Slim Pickins

Having just returned from the twin cities visiting my wonderful sister and her fabulous husband, I am thinking about what I've observed about the black community there. I understand that it's small, got it. I understand that black men (available) are hard to find, got that too. But the cattiness that my sister has conveyed to me that goes on between black women there, wow. Her husband tells me that still, sometimes when they're walking down teh street together they get looks from black women, usually directed at my sister. The expression being "What Is That?" That, being my sister, who is light skinned but clearly of African American descent. My sister tells me of the prejudice that occurs from darker skinned women towards her which I've also experienced. Even in California when I walk down the street with my boyfriend, I notice the looks and smiles he receives from other black women while usually I get "the look" or I actually do get a smile and a hello. Unfortunately, at this point, I usually wait first to see what the reaction will be. Hate to say it, but I do. The rejection hurts too much otherwise.

I've attached a link to a book that's come out based on the recommendation of my cousin (thank you miss "melanie stewart") - the link is www.blackwomenshifting.com

Here's an example, from my workplace no less, something rough I started putting down on paper after having a couple of days to mull it over:

As I sat at my desk by the front door of my office building, typing a grateful reponse to a coworker in Seattle the bell rang. I hated that bell. I hated sitting by the front door. The downstairs offices had been reorganized, per the President. The result was that now I was the “meet and greet” person and frankly, given my background, I was not the best choice by far. Over the last several months we had gone through a hiring surge; we needed to staff up our drivers at the most basic level and yours truly was the quarterback for all information, processes, and reporting to the corporate office. I sat quietly, staring at a reply sent to me from another admin when the bell rang again. There is a sign taped to the glass that says no soliciting and interviews are held next door, therefore, not at this door. But, this person had rang twice so, quietly swearing to myself, I got up and pushed the door open.
“Can I help you?” I asked, one eyebrow raised as I held the door open.
“Yes,” the young mand smiled at me, “ I’m here to get an application.”
“C’mon in,” I gestured and motioned for him to follow me and have a seat. “We don’t actually hand out applications until you’ve gone through a sort of screening process with HR. Then, they’ll schedule you for an appointment.” I had the routine down pat, the phone number, contact person, any other information the applicant could want. As I reached for a bright yellow post-it that was somehow hidden beneath my keyboard to write down the phone number for him I heard a question that made me pause in semi shock.
“So, what race are you?” I looked up at the young man, probably a good five to ten years younger than I, about the same complexion as my brother with what looked like my nose. I looked back studiously at the post-it I was writing on.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“What race are you?” There was no malice in his voice that I could tell unlike the teenage boy who had approached me in a parking lot and smirked when asking me if was black and preempting my answer by saying coldly, “Yeah, you one those lightskinned girls” before riding off on his bike. The genteleman in front of me was grinning, my initial reaction entertained him in some way.
“I’m black.”
“Really? Yeah, well, there’s gotta be some mix in there somewhere. C’mon.”
“I’m black, that’s how I was raised.”
“Yeah but I’m mixed too, no Irish, German in there?”
“You asked, I’m telling you, I’m black.” I tore the post it from its base to hand over to the guy.
“You know there’s nothing wrong with being mixed. I am. You sure there’s no Irish, Scottish something in your family? I was raised black too.” He was still grinning at me.
“I don’t know you well enough to go into details about my family.” I didn’t want to be cold towards him but I could tell my temper was rising due to the coolness that I was beginning to exhude.
“Okay, well, thanks for the information. “
“You’re welcome. Have a good night.” He smiled at me, honestly unaware of any offense made. He took the post-it, waved at me and walked out the door. I sat at my desk, eyes staring at the screen but not focusing on anything in particular. My phone rang but I quickly looked at the number ID and hit the voicemail button. I breathed deeply, my jaw was tight and my shoulders up around my ears. “Goddammit,” I breathed quietly to myself and got up. I walked down the short hall to my coworker’s cubicle and relayed my recent experience to her. As I spoke, she looked at me over her shoulder, her hands still typing, nails click clicking on the keyboard. Her jaw dropped and her mouth fell into a little O as she heard my story.
“Hello! That was rude!” she commiserated with me.
“No shit. Does it look like that my family background is up for public discussion?” The encounter irritated more than I initially let on or felt.


On that note, off to do school work. I have to submit a piece for workshop by tomorrow night, even though by now it's probably already late (but at this point, most of my workshop cohort members don't pay attention to deadlines anyways it seems) and I've been out of town. From there, I have several pieces to submit to journals and contests and I need to have a draft of my manuscript done and in the mail to my advisor by the end of December. I am seriously screwed (at least that's what it feels like).

And I'm still waiting for my damn diploma from AUGUST!!! HELLOOO!!