since the n*ggas I know are likely to be pretty much exactly like the n*ggas the rest of y’all n*ggas know, you’ll probably agree. You may not want to agree, but if you’re smart—and, if you’re reading this, you probably are—you will.

While the vast majority of the Black people I know date/marry other Black people, I personally know more Black women my age with White boyfriends/husbands than Black men my age with White girlfriends/wives…and I bet most of you do too. Actually, for me, using “more” is somewhat misleading because, well, I don’t know any. I mean, I know they exist. I occasionally hear about them on NPR, and sometimes I’ll see one or two waiting for jitneys outside of Giant Eagle, but I do not personally know any urban, educated, and employed Black guys—basically, Black guys like me—who date White women. Not one. But, I know at least 10 Black women with those traits who are currently dating or married to White men.

I’m not pointing this out because I think this is a bad thing. Or a good thing. Or an inbetween thing. It’s just a thing I’ve noticed…a thing that basically goes against everything we’ve read, heard, learned, and think we’ve seen, but just a thing nonetheless.

I’m going to leave you all with two questions, one I think I already know the answer to and another that still escapes me somewhat.

1. If you took a quick survey of the Black people you happen to know, could you have made this same observation? 

2. Why do you think this is? (I have my theories, but since I spent all weekend moving, I’ll let you all do the heavy lifting today.)

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

What Happens When (Some) People Think You’re Marrying A White Chick

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Two weeks ago, a bit of “I spent all night watching tournament games, and now it’s 11:30pm and I still can’t think of anything to write” writer’s block led me to leave WordPress for a minute and go to ESPN.com to kill some time. While there, I came across a picture of Blake Griffin.

Seeing Griffin’s Alfred E. Neuman-esque hair reminded me that he’s biracial. This led me to wonder which side he identifies with more, and that thought led me to also wonder if there was any specific way to tell which side a biracial person feels more of a connection to. I answered my own question (“Their dating patterns are probably the biggest tell“), thought about whether Blake Griffin dates mostly White girls or Black girls, wondered how each side of his family feels about his dating choices, and finally…

“Hmm. I wonder how people I know would take it if I fell in love with and married a White woman?”

Voila!

This thought effectively ended my block, leading to “How I Fell For, Proposed To, And Will Marry A White Woman”—an early April Fools joke on the VSB readership.

Between here and The Root—where the piece was republished—the responses ran from “Congrats on your upcoming marriage to a White woman!” and “Damn, you got me” to “Does she have a sister?” and “So…why does this dude feel the need to tell us that he’s marrying a White woman. Just marry her ass, have the honeymoon in a bucket of mayo, and be on your Tom-ing way” 

Most (men and women) were amused, though. That wasn’t a surprise. I know the readership here is a bit, well, smarter and a bit less prone to take themselves too seriously than what you usually find on the internet.

Again, most were amused. But, not all.

This was a comment left Thursday evening.

Another sellout. And, yes, just one more “field negro” (after the website of the same name) with a white woman.

And his writing this little essay won’t change that.

Sisters, brothers, we need to raise our children to know and do better. Life is about choices, and this brother made a bad one. If there’s a white person for you, there’s DEFINITELY a black woman for you. Ditto for the sisters with regard to white men and black men.

Once one makes a conscious decision to be with a black person, then it doesn’t matter who else one meets — because one has made a choice. It’s about a certain kind of social and political consciousness that understands the importance of modeling black love, of building strong black families.

It’s brothers like this who will shake their heads at young black kids cursing, their sagging pants, their lack of facility with standard English. But where are they? They’re MIA in the black community, leaving another sister to raise a child on her own, to battle to maintain a certain standard of living on her own, to face the world on her own without a mate.

But it’s also brothers like these black women do not — or certainly should not — miss. If this is where their head is — blown — then we’re far better off without them.

We need to return to a traditional African understanding of community and responsibility. Without it, we will never prosper as a people. *smdh*

Her follow up comment 50 minutes later:

Okay. I’m an impatient reader and am only just now seeing that it was supposed to be an April Fool’s joke.

Uh … not funny. It’s like reading an account of a lynching and then seeing “April Fools!”

The survival of the black family is too serious a matter for such silliness. And the situation it spoofs is too real to make light of.

Let me add that I wasn’t offended. It didn’t make me angry. It simply disgusted me. And then I began to think of the title of the website.

My thought: “Clearly, the brotha isn’t as smart as he thinks he is.”

Well, one thing’s for certain: He’s not as funny as he wants to be.

You know, whenever I watch videos like the one where the father was beating his daughter after catching her making a twerking video, I wonder if people who believe in corporal punishment are on the wrong side of history. I know it’s a traditional part of child-rearing—and I also know that many of us have been spanked before and turned out alright—but I think this is one of those practices that people will look back at in 100 years and think “Damn. Can you believe they still thought it was ok to beat children in 2013? How did they think it was a good thing for fully-grown adults to beat the smallest and weakest person in the house, and how did the courts allow parents to do this?”

Anyway, I’m bringing this up because although I have always been solely interested in and committed to dating Black women, I wonder if people who believe in the type of uncompromising racial solidarity as the person who left that comment are also on the wrong side of history.

I could be wrong, though. Maybe she’s right. I mean, humans are instinctually tribal, and perhaps all this post-racialiciousness isn’t necessarily a great thing.

Like I said, I could be wrong. But, I doubt it.

What do you think?

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

How To Be Really, Really Good At Being A Black Man

Lemme learn y'all asses to something

Lemme learn y’all asses to something

We received a comment last week that basically said Black people in positions where they can help people often don’t do enough, and ended by urging Panama and I to do what we can to mentor aspiring bloggers.

Although I’m still not sure how I’d go about completing that task, I do want to lend a hand to help young people do what I do best: Be really, really good at being a Black man.

I don’t have all the answers for all the people out there who want to be really, really good at being a Black man, but I do have a few tips.

How To Walk

1. Whatever your normal walking speed is, decrease it by 40 percent. If it usually takes you 60 seconds to walk from your cubicle to the office bathroom, now do it in 84 seconds. Time yourself with a stopwatch if necessary.

2. While walking, slowly and subtly bob your head and shoulders from side to side to the rhythm of a chopped and screwed version of Issac Hayes’s Walk On By. If this doesn’t work, David Porter’s version of Hang On Sloopy will do.

How To Look While Walking

Make sure to always look either slightly amused or slightly irritated. This will remind onlookers that you have a big penis.

How To Drive

1. Lean far enough back in your seat that people waiting for buses have to tilt their necks to see your face, but not so far that you have to sit up every time you need you hit your turn signal.

2. Make sure to time your music so that your hardest sounding track just happens to come on right when you’re at a busy intersection. Slowly bob your head, look straight ahead, and pretend like you don’t care if people are looking at you.

3. Only drive cars featured in commercials narrated by a man’s voice.

How To Secure a Loan for $30,000

1. Find the nearest bank.

2. Rob it.

3. Return the next day with all of the money. This will build trust.

4. Do this two more times. After the third time, the bank manager will be so impressed by your magnanimousness that he’ll allow you to keep the money.

How To Have Sex

1. Get naked

2. After getting naked, pause to put on Timberlands and Ray-Bans.

3. Admire self in mirror.

4. Charge cell phone for 15 minutes while still admiring self in mirror.

5. While phone is charging, entertain woman by allowing her to do pull-ups and dips on penis.

6. After phone is charged, instruct woman to turn around.

7. Insert penis.

8. Start recording self

9. Say “Yeah” repeatedly to no one in particular, making sure your voice gets deeper each time.

10. Don’t forget to remember that woman is still there. Do this by asking her to say your name. Hearing your name will remind you that she is still there.

11. Dougie while climaxing.

How To Be Attractive To Black Women

1. If she happens to be dark-skinned, compliment her hair.

2. If she happens to be light-skinned, allude to her “realness” and her “commitment to the struggle.”

3. Ask her if she watched the Melissa Harris-Perry show last week. If she didn’t, she’ll think “Wow. This guy watches Melissa Harris-Perry, and I don’t.” This will arouse her. If she did, she’ll think “Wow. We can watch Melissa Harris-Perry together.” This will also arouse her.

4. Be tall

5. Don’t be short.

How To Grill A Bucket Of Jerk Chicken Wings

1. Have someone (preferably a woman) purchase a bucket of jerk chicken wings.

2. Place wings on grill.

3. Wear gloves for safety, and to safely smack anyone who dares near the wings before you’re done grilling.

4. Stare at jerk chicken wings like jerk chicken wings just told you a joke, and you’re trying not to laugh.

How To Let Everyone On A Packed Bus Know That Although You Gave Up Your Seat To An Attractive White Woman, Her Being An Attractive White Woman Had Nothing To Do With It

1. Give up said seat.

2. After giving up seat, she will thank you.

3. Nod your head, don’t speak, and walk to the back of the bus.

4. Remove copy of The Bluest Eye from your attache.

5. Begin reading while nodding head and taking notes.

How To Say “Word.”

1. Grow out facial hair.

2. When sufficient amount of facial hair has been grown, give self goatee.

3. Rub goatee with thumb and index finger.

4. Shake head slowly, and make face like you’re trying to remember if you need to buy a pack of bacon.

5. Say “Word.”

How To Remind People That Telling You “You kinda look like Stevie J” Isn’t Really A Compliment

1. Kinda look like Stevie J.

2. When people ask you if anyone’s ever told you that you kinda look like Stevie J, lie and say “No.”

How To Successfully Flirt With Cashiers At Rite-Aid

1. Kinda look like Stevie J.

2. When she asks you if anyone’s ever told you that you kinda look like Stevie J, lie and say “No.” When done lying, say “Why?”

3. When she tells you that you kinda look like Stevie J, say “Word?”

4. Tell her you want a wellness card. (Even better if you already have one.)

How To Be Humble

1. Give all praise to God. Or Allah. (Whichever floats your boat)

2. After done giving praise to God (or Allah), allow stripper to finish lap dance.

3. Don’t look like you’re enjoying it too much.

How To Be A Good Dad To Your Son If You’re Not With His Mom Anymore

1. Make son your Facebook profile pic.

2. Sporadically hang around and shit

2. Coach son’s Pee-Wee football team.

3. If son is good, stay in child’s life by continuing to coach.

4. If son sucks, stop coaching, but still hang around sporadically.

Hopefully, this helps. But, if anyone still needs more assistance on how to be really, really good at being a Black man, hit me up at contact@verysmartbrothas.com

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

How I Fell For, Proposed To, And Will Marry A White Woman

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There’s a scene towards the end of High Fidelity where Laura (Iben Hjejle), Rob’s (John Cusack) estranged girlfriend—and the muse for much of Rob’s angst throughout the movie—finally gives into Rob’s pleas to get back with him. Naturally, Rob needs to know what caused her to make this decision.

Laura: I’m too tired not to be with you.

Rob: What, so if you had a bit more energy we’d stay split up, but things being as they are, with you being wiped out and all, you want to get back together? Is that it?

Laura: Yeah.

High Fidelity is one of my favorite movies, and “I’m too tired not to be with you” is one of my favorite lines. Still, I never quite got what it meant until finally meeting someone who hit me with so many reasons why I needed to be with her that I just couldn’t fight it anymore. I was too fatigued by reason. Too exhausted by realization. Too beat to continue to deny that I’d fallen in love with a woman who happened to be White.

Even now, eight months after we first met, it remains jarring to see in print. So jarring that in the last sentence of the previous paragraph, I typed “woman who happened to be White” instead of “White woman,” a linguistic device subtly minimizing the fact that her Whiteness has been and will always be very conspicuous.

It—her Whiteness—was the very first thing I noticed about her. We were introduced to each other through a mutual friend. She recently moved back Pittsburgh after living in California for a couple years, and the friend thought it would be a good idea to connect. We exchanged emails, made plans to meet each other at a nearby Panera, and I assumed she’d be not White.

I was wrong.

She is not thick for a White girl, she is not “down,” she does not look like “she could be mixed.” There’s absolutely nothing I can say that would make her seem or sound less White. Aside from the fact the she’s currently engaged to a Black man, she is, both literally and culturally, one of the Whitest women I’ve ever met.

And, after running into each other at a gallery crawl a couple weeks after first connecting—and spending the next two hours talking to, laughing with, and just generally being surprised by her—I’d found she’s one of the warmest, wittiest, silliest, and sexiest women I’ve ever met, too.

That two hour span inside of an abandoned warehouse-turned art space for untalented hipsters was the best night I’ve ever spent with a woman. Not best conversation. Best night. In any other situation, I would have left with at least a plan to see each other again. But, she was White. And, her Whiteness prevented me from pursuing, blocked me from doing anything other than (awkwardly) shaking her hand and wishing her a good night.

This reluctance to even entertain the idea of pursuing a White woman was more due to a decades-long love of Black women than anything else. I’ve met funny, smart, cute, and cool White women before, but none of them were funny, smart, cute, and cool enough for me fathom choosing to date one instead of a woman of color, nevermind spending the rest of my life with her. I wasn’t loyal to Black woman as much as I was just unable to imagine finding someone better. Not better in general, but better for me.

Also, I do not live in a vacuum. I was not (well, at least I thought I was not) prepared or even willing to be one of those Black guys who dates White women. Whatever the Black man dating White woman burden happens to be, it just was not a burden I—a Very Smart Brotha—wanted to carry.

So, I fought off the thoughts of texting her or calling her or asking our mutual friend for her address so I could send her a letter or play my jukebox outside of her window. I downplayed the time I spent thinking about her, dismissing it as me only thinking about her just to remind myself not to think about her. I ignored how often I’d glance at my phone, and rejected the idea that I was checking for a sign from her.

After a few weeks, it began to work. I’d forced myself to remember to forget about her so often that I started to legitimately forget. Until, well…

I was standing in line at that same Panera when I heard the door close behind me. Before I could glance back to see who it was, I heard “Hey stranger” with the same raspy voice—and the same slightly sardonic tone—that had been on loop in my head for the previous month. (I later learned that, for that same month span, she’d go out of her way to visit that Panera a couple times a week with the hope she’d “run into” me)

We spoke and shared a table. Our first date was two days later. Our first kiss was two hours into our first date.

It’s been a little over seven months since this all happened. I won’t go into any detail about the racial hurdles we’ve faced because, well, they haven’t really existed. I’m not too myopic to assume that they’ll never surface. But, aside from little, meet-cute-type shit (until she was a teen, she thought collard greens were actually called colored greens), nothing worth writing about has happened.

I proposed to her on Monday. She (obviously) accepted. (If she didn’t, I damn sure wouldn’t be writing about this today.)

I am a Black man who’s going to marry a White woman. And while I’d like to think I was too tired not to be with her, I think I was just too tired to realize that I didn’t have a choice.

—Wishing you a very happy (and very early) Happy Fools Day, Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)