Alright. I’ve had enough.
This does it.
It’s only Tuesday. Tuesday, I tell you.
And already I’ve had four, yes four, people tell me I’m “black.”
I’m not offended by this. Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m simply confused. Highly confused. Confounded, even.
If you were to know me in real life, you would quickly say I was the whitest person on the planet. Unless, of course, you did one of two things: Looked in my R&B and Rap CD case (yes, as of Saturday, they are officially in their own 208 containing case) OR watched me dance.
And a certain male acquaintance would also point out that I can throw gang signs. Look, I spent most of my junior high and high school years in a predominately black populated town with an unusually high gang incidence. Yes, in Arkansas. Haven’t you people seen the classic 1992 HBO Special “Bangin’ in Little Rock”?
I do, readily, admit that I pull into the parking lot with my sunroof open and – sometimes – rap music playing. Yesterday, I was playing Jimmy Buffet. Can you get whiter than Jimmy Buffet without crossing into Country?
Today, however, I admit that I was playing Three 6 Mafia. And I may have slipped when Felicia asked “Girl, whatchu bumpin over there?” and threw out our old high school version with “Some triple-six!”
Felicia had told me on Monday, when she heard my phone ring with old school Bone, Thugs and Harmony “Crossroads”: “Meghan, girl please, you black. Face it.”
Shonda said the same thing yesterday afternoon when she saw one of my therapy kids and I dancing.
Then Ms. Harvel said it this morning when she saw me “waggle yo head” when I was on a phone call and getting highly irate with Medicaid.
The last straw was just now when Therese said it again because they were talking about Tyler Perry and I knew who he was. I’m sorry, ummm, but doesn’t EVERYONE know who he is now? It’s not like Diary of a Mad Black Woman wasn’t a box office smash.
Do these things really qualify me as “black”, I ask you?