B*ch did you just FRIEND me?

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

Not Everyone Should Send You A Facebook Friend Request

A girlfriend of mine and I were recently hangin’ out at her place Facebooking on our individual laptops. I was perusing through my most recent “Friend Requests” until I came across one name and flipped the f*ck out. I turned to my friend and said,

“Don’tcha know the b*tch that slept with my man before dating him had the nerve to send me a m*tchaf*ckin’ Friend Request?”

“Ohmigod girl! I never knew about this when was this?” She asked with sincere concern.

“8th grade.”

I replied as I walked into her kitchen to pour myself a shot of tequila. While in the kitchen I noticed silence. When I poked my head around the corner my friend was doing the roach; meaning she was on her back waving her hands and feet back and forth laughing her ass off at me.

“That sh*t is not funny.” I said

“Girl, that was over 17years ago!”

“I don’t care how long ago it was everyone remembers who wronged them in junior high and high school. People need to think about that sh*t.”

“I guess girl but some things you have to try and let – ooooooooooohhh HELL NAH!”

“What!?” I asked

“The head of the Puerto Rican gang from my high school who jumped my ass with five other Boricua’s just friended ME!”

Mocking her response just seconds ago, I responded, “Oh girl, let go, let flow.”

“This is different. I still have a scar on my chin from when that b*tch razor bladed my ass. Do you know to this day I still have to lie to colleagues and tell them it’s from when I fell from playing Polo.”

“Wow.”

“We need to find out where she lives and go jump her ass.”

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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 Book of Judgment

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

Coming from the Northside Suburban Chi-town every time I rap with my cousins out in NYC it occurs to me how my mentality is getting more gully and raw, finding my way like some Urban Chameleons rather than just the Token Brotha in suburbia. In attempt to break out of my all white prison, my stance has been shaping up like little Huey from the Boondocks. I’ve taken it as a personal challenge and duty to practice three tenets like some Black Muslim:

1. no pork
2. no alcohol
3. no more white girls

…all this in an attempt to cleanse myself.

So, lately I been two-thirds doing it. No alcohol and no white women … but let’s just say I gotta have that bacon in my morning skillet so I was still workin’ on it.

Anyway, last Saturday my boy asked me to roll with some of his old college friends from Bowling Green and Ohio State. Ratio was right: us 2 and 4 single ladies. We started at Fogo de Chao, a Brazilian churrascaria steakhouse. ‘Nough said, I’m talkin’ sizzling steaks, rib tips, pork chops and everything. If meat and a salad bar is what you need, that place does not, I repeat, does not disappoint. That’s one tenet gone. Next, who would have known, these Ohio broads coming to Chi-town ‘bout to be doin’ it bigger than I usually do. These broads were poppin’ champagne before we even got to our table. My dude looked at me and laughed. We didn't have to say it--willpower wasn’t riding with me. Now I’m cheers-ing saying, “Fuck it, only live once.” That’s two tenets out the way and that conscious brotha and angry Black man jive was on its last breath.

So now we’re eating, cheesing it up, busting each other’s chops. Anyway by 11pm the whole restaurant done seen us young, dressed-to-impress professionals looking like we do this on the regular. Recession what? Not here! Not tonight, at least. (Talk to me on the 1st).

So, it comes up going around the table: “Where you from? Like what nationality?” My boy replies, “Dominican and Puerto Rican.” Homechick #1 replies “Chicana.” (Turns out she works at the restaurant, ended up telling us our $800+ bill was on the house! Straight up? Cheers to you again ma!) Homechick #2 could have been mixed with her curly hair and not so average white girl ass but she missed the question texting her fling, some up-and-coming Black Canadian rapper all night. Homechick #3 was salty all night and not worth mentioning. Me? I get mistaken for pretty much anything black or brown, so of course I had the ladies all surprised when I told them I was Haitian. One deaf one replied, “Asian?” Homechick #4 joked, “Hey, everyone! Meet my Haitian Asian, Jean Chao.” It got a laugh, she gave me a whole backstory too but still had my ass coming to the States on a boat. Ain’t that a bitch!

Any way few more drinks, some dancing out on the town and that third tenet was looking real wobbly cause something bout homechick #4 gave me that vibe. That was until we got to this spot where some cocktail waitress I used to mess with was working. She seen me with the whole butter pecan clique and I could tell she had something on her mind. She just had to be slick! Looked me up and down said, in Creole “Typical Haitian! First white girl give him some rhythm and he forget he a Black man!” At this point, I’m like whatever! I been sippin’ Crown all night! Looking fly in all black with a sharp ass blazer popping off! Shiiit! Damn right I’m feeling like a King. But then, Homechick #4 jumped in outta nowhere. She whispered something in Spanish, like “I’ll squash this.” Then, grabbed my hand and hollered right back at that waitress in Creole, “Yo! Lil’ girl. A Man’s only gonna act like a Man when he’s got a Woman by his side,” As she squeezed my hand a little firmer, she continued, “And that’s a fact, black or white.”

Oh-oh! Qui ca? This girl had me all confused. So now, I’m askin’ questions. Turns out, this girl ain’t white at all she was part French-Canadian, part Haitian on her father’s side, and part Peruvian (by way of Miami) on her mother’s side. Did the Ohio State thing, and now she’s workin’ on the master’s. Damn, well at least I ended up sticking to one tenet out of three ‘cause I was about to fry her ass some bacon and sip mimosas with her in the morning.

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