In the April 2010 issue of Essence magazine, R&B singer and actress Jill Scott offered a commentary on why interracial dating — particularly that involving black men and white women — bothers her. As the magazine’s cover teased, Ms. Scott was so bothered by the pairing of two consenting adults in a emotional and physical bond that it “still hurts.”
Obviously, this chronic pain was too much for her to bear that she had to unburden her soul about 15 years after the racist and exclusionary nature of her feelings — those shared in the African-American community — were deemed quaint. (Who can forget Spike Lee’s movie Jungle Fever and the funky, on-the-nose Stevie Wonder’s soundtrack contribution of the same name?) Still, the magazine — and America, thanks to its aversion to people of color (hi, Tea Party!) — is bothered enough to deem intercultural parings to be problematic enough to run commentary editorials.
It’s an interesting quandary Essence has upon itself, playing to their audience. Oddly enough, Essence seems perfectly fine with splashing its website with images of two other consenting adults in an interracial relationship, white R&B singer Robin Thicke and black actress Paula Patton, and crowing about their love story, which once again proves the age-old credo that it’s all right if she ain’t white.
But I digress, as editorials are one person’s opinion. The main point is that Ms. Scott is in emotional distress, and I can empathize. After all, I too am bothered when legal citizens can do and say as they please. People over the age of 18 with freedoms as granted by the U.S. government to copulate with who they want while caressing their guns? Lord, have mercy!
I decided to tap into the portion of my head-space that houses my own terminal self-esteem issues, and I present to you:
Consenting Adults: Genial Black Man on Why It Hurts So Damn Bad
My two new strangers that I just encountered are of average looks, Caucasian and Latina, questionable intelligence and seeming capable of upright movement. They are both homo sapiens, love their movable digits on their hands and feet, and are happily bonded to one another. I admit that when I saw his hand on her ass, I privately hoped that he would offer me up a piece of that candy. But something inside me knew that they wouldn’t offer me a piece. Although my theory was spot-on, when my equally over-observant friend told me that they were indeed two consenting adults doing things that did not concern me, I felt my spirit… vomit. I didn’t immediately comprehend why. My raging boner read happy for you. (She had a great ass.) My non-throbbing portions of my body showed no reaction to my inner projectile vomiting, but the stench was there, festering like a fart in a glass jar.
Was I jealous? Did the reality of whatever they were going to do somehow warp my overly-inflated negative view of them. The answer is not easy, for I couldn’t find it on Google. One could easily brush off my spirit vomiting as being nosy or meddlesome, but that’s not how I was brought up. I was raised in a sanction-minded household (i.e. not of Mississippi). I was taught that every person should be judged by their compliant interactions with me and not what I heard from “the hens” at the hair salon, as my pappy called the women that frequented the local styling boutique, and I firmly stand where my parents left me after they skipped town. (Gambling is a hell of a drug.) Human beings around the world are known to be free-spirited and receiving. We share ourselves and our cookware, sometimes to our own peril, and most of us love the very notion of a hearty casserole. My position is that for people of bipeds of intrusion. This very common “vomiting” has everything to do with the snooping story in Humanvania. (For your sake, I’ll call it America.)
When our people were bound and chained, “Master” (or whoever was then the editor-in-chief of People magazine) placed approving people of age on a pedestal. They were spoiled, revered and the ideal, while the non-agreeable people were flogged with leftover salt pork. They were nothing and neither were their views on who President Andrew Johnson was procreating with in the Lincoln Bedroom. As the prying anthropoids were emancipated for the greater good of Humanvania (sorry, “America”), and the movement towards yielding lurched forward, the permitting-minded hominid was the subject of the every haut monde (or similarly fancy-sounding place of frequenting). They were the crème de la crème of fleshy mortals, the glory of every person that wanted to think, feel and act for themselves. They were undoubtedly the pillars of American society, resoundingly too fair to be dragged down by negative thoughts or poor self-image. We spirit vomiters were seen as investigative, scrutinizing and uppity, good for dishing dirt on people, while our brethren were called muckrakers and old, haggard biddies with no value to humanity whatsoever.
We reflect on this shameful history and recall that if a subscribed person even conferred with a nagger, they would have been flogged with several pieces of salt pork, tarred and feathered or shunned by the village idiots. In the midst of this, quizzical people struggled together, cried together, gossiped together, braved the liberal nature of the sophisticated and their scary, submissive ideas and ways, and wept for actress Sandra Bullock and her marriage problems together. These harsh truths lead to what we really feel when we see two strangers together. That feeling is oh-no-they-didn’t. While we work to raise our sons and daughters to interrogate everyone and what they do, most of us end up judging others alone, with no casserole to eat, limited cookware and sex boners to point and thrust. It’s frustrating and it hurts so damn bad!
Our brain-sponges can comprehend that people of all tolerances find genuine items of interest in many places. We dig that the world is all diverse-like, daddy-o. But underneath, there is a stench, no matter how much Febreze is used, that has yet to stop stinkin’. Some may find these truth bombs I’m droppin’ Hiroshima-style to be painful. That is not my intention, to be a buzzkill dingleberry . Just sayin’.