by Issa Rae
KEY PHRASES: “I get you”; “No, I haven’t heard of ______; please inform”; “I’m not making fun of you, I promise.”
The Not-Black Black:
They’re quick to say, “Oh, I’m not black.” My favorite type of Not-Black Blacks claims to be Native American. “That’s why my hair is so good,” they’ll say. But ask them what tribe and they’ll either fall short or claim “Cherokee.” Oftentimes, the Not-Black Blacks are international. They tend to dissociate themselves from the shame associated with being “Regular” Black, unaware that there is no such thing. The stigma of being “black” is too much to bear, so they would rather not. These Not-Black Blacks are typically Caribbean, African, not American, and/or mixed Americans.
THE APPROACH: Don’t make jokes. This black is serious. Play along or back away.
KEY PHRASES: “Your nose looks so European”; “Your hair is so silky and curly”; “I would never have thought you were black.”
The Position-of-Power Black:
This black is typically a hybrid. Unfortunately, however, the wee bit of power granted to this black eclipses all other personalities. Positions of Power can range from security guards/police officers to executives. Many times, the POP Black relishes the ability to turn other blacks away, dripping with condescension at every opportunity. The POP Black’s asshole tendencies do not discriminate; power is power, and they will make you aware of this at every turn. However, POP blacks do tend to be harder on blacks so as to demonstrate that they are not discriminating.
THE APPROACH: Keep your words to a minimum and do NOT smile.
CONVERSATION TIPS: They don’t enjoy conversations. Keep it moving.
The Ratchet Black:
Previously known as “The Ghetto Black” or “The Hoodrat Black,” these blacks are always pitted as black embarrassment. They are generally referred to as the Bottom-of-the-Barrel Blacks. Shaped by their environment, they are frequently feared and misunderstood.
THE APPROACH: Put on your Black-cent, if you have one. If your Black-cent isn’t natural, don’t force it; Ratchet Blacks will sniff you out. Make eye contact; don’t act superior, because you’re not. Don’t be intimidated; just be yourself. If they don’t sense an immediate connection, they will walk away from you, because you are weird.
KEY PHRASES: “Okay, girl”; “I know that’s right”; “For real”; “I love Beyoncé.”
The Strong Black:
This black is tired from carrying the world on his or her shoulders. The Strong Black typically comes from a single-parent household and is used to getting things done on his or her own. 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, and mistreatment 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
Anyone 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, however, I felt a lot of pressure riding on me to be social, so I pretended that I knew how to dance. I was in an entirely different environment from my private school experience at Brentwood and had worked hard to be labeled as “the smart girl” at King/Drew High School of Medicine and Science, to which I had transferred. I could have left it at that. Yet part of me wasn’t satisfied with being known as just that. I had met other “smart girls” and rapidly came to the conclusion that they didn’t have much else to them. And I knew I did.
I wasn’t ungrateful for my new smart status, but “smart” doesn’t come with the same respect that “cool” does when you’re in high school. If I could dance, though? OMFG. I would rule the school. Brains and moves? I’d be like my good friend Daisy. It was truly unfair how she had it all. Looks, brains, and moves. Why couldn’t I be like that? I’d already given up in the looks department, but if I could dance, then at least eyes would be on me with a newfound respect.
So, one fateful I-don’t-know-what-I-was-even-thinking day . . . I decided to lie. It happened when Lakira, one of the most popular (and sexually experienced) girls in school, who I was forming a relationship with, asked me in Algebra II class if I was going to her party. I blurted, “Yup.” And she was pleasantly and happily surprised. Up until that point, I had managed to skip out on homecoming, the lunch dances, the formals, and anything else that related to dance. I knew from my years at Brentwood that if I could be outdance
d by the Asians, I had no business showing my ass to my black peers. But something in me wanted to prove my worth to them. And so when Lakira pressured, “Can you even dance?” I boasted, “Uh . . . yes. You’ll see. I get down.”
Of course, it was precisely at that moment that the whole room quieted down, and most of the class heard my boastful admission. My other classmates chimed in.
“You can dance? I don’t believe it.”
“I can’t even imagine you dancing.”
As my neck and cheeks grew hot with anxiety and embarrassment, I continued the ruse. “Well, I guess you won’t have to imagine when you come to the party.”
They ate it up. And I took immense pride in my classmates’ interest in this new hidden talent of mine. It was on, and I had flipped the switch to either my social embrace or my social execution; time would tell.
The clock was ticking and I had to learn to dance in eight days. Not only that, but I had to find an outfit that would be acceptable to present to my name-brand-idolizing peers. At King/Drew, we all wore black, white, and gold uniforms. This was torture for the stylish kids, who were bursting at the seams to show off their expansive wardrobes. There was so much teen angst associated with how restrictive our school uniforms were, yet while I feigned inconvenience with the best of them, secretly, I was grateful that I didn’t have to go through what I went through in middle school. T.J.Maxx and Ross had name-brand knockoffs, but finding young people clothes that didn’t look like they came from three seasons ago was a challenge. With the convenience of our uniforms, all my mom had to worry about were my shoes, and those were easy enough to keep name brand. Cute? No. Not with my size 11/12 feet, but name brand nonetheless. Nikes, Adidas, Chuck Taylors, and dress shoes of any kind were allowed, as long as they were black, white, or gold. (While FILA was name brand, those were for the Mexicans, I quickly learned from racist black high schoolers.)
For my formal dance training, I watched 106 & Park daily (this was back when it was hosted by Free and AJ’s velociraptor braids). I was already a fan of the show’s Freestyle Friday segment, but my self-imposed eight-day course to learn how to dance required watching every music video with close attention to detail. I didn’t have a television in my room, and as this was before YouTube was overpopulated with music videos and dance tutorials, I had limited options. I had to practice in the living room, which meant securing the space from anyone else’s use, while masking from my younger brother and sister the fact that I was teaching myself to dance. They didn’t need more fodder to use against me; they were already witty enough with their comebacks.
This was all during a time when Dancehall was growing mainstream on account of Sean Paul’s “Gimme the Light” video. Those dances were so sick. Many of my classmates were just being introduced to this type of dance, so I imagined the playing field was pretty level. If I were to get a leg up edgewise, then I could have a shot. I imagined myself as one of the solo dancers in the video killing it at Lakira’s party (specifically, the young, limber lady with the yellow midriff top and split bell-bottom pants). To this day, I’ve never been to a party where the room turns into a circle and select attendees get in the middle to perform freestyle dance moves. In my experience, nobody fucking cares enough to step aside and watch you dance. A fight? That’s circle-worthy. Not “Save the Last Dance” moves. And yet all my dancing fantasies revolve around this essential party group formation.
The more I practiced in front of the television, the less I practiced in front of a mirror, which would have been the wise thing to do all along. Instead, in a self-imposed final exam, I tried out my moves in my mother’s vast bathroom mirror, which didn’t allow me to see my feet, but at least featured my whole upper body. I started out simply at first, keeping the rhythm and bouncing to the beat; then I pretended that I was the Dancehall Queen and after several poor gyrations, settled for being a Dancehall Lady-in-Waiting instead.
That Friday, when I came to school, all my friends were talking about their outfits for Lakira’s party on Saturday. In all my dance fuss, I had forgotten about the second-most-important element of the party: my outfit.
My mother was generally encouraging of my social outings, so long as she knew the company I kept. Convincing her to give me more money on top of my weekly allowance to buy an outfit didn’t prove to be as difficult as I thought it would, as long as I completed my assigned Saturday morning chores with polished haste. (My mother was always impressed with my cleaning and organizational skills. If I had decided to become a professional housekeeper, I don’t know that she would have opposed. She recognizes my ability to bring order as a gift to others.) Getting a ride from my mother proved to be a harder task. Saturdays were her day to unwind after a trying school week, and anything that required her to do anything selfless was regarded as unpaid labor. Eventually, I convinced her to drop me off at the mall, where my tunnel vision was in full effect. I absolutely needed a jean jacket. My peers owned jean jackets of varying name brands, but my budget was limited to Charlotte Russe and the Juniors section at Macy’s and Nordstrom’s. Up Against The Wall, a trendy store that featured a live DJ and carried the biggest urban brands like Iceberg, Sean John, and Rocawear, was off limits for me. Nonetheless, I passed by the store to check out the guys and the clothes some of my peers were rocking. The blasting music only reminded me of my impending dance of doom. What song would I choose to humiliate myself to? “Back That Thang Up” was still a huge a hit; would it be that? Would I try to back it up to a Cash Money classic or would I try to keep it West Coast and Crip Walk to Kurupt? Naw, the party was taking place in South Central, and I still hadn’t mastered the appropriate gang-color sections. I was far too lazy to color coordinate for the benefit of the surrounding color-obsessed gang members. But I wasn’t stupid enough to try the wrong dance in the wrong territory.
I found a jean jacket with a beige top to match the faux-Timberland Nike boots I bought. At 130 dollars, I couldn’t afford Timbs, but the 65-dollar Nike alternatives wouldn’t be as mercilessly clowned as the Payless knockoffs.
At home, I readied myself. I didn’t start wearing makeup until college, so getting ready literally consisted of taking a shower, lotioning4 and deodorizing, putting on clothes, and taking my braids out of their ponytail. Boom. Dancing Queen ready.
My friend Monique’s mom picked me up and my mother came out to our balcony to wish me off, calling, “Have fun, girls!”
I met Monique my first day of high school. As if I weren’t already anxiously anticipating the first day of school, my mother accompanied me to the school bus stop at the Crenshaw and Slauson intersection. We stood next to the Kentucky Fried Chicken while I watched some of the older kids, also waiting for the bus, interact. As I checked out the scene, my mother recognized a parent who was waiting with her daughter. Thankfully, I wasn’t the only lame girl whose mother deemed it necessary to accompany her to the ’hood bus stop. I pretended to be unfazed by the toothless, pee-pee-scented, drunk homeless woman with five blankets wrapped around her who was cursing out random strangers. Don’t let them sense your fear. (Weeks later, I would find out her name was Peaches.) I focused instead on some of the upperclassmen guys, who looked like fine, grown men.
My mother, now surrounded by young women, called me over. “Jo-Issa, come over here!” She turned to the group of girls:
“Have you ladies met my daughter, Jo-Issa?” Of course they haven’t, MOM!!!!
The parent of one of the girls shook my hand as the other girls stared, and said politely, “No, hey.” The girls introduced themselves to me as I nodded with embarrassment, and when the bus finally came, none of the girls sat next to me. That’s where I met Monique, who still reminds me of that pitiful introduction.
I never would have imagined that a year later she’d be accompanying me to the Dance of Doom. She echoed everyone else’s excitement to see me dance. I half-heartedly played along. “Yeah, I’m pumped.”
Twenty minutes later (it does take at least twenty minutes to get anywhere in L.A.), we made it to the border of Carson and Compton, where Lakira resided. My butterflies kicked in as I stepped out of the car and waved good-bye to Monique’s mom. We were led to the backyard, where a cluster of sophomores in jean outfits and bright colors bobbed to loud music. It was the nighttime version of Mack 10’s “Backyard Boogie.”
The absence of alcohol from my entire high school experience was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because we managed to have fun, amazing bonding experiences without alcohol (which made the experiences I had in college with alcohol that much more special) and a curse because that means every embarrassing thing that I did was the result of being completely sober. That’s a sad realization.
As Monique and I went around the outskirts of the party, acting as if we were excited to see people we had seen just the day before, my eye kept wandering to the patch of grass in the center that had been labeled the “dance floor.” Optimistically, I thought I might actually get away with spending the entire evening socializing. The dance floor was empty and nobody was paying attention to me. If only I were so lucky. Out of nowhere, Maurice, one of the cutest guys in our class, approached Monique to dance. Her playful resistance caused a scene as he dragged her to the center and started working her, while people watched. All the “uh-oh’s!” and “get ’em’s!” caught Lakira’s attention and brought her next to me as she watched the scene with glee. She turned to me. “You ready to get down? You next!”
On cue, having finished being humped by Maurice, Monique yelled out, “Get Jo! Get Jo!” The crowd still watching, Maurice shrugged and pulled me to the dance floor. Monique, Lakira, and the rest of my sophomore peers watched as Maurice moved behind me and Trina’s nasally vocals serenaded us. I had to back up all the talk I had spewed in the last two weeks, and so I stiffly bent my knees, booty popped (or “back-popped,” if I’m being honest), and swayed to the best of my ability. I heard laughter and general aloofness.
