Eh, Rae's Alright.

Adventures in Negress, Part 1

I, Rafat Adebimpe Adunni Sanni, am a negress. My daddy, a negro from Nigeria, married my mommy, a negress also from Nigeria. They had me. These are my adventures. 

I have a baby afro I’ve been nursing since June 2011. It isn’t very far along, as I’ve been trimming it once a month. I’ve never combed it out fully, but I decided to today, on this, the third day of Black History Month. My hair is very nappy (white people, you can’t say that) and I had to wet it with conditioner so it wouldn’t hurt to comb it. It still hurt. A lot.

(You will notice that my lips are very big. That is also because I am a negress.)

This is what my afro looks like when combed out:

As you can see, I am disappointed. Disappointment is a feeling often experienced by negresses ( “AIDS is the leading cause of death for my sisters?!”, “I make less than my white, male counterparts in the workforce?!”, “Basketball Wives is on hiatus?!!!”). Today’s disappointment is at the not awesomeness that is my ‘fro. I was expecting to look like this:

or this:

or this:

(Yes. In my head, I am both Solange Knowles and a lion.)

Instead, I look like this:

.

(I want to clarify that that is not earwax on the Q-tip, but rather my eye makeup. I do look like a Q-tip with my fro, but if I looked like a Q-tip with earwax, suicide would be my only option. Although looking like this Q-tip wouldn’t be so bad.)

Alas, I will move through my today feeling inadequately ‘fro’d. And perhaps my tomorrow. Then I will wash my hair, it will shrink and I will forget about combing it for another 8 months. And when I finally do it again, it’ll look like this:

At least I hope. Because if ever I get to look like the Bob Marley Rasta Lion, my evolution will be complete.

One of These Things Doesn’t Belong

This is a photo of the top shelf of my parents’ book case. One of these things doesn’t belong.

Hip-Hop Tautologies

“I’m hot cuz I’m fly,  you ain’t cuz you not.” -MIMS

Hoodrat Shit

2001 is the last time either DMX or the owner of this car got any play.

Hoodrat Shit

That’s the Iced Tea mix I brought to work in a Ziploc bag and the awesome Iced Tea I made from it.

Hip-Hop Tautologies

“They say you can’t turn a bad girl good/ But once a good girl’s gone bad, she’s gone forever.” Jay-Z, “Song Cry”

Rejected

 

So, the past year has seen a series of rejections, both implicit and explicit, from boys. It sucks. Or is hilarious, depending on who you ask. My little sister is one of those who thinks it’s hilarious. (She calls me a “swaggless monkey” and is now trying to teach me how to have “swagg,” as the kids call it, so that I may not be rejected anymore.) Also, so is every dude I’ve ever been shitty to. Admittedly, there are a lot.

Rejection by dudes is something I haven’t really dealt with in a long time— not because I’m perfect or amazing, but because dudes love banging a chick who is, at the very least, willing. I am willing. I will, often. 

But sometimes when you will, they won’t. It’s surprisingly painful, getting shut down, considering how little rejections from people you intend to know only for moments should matter in the grand scheme of things. But it hurts tons. But then, sometimes it’s hilarious. 

Included below is a rejection e-mail I got one morning last summer from a very handsome, very rich, but also very douchey (douché?) French dude with whom I had a date for that evening.


Hi Rae,
I think you will hate me on this but i will have to flake on tonight’s plan. The reason is that I made it out with a French friend of mine yesterday evening, I like her a lot, I will see her again this afternoon too and I don’t feel that comfortable going out after with you tonight, even for just a cinema / drink.
Sorry about this last minute change, this has nothing to do with you.
I hope you will be able to adapt your plans.

Cheers,
P

Hilarious! For several reasons:

One, he described ending our flirtation/hookup sitch/whatever as “flaking.” It’s not flaking if it’s permanent. How do I know it’s permanent? Well that’s because,

Two, he felt the need to tell me he “made it out” with another woman. Certainly I will not be trying to make it out with him after that. That’s not really his concern, I guess, but why would you say that? What does that even mean? He fucked her? He made it out with her vagina, right? I don’t understand this French slang.

Three, he felt it necessary to tell me she was French. If she weren’t French, would he have “made it out” with her and then still gone with me to the “cinema?” If I were French would he have “made it out” with me too? He’d totally have made it out w/ me if he knew just how many baguettes and accordions I’ve hidden in my “vagin.” (Also, I look amazing in horizontal stripes!) 

Four, he had to assure me it had nothing to do with me. Rae, it’s not your fault, except, well, you’re not my French friend with whom I just “made it out.” But don’t go killing yourself. One day a man as awesomely French and rich as me will “make it out” with you.

Five, he hoped I was able to “adapt [my] plans.” LOL, LMAO, LMFAO, ROTFL. What kind of asshole writes like this? Who takes themselves that seriously? Tee hee hee. That’s ridiculous. Haha! (But, uh… I was not able to adapt my plans. Seriously. Where are all my friends?!)

I grew up in East New York, Brooklyn. It’s not the nicest area around. A good portion of the folks who live in East New York are dirt poor, and Wikipedia (I know, I know, my sources) says of the neighborhood, “Violent crime is a problem in the community; East New York has for many years led New York City in crimes and murders reaching a record 129 in 1993.” ENY is not the sexiest place to grow up, not by most people’s standards.

Whenever I tell folks I spent most of my childhood there, I get varying responses, but most common are pity—“Man, that place is rough. I’m sorry.—and disbelief—“No way. There is no way a girl like you is from the East!” Those reactions always amused me, I guess because I don’t feel either of those ways about having grown up there. The only times I’ve ever rightly feared for my physical safety were when I was in Princeton, NJ and in the East Village, where I was surrounded by wealthy folks. No one calls those places “rough,” but they’ve sure been rough with me. And, of course there IS a way a girl like me is from ‘the East.” My parents banged, I was born and then we moved there. That’s the way. 

I guess the latter reaction is a comment on my lack of gangsta, or something? On Wednesday, I was talking to an older black gentleman at a bar, and I told him where I was from. He didn’t believe me. “But you speak so well.” “Thanks, I guess.” “I can tell you hang out with a lot of white people.” “Well, I mean, I don’t specialize in hanging out with white people. But I did go to a private school that was predominately white—“ “See! I could tell! It rubbed off on you!”  “It” being white people, I think. He’s wrong! I speak well because I was well educated, not because I’ve hung out with white people. But, I’ll give him some credit. When one considers my dating history, yes, a lot of white people have rubbed off on me. But he couldn’t know that from talking to me for 2 seconds at a bar. At least, I hope not.

And, for what it’s worth, how “well” I speak does not negate my gangsta. I would like to have you know, that deep down inside my lanky, private school educated self is a dangerous thug from the East waiting for the chance to come out! I aint no punk! One time, when I was 8, my father took me to the library in my ‘hood. The librarian said I couldn’t borrow a book because I didn’t have a library card, and my father didn’t bring along the information that would allow me to sign up for one on the spot. She said we would have to come back another time. In my head, I was like, “yo fuck that!” So when my father and that librarian bitch wasn’t looking, I stuffed a copy of Ramona Quimby, Age 8 in my t-shirt and tried to walk out. But they had book detectors or some shit by the exit, and the book went off or whatever. Yo, my father made me empty my pockets and pull out the book from under my t-shirt and shit. Nah, nah, they didn’t lock me up or nothin’, but picture that shit. My 8 year old ass was in the Cypress Hills branch of the library, you know, across the street from the Cypress Hill housing projects, stealing books and shit. I was 8! And I didn’t give a fuck. If that aint East New York gangsta, I don’t know what is!

Yo, why do men do extra shit to your food when they like you? Male food handlers always seem to be trying to win women over that way. Today, a dude chopped my grilled chicken up in tiny little pieces to put in my sandwich. I totally would have said something when he did it, but I didn’t notice because I was too busy being creeped out by the lascivious fucking smile he wore on his face the whole time.

I didn’t want my chicken chopped up! No one likes their chicken chopped into tiny pieces when it’s going to go into a sandwich! Why does he think “pretty” girls need their food diced for them? “Pretty” girls are perfectly fine with chewing (you can burn a shit ton of calories that way). Weirder, though, is how in his world “ugly” girls have been cursed by Zeus to live like beasts and eat meat in huge, unchopped slabs for offending his immortal eye with their ugly faces. “Only she of the yellow-brown skin, maybe lesbian haircut, and too-big-for-her-face African lips may eat of the bowl of impractically diced for sandwiches grilled chicken!”