A Hasidic Jew Dutty Whines da Hips?

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

It had been several years since I last attended the annual West Indian Day Parade in Brooklyn. Not much had changed. Yesterday marked its 42nd anniversary and close to 3million people were in attendance representing from all over the Caribbean…even little doggies.














Oh and then there was Mayor Bloomberg and Senator Chuck Schumer-
who we were trying to get an interview with to ask each of the men what “moves” they had picked up at the parade but we couldn't get close enough beside Brooklyn cops will shoot yo' ass (none of them looked pleased to be there- oh well- it's OUR day)

However, on our way walking to another food station to pick up some more rice and peas and jerk chicken we did come across this one (what someone in the crowds referred to) Hasidic Jew doin’ a dirty dutty wine with a crew of Jamaicans.



I know it’s a festive time people but ayayayayayayay- something about this image reeks of slave residue for me. I mean...I know Jews were enslaved too but...ayayayayay

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Fate(s) of a Token Brotha

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor








So I was kickin’ it with this white girl, an old high school friend right… up in her condo taking a couple shots of Patron and sippin’ a drink before meeting up with some folks and heading out for the night. She was filling me in on the monotony of her accounting gig, dating life and how she can’t find a good brotha (mind you she’s a thick curly-haired Jewish chick who loves passing for Boricua - the appeal of the exotic).

“ I bumped into Tristan the other day on the El.”

“Tristan as in T. Duncan? How you know T?” I asked.

“Come on everyone knows you guys.”

“How you figure?”

“Come on, really? You Tristan, J.P., Marvin, and Keenan, you were like the fab five. I mean… Everyone knows you guys cause you’re Black or whatever.”

Audacious? Nah, just frank, and in fact spot on.

Except she like the rest of them don’t really know me for shit. They might know of me, my name or whatever, my brothers or family but you know what I’m saying.

Anyway, I ain’t heard T’s name in a bit, probably since he escaped in junior high, and yes living out in these neck of the woods, escapin’ still applies i.e., mental captivity. Hearing T’s name and knowing how our journeys varied, I couldn’t help but reflect bout the toll white suburbia takes on a token brotha. Sure a better education is always touted as the allure of these parts, but when eyes are opened one can realize the additional cost.

Charity Case, Mannequin, and Mr. Misunderstood: A “choose your own adventure”, pick your poison, the conditioning or inevitable fork in the road a young Black man struggling to make sense of his own worth will encounter growing up in an area where the only other Black families are those of former Chicago Bull and Bears. No joke. If you know a Black Doctor or Lawyer that’s not your mother or father, then more likely than not your greeting your Aunt or Uncle, or some other relative in pursuit of that Medical, Law, or other graduate degree. Not to mention if you’re taking AP classes it’s likely that the other handful of Black faces that roam the halls won’t be part of your day. See the merits of the ‘burbs might be good in prepping for the ACT/SAT but not so much for a token brotha’s mentality.

But anyway the break down is simple, the only one really thinking bout this is Mr. Misunderstood. The quiet type; he doesn’t really speak much about his circumstance sensing no one in these parts thinks twice bout where he’s coming from, the whole conscious tip, his lens or perspective taking in the facts of black struggle, white flight, and how racial identity is really crucial to one’s life. Mr. Misunderstood tries to make sense of it all but just ain’t at ease in terms of expressing himself. By the time he gets to college he might get caught code-switching, or even called-out for being wet behind the ears or for seeming like such cause the ‘hood don’t know ‘im, they think he’s Bourgeois’ing or sadity, so he walks his own walk as Mr. Misunderstood.

As for Mannequin, he’s in and out of his uniform like he’s in and out of jersey-chasin’, blonde cheerleaders. There ain’t much else to it, that’s all his ego has room for, another trophy to put up on the mantle.

And lastly there’s Charity Case. Though this one has its variations, he basically relies on white folks for everything. Most salient though is the one that would do anything to fit in with his white peers. Grateful Dead or Dave Matthews concert; he’ll be there spazzin’ on that air guitar. If he could have had a Bar Mitzvah, he’d be all over the Torah, then cheesin’ for his pledge class photo at ZBT. Those that support and surround him do so merely out of sympathy.

So think of this as a cautionary tale when you’re ready to settle down and start that family in the suburbs, with the 2-car garage, 2.5 kids, dog and white picket fence. I’d advise not to just set it and forget it, cause it may not be so easy to reproduce that Urban Chameleon who can see the different avenues, knows when or how to wear the mask, shuck and jive, and keep dodgin’ those muggs that try to box him in.

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A Jewish Girl Grows in Brooklyn

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

There is another side to the plight of the Urban Chameleon if anyone was wondering. Every story is not necessarily from the Black world to the White world. Like my world for example: The white, Jewish world. I am not white enough to be white and not Black enough to be Black. I exist in both, but don’t belong to either. In truth both are worlds I slip in and out of. But even my Jewish world isn’t all my own. See, in the world of a New York Jewess there are micro-worlds, smaller sections in the big beautiful scheme of Jewish culture.

There are the Black Hats that walk around fully covered, not showing an inkling of alabaster skin, devout. There are the hippie Jews who go to the love-ins and speak about the light of Hashem (Jewish word for G-d) etc. Then there are the Jews who don’t want to be Jews and lie to their Wall Street friends, throwing that Menorah in the sink and resurrecting a tree just so they can drink the proverbial eggnog in December. Then there’s me and my type of Jews, we love Judaism, we love food, we are outspoken, passionate, and aggressive. It’s funny because even when you feel like you should belong to a group you don’t.

I grew up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood in Queens, and we were the outcasts of the neighborhood. We weren’t Jewish enough. We were reformed and everyone else was conservative. This was a big deal, because we were the only family eating bacon double cheeseburgers, and driving on Saturdays if you get my meaning. It never really bothered me so much until one day I was playing with my only friend in the neighborhood across the street. They were shunned as well, from the rest of the neighbors in my neighborhood: they were Cuban. I loved them and me and the youngest daughter in the family were best playmates. One hot summer day I was playing and had to go to the bathroom, but my Mom wasn’t home and neither was the girl’s family. So, I figured I would hold it till either my family or hers arrived home. But after a while, I couldn’t.

So, I proceeded to knock on every door on my block to see if I could use their bathroom. I mean they knew who I was after all, what was the harm? Picture it: a cute, short freckled face, curled haired little girl with her legs crossed standing at your door, asking to use the bathroom. I figured it would be no problem.

But not one person would let me use their toilet, not one single person.

I guess, I wasn’t Jewish enough for them, not Jewish enough to use their toilet.

When my Mom arrived home, she found me with wet shorts sitting on our doorstep. She marched down the block and knocked on each door and gave them something to think on, my Mom was good at that. And even though I hoped if it happened again I would have been able to rely on my own people to help me, my Mom made me carry a set of keys on me from that day forward…

There are always going to be people who think you aren’t enough- enough. That’s why we exist in multiple worlds at the same time. It gets lonely when you can’t feel welcomed by your people, sometimes finding a sister in another world fills you with a sense of belonging you never had, and that’s a good thing.

When I arrived at college I sort of accidentally landed upon a group of young Black women, all of whom echoed similar attributes to myself having a multifaceted way of looking at the world. I felt immediately drawn in and welcomed. They had me at “hello.” When I was with them I was free to be me in many ways: unencumbered by the confines of what it means to be white or what it meant to be Jewish.

Through out our friendship that still exist today having first attended a predominantly white University I witnessed how they existed in contradicting worlds. It was in those first few years that I discovered the chameleon code and realized who I was was just fine.

So you see it doesn't matter where you come from, there are Urban Chameleons of multiple shades and backgrounds creeping in the shadows and dancing in the bright light of the world, and if you look closely you can spot us because we have a knowing glimmer in our eye.

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