Everything's Trash, But It's Okay

by Phoebe Robinson

  Queen O continued with her message, and it was beyond lovely. She let me know she had been trying to reach me but figured that I might not be picking up because her number was blocked (nope, I was just a busy dumb-dumb), so she was unblocking it. Then she got ready to leave me her cell number when she paused . . . because she didn’t know her cell number and said she was going to find out what it was and text it to me! I. Want. To. Be. That. Rich! Truly, to be that rich and that busy that you need to and can afford to employ someone on staff who is getting health and dental insurance to, among other things, tell you what your own cell number is absolutely #LifeGoals and #AetnaGoals.

  As soon as the message ended, I saw there was a text message from her and immediately called her cell. I’m going to be honest, I blacked out during the convo, so I only remember snippets. She called me Pheebs! Said she could relate to my black-hair journey! Stated that I’m funny and a star! I told her she’s incredible and didn’t say anything stupid! And just like that, the call was over. And that’s normally where a story like this would end because isn’t that enough? A phone call from Oprah, who just wants to let you know that she sees you? That’s more than enough. It’s too much. But I guess the universe knows better.

  A few months ago, her team reached out to Jessica and me to ask us to do warm-up for the SuperSoul Conversations she was recording for OWN. Jess and I obviously said yes and were pumped that we were going to meet Oprah. To prepare for this encounter, I started a juice cleanse . . . then ended it six hours later and had mac and cheese. I decided to just be myself, so I asked HBO, which was about to release the 2 Dope Queens comedy specials, to pay for hair and makeup people as well as a stylist. I mean, if I’m going to be myself, I’m going to be my best self.

  The day of the taping at the Apollo in Harlem, I was beautified in a blood orange, one-shoulder, ruffled jumpsuit, and I walked around the theater, clutching her book The Wisdom of Sundays, hoping she would sign it. My stomach was doing flips, and no one knew what time Oprah was going to swing by the greenroom, so Jess and I just hung out there trying to be cool as we waited. I got hungry and grabbed a dry-ass carrot, didn’t dip it in ranch dressing because I was trying to be healthy, and I sat in a corner, nervously nibbling with my back to the entrance of the greenroom. Then I heard the signature Oprah voice bellow: “2 Dope Queens! 2 Dope Queens!”

  I immediately threw my carrot on the ground because fuck health and raced over to meet Oprah. And OMG! She hugged me! To be hugged by Oprah is to have Elton John sing “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” and the sun is like, “A’ight, I’ll stay up here and it’ll be 2:15 P.M., all day, e’ry day.” To be hugged by Ms. Winfrey is to wake up one day without Michelle Obama’s bank account but with Michelle Obama arms and think, I’m cool with that. To be hugged by Black Jesus is to feel like Life just went onto Wikipedia and updated your story with a timeline BO (perfect because it stands for Before Oprah as well as body odor because your life pre the Oprah encounter stunk) and the new AO aka After Oprah. #RealTalk, once Ms. Oprah Gail Winfrey has placed her well-manicured hands upon you, ya done been changed.

  She pointed out that I was holding her book, and I barfed out that I hoped she could sign my book, if she had time, of course. I was not cool at all, and the three of us kept chatting, she wished us good luck on opening for her, and she left to go get ready. Moments later, someone from her staff tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Oprah didn’t get a chance to sign your book. Can I have it and she’ll do it now?”

  I passed the book along, expecting nothing more than a “Nice to meet ya! Xo Oprah,” and what I got back far exceeded my expectations. It was a page-long message that I will keep private and treasure forever. I will share one thing, however. She blessed me. Wut? Oprah blessed me?!?! Is she Pope John Paul the 68th? Y’all if my wig was not pinned to my scalp when I read her lovely note, I would have ripped it off and thrown it in the Hudson River.

  * * *

  As you can see, since I’ve been alive, I’ve had some pretty incredible moments that I smartly don’t take for granted nor let go to my head. Instead, when I’m knocked unconscious by life’s difficulties, I use these memories as smelling salts to bring me to life—#Evanescence #WhereAreTheyNow #TheyStillTheSoundtrackForMyPeriodCramps—to remind me that not everything is trash. Because these days, with all that’s going on in America and around the world, it’s scarily easy to forget that. So it’s important that for every horrible news item about a tweet from number 45 or grim update about that global warming, we lift ourselves up by remembering and feeling good about the non-trash in our lives. The major and minor victories and sweet treats we get to experience. And since I shared mine, it’s now your turn.

  Meeting Bono Twice Was My Reparations

  And yeeeeeeeeeeees, I meant the word “reparations.” Is that ignorant? Obvs. But does it kind of make sense if we dig into reparations a little bit? Sure, let me explain! And if you’re thinking to yourself right now, Well, I wasn’t planning on taking a detour into slavery and reparations while reading this book during my bathroom break at work, well, just know that I wasn’t planning on writing about slavery and reparations while Steely Dan’s “Peg” plays in the background at my apartment, yet here we are. So hear me out, please.

  You know how when you buy something online from Target and for whatever reason it doesn’t work out, so you take it back to the store and get in that long-ass and depressing returns line that could low-key double as the line immigrants stood in at Ellis Island back in the 1800s? Except instead of a bunch of Europeans wearing their Sunday best and saddled with holding their luggage and crying children all in the hopes of getting a fresh start in a new land, the Target line is mostly parents returning Magna Doodles their kids didn’t want, thirty-somethings who OD’d on tchotchkes from Chip and Joanna Gaines’ Magnolia line after spending an afternoon on Pinterest, and time-wasting heauxes who want to return a blanket without a receipt, so they turn into Annalise Keating, cross-examining the Target employee about why they’re only receiving store credit. Like, really? This is Target. You honestly believe you’ll never again find anything in Targs that you can spend that fifty bucks store credit on? Anyway, the returns line at Target, like this analogy, is hella long. But what’s important about Target returns is that if you have your receipt, you’ll get your money back, and if not, then you’re on #TeamStoreCredit, which is still great because you can use it to get something you truly want. And if you really think about it, reparations kind of works in the same way. Again, hear me out, y’all!

  OKAY. So, slavery ended 153 years ago, in 1865. And initially, black people who survived the unspeakable were promised forty acres and a mule as recompense for the lifetime of abuse and agony they experienced, which is akin to getting your money back . . . and also your freedom.* Cut to present day, 153 years (and counting) removed from slavery, which on the one hand seems like a long time, yet on the other isn’t, considering that black people, postslavery, didn’t have a seamless transition into freedom. They still had to fight for basic human rights like voting, marrying whomever they want, and not being murdered merely for looking at a white person in a way the white person perceived as disrespectful (and some would argue that those are three things black people are still fighting for). However, for me, I’ve been lucky enough that my latest trial and tribulation was being unable to afford to see Drake at Madison Square Garden and instead “suffering” the indignity of watching all these white people’s Instastories of them wildin’ out at the concert. Yep, I’m probably least deserving of forty acres and a mule. BUT! My being black is my store credit, so meeting Bono twice it is! And in my opinion, all us black folk are walking around with store credit, and some don’t know it or haven’t cashed in yet. Yep, as sucky as things are right now, I truly believe that reparations are all around us. Not only that, but there’s a reparations spectrum. Forty acres and a mule is at one end, and the other includes, but is not limited to, the following: winn
ing the lottery, white people apologizing when they’re wrong, being able to apply for a job that perhaps fifty years ago you wouldn’t have been allowed to, Fenty Beauty existing, and when a white artist performs at the Grammys and isn’t backed by a black choir. #BlackPeopleAreMoreThanTheSrirachaYouUseToLivenUpYourDustyAssMusic.

  What I’m getting at is that all those things I listed above and more help brighten black lives, which are often riddled with macro- and microaggressions. And as I take stock of the thirty-four years I’ve been on this planet, I’ve probably had more than my fair share of reparations. Not that I’m complaining, because the world right now is practically a season two episode of Hoarders, so it seems like perfect timing to pause and relive the moments Bono came into my life.

  Side A: When Bon-Bon Met Pheebs

  Previously on You Can’t Touch My Hair: And Other Things I Still Have to Explain—that’s my previous book, in case you forgot—I not only wrote about how U2, whom I’ve loved since age thirteen, is my favorite band of all time but also went into detail ranking the members of U2 in order from who I want to bone the most to the least. If you are thinking that no one asked me this, you are correct. If you are also thinking that since I shared my sensual fantasies, it has now opened the doors for you to tell me who in the Commodores you want to go half on a pregnancy scare with, all I can say is if all seven slots on that list aren’t dedicated to Lionel Richie, I guess you don’t value a man who could rock a Jheri curl and is still making that “Brick House” money in 2018, but you know what? Eleven years ago, comedian Sherri Shepherd once said on The View that she was unsure if the world is round or flat, and three days ago, I drank an expired cold-pressed juice and declared to my empty apartment, “I guess this is the bougie version of Jackass” and high-fived myself. Clearly, we’re all on journeys, most of which will lead us to the back entrance of an abandoned Blockbuster video store, but it’s the effort that counts. But back to U2.

  I wrote my U2 bone list, and everyone at my publishing house was like, “This is worthy of the trees we’re about to kill,” and decided to share it with the world. To recap, this is how it all shook out:

  The Edge, guitarist. He’s a virtuoso who once winked in my general direction at a U2 concert and my ovaries popped out a bunch of eggs the way a confetti gun shoots out confetti at the Super Bowl.

  Bono, lead singer. Not only does he have an incredible voice and is hella philanthropic, but like me, he has a penchant for being extra AF. Example: At the 2018 Grammys, U2 played “Get Out of Your Own Way” outside on a barge in twenty-degree weather near the Statue of Liberty (we all know this glorious nonsense was Bono’s idea) just to drive home the point that they support immigrants and love the American dream narrative. Throughout the song, Bono took out a megaphone and recited a monologue that was hard to make out because he was speaking through a megaphone during high winds. Lmao.com/IRelateToThatWildBehavior because I once sent a picture of me standing next to Michael B. Jordan (MBJ was unaware of my presence) to a boyfriend, then asked bae to tweak it with filters so I could post it, instead of an actual picture of the bf and I, on Instagram on Valentine’s Day.

  Adam Clayton, bassist. Because he used to date Naomi Campbell, so obviously, he has great taste in black women. I understand I am nothing like Naomi. HOWEVER! You know how when you eat dry-ass, knock-off Cheerios, and you think to yourself, But it’s still cereal tho, and cry into your breakfast? Naomi may be a legendary supermodel, but I’m still black tho!

  Larry Mullen Jr., drummer. He’s ripped, super talented, and he now wears glasses while performing and is basically serving Clark Kent sensuality, so I’d obviously smash, but his name is Larry, so . . . that’s tough.

  All righty, that’s a sufficient summary, although my parents read my first book, so I just spent the last page reminding them of information they tried to Men in Black from their memories. See y’all at Christmas! Anyway, the late-breaking news is that after the life events that transpired since the previous book, Bono switched places with the Edge and is now at the number one spot.

  It all began with Glamour magazine’s “controversial” decision to award Bono with their first-ever Man of the Year award at their annual Women of the Year awards ceremony back in 2016. People all over social media mocked the mag for this seemingly head-scratching decision because if there is a space that’s designed to celebrate the contributions of women, why bring sauseege into it? Good question, y’all, and I answered it by getting my Alex Jones from InfoWars on during an episode of my 2 Dope Queens podcast when Jessica was like a hot summer sidewalk to my cracked egg aka roasting me—#AnalogyNotWorthIt—for Bon-Bon getting this recognition. In short, I was impassioned, was dressed like a vice principal on his day off, and my voice sounded like Macy Gray and Ted Nugent had a child. I. Was. Prepared. To. Defend. My. Man.

  And defend him I did. First, I pulled out the issue of Glamour in which Bono was featured and I read Jessica the profile that gave an overview of Bono’s contributions to society like I was Senator Kamala Harris during the Senate Intelligence Committee hearing, listing off all the trifling things Attorney General Jeff Sessions allegedly has done. Then I dug into Bono’s tireless efforts for gender equality, among other causes, and that his latest endeavor, Poverty is Sexist,* which is what Glamour was recognizing him for, is another example of him using his male privilege to elicit change as opposed to leaving all the work up to women. Or, as he said during his Man of the Year acceptance speech, “Unless we address this problem, both women and men together, our world will continue down this misogynistic, violent, and impoverished path.” Finally, I broke down for her how he has inspired me to be more giving and outspoken about social issues. Call me Johnnie Cochran because I just crushed my line of defense with bomb-ass exhibits. I waited for Jess, who was still looking down at the magazine. She took a beat, pointed to the picture, looked up, and asked, “Why is he standing in a field?” LOL. And that was the day I quit being a lawyer. Little did I know that some of his staff at his ONE and (RED) charities listen to 2 Dope Queens and were fully aware of my obsession with U2.

  Cut to a few months later. I was being pretentious at Equinox gym, drinking a green juice and writing, when a text message from Chenoa, my manager, appeared on my phone. A photo of a gorgeous bouquet of white flowers and a glass vase was followed by another. This time it was a note. I stared at both images for a couple of minutes, confused. You know when you’re asked to read something so unbelievable that your brain cannot possibly compute what’s being communicated, so you think to yourself, Is this written in Sanskrit? Is this a list of unintelligible “ingredients” on the back of a box of Cheez-Its? Are these aliens from the movie Interstellar still trying to contact Matthew McConaughey but texting me by accident?

  I immediately called Chenoa. “Is this a joke? I know it’s only March, but if this is some kind of early April Fools’ Day prank, I’mma take you on Judge Judy and sue you for emotional distress and damages because my edges have been blown all the way back.”* She laughed and reassured me this was not a joke. I immediately packed up all my belongings, told her I’d be there in fifteen minutes, and then jumped on the subway. And naturally, like the dork that I am, I started tearing up. I arrived at her office to see that what she sent me was the real deal Holyfield. Paul David Hewson aka Bono sent me flowers!

  Remember on Sex and the City when Charlotte and Trey were about to break up because she wanted kids and he realized he didn’t, but Charlotte had that photo spread for Town & Country planned, so she had her apartment staged for the photo shoot? This is basically what I did when I took the Bono flowers home in order to post about it on Instagram.

  Okay, well, Bono sent Jessica and me flowers, but let’s be real, this is like when a guy is in da clurb and he buys a round of drinks for a group of ladies because he’s trying to impress the one woman in the group he likes. So those flowers were for me (I won’t hear otherwis
e). I don’t know if any of you dear readers have had the pleasure of a childhood idol showing you some love, but “surreal” barely begins to describe it. It kind of feels like the firework of #BlackGirlMagic that explodes when Venus and Serena Williams greet each other every morning with a titty bump. Or like the pure joy that occurs when my friends and I bust out the choreography from *NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye” music video despite not having seen it in more than a decade. Or the hug from a parent that feels like home no matter where the two of you are when the hug is going down. Receiving such a thoughtful and lovely gift from one of my idols, on International Women’s Day of all days (nice touch), was incredible, and I tucked the note away for safekeeping and let the roses remain in my apartment long after their expiration date as I was content with my place smelling like seaweed farts because I didn’t want to get rid of the #BonoFlowers yet.

  Months later and about a week and a half before Jessica and I headed to Bonnaroo, we were invited to the (RED) Supper, a charity dinner organized by (RED) and ONE, the organizations which Bono cofounded. We, of course, said yes and scrabbled outfits together for this meal because there was a rumor that Bon-Bon might swing by to address everyone at the event before going to the band’s sound check. Jessica was serving Lisa Bonet realness aka cool yet chic bohemian vibes; meanwhile, I decided this was going to be the moment to shoot my shot,* so I went the tasteful THOT route.* Meaning I wore a body-con dress that a Love & Hip Hop castmate would rock at a christening because appropriateness is for fools. I looked like a babe, in my opinion, and Jess and I headed to this dinner.