"Without a BMW, I’m Just a Negro With an Opinion"

By today’s Urban Chameleon contributor

That’s right I said it, “Without a BMW, I’m just a Negro with an opinion.” That’s what my NAACP, MBA, PHD, Fulbright scholar, friend told me the other day. I almost spit out my peppermint tea. I wasn’t sure if he was being comical or not; even though his sentiment nearly made me inhale my drink through my nose, the sincerity in which he said it really got me thinking…

How ironic is it that a scholar has the same aspirations as a drug dealer/rapper.

My scholarly friend had just purchased himself a new 7series Black BMW. He called to see if I was home before driving to my crib to show off his new ride. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn, that joint is fly! Massage seats, mirrors that fold in and rotate up at a ninety-degree angle, and an automated notepad that can record messages, thoughts, and pontifications while you are driving. Automatic windshield wipers that can sense weather conditions, regardless of rain, hail, sleet or snow. Here my friend was, someone who had spent years dedicating himself to higher learning, who in this moment was feeling himself like the drug dealer, Caine, from Menace to Society driving around in his new ride. I loved it. Where was the context in media for this kind of Black man?

I laughed when he told me about how his BMW had changed his life. Valet's, at restaurants now call him “sir”, women are checking out to see who he is, and business men confront him just to give respect. A meter maid asked what he had to do to get "a ride like that" before allowing him to park in a red zone. My friend coolly responded, “I’m a professor.”

Before the BMW,his family for years wondered why someone with all of his degrees, who they occasionally saw on TV, (not realizing that just because you’re on TV doesn’t mean you’re rich), was driving a hoopty. He was cleaning up his credit and responsibly putting his money aside for his house before indulging in materialistic desires. However, they couldn’t see that. Especially not his sixteen year old nephew who he had been trying to help stay out of trouble. He told me about the time his nephew was sent to stay with him and how he tried to talk to him about the rewards of owning a house, but the kid took one look at his hoopty and couldn’t hear a word. A house has abstract value, especially after the great crash, and especially to a sixteen year old. It wasn’t until his nephew saw his BMW did he emulate the cinematic emotion of that popular movie line, “Now you got the juice.”

What it boils down to is the American dream is the same inside the 'hood as it is out, and he had lived in both environments long enough to confirm this. His lectures suddenly hold more weight with both students and colleagues continuing to give him "the juice." Like he said, Before the BMW he was just a Negro with an opinion.

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My First White Wedding

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

A few weeks ago I attended a wedding upstate New York. Now when I hear, “wedding,” I naturally begin to think about what special outfit I’m going to wear for this special occasion. Going through my closet, I identify my Diane Von Furstenberg dress as the joint to hit ‘em wit. It’s a beautiful long, silk, mint color number. And with my gold heals… WHAT WHAT! Watch out now!

When my date and I arrive at the location, after the 3½ hour drive from the city, I was floored to learn that the wedding was taking place on a Farm. A Farm! Who gets married on a Farm?! Certainly not Caribbean people. Even if I end up marrying a white farmer – the idea of me telling my Haitian mom that the ceremony will be taking place next to animals – let’s just say that it would not be going down. You know what she would say? All my life I have worked so hard for people not to look at us like animals and you want to go and have your holy matrimony next to some? Is a cow going to give you away too?

Regardless of how I was feeling about the location, I was dealing with the physical challenge of my Loubiton heels sinking into the grass as I tried to mingle. My date, who was decked out in his Burberry tux, was damn near carrying me, Diane, and Loubi to prevent us from being covered in manure, which was everywhere.

Of course, we were the only Black folks at the wedding and the only people that were dressed up. Don’t you know that there were some guests wearing sundresses and flip-flops! Who does that?! Certainly not Caribbean people. We dress UP and come with it like’s it’s the Oscars. Besides, are we not celebrating what’s supposed to be a once in a lifetime affair?

I think what catches many Caribbean people off guard, is that we are bred in a culture that has made us feel inferior to white people as if they all come from castles with golden fountains. Therefore, when the time comes to be in their presence, for what we think is a celebratory event, we are dressing up to say we belong in this castle too. The irony of this is when this irony is flipped on you; for this Farm was no castle.

My date and I tried to let loose, which meant taking two vodka tonics to the head before getting out on the dance floor. Despite the location, they still played Michael Jackson. Can’t have a wedding with out MJ. We started gettin’ down. Next thing you know, a group of older white folks, who were definitely alive during Jim Crow, began to watch us dance as if we were entertaining them. Why did we suddenly begin to feel like we were the Minstrels at the show?

What made matters worse, is when the mother of the bride came over to admire my dress. I was surprised she could still see it, as most of it was balled up in my hands to keep from touching the grass. After she told me how beautiful I looked, she then asked if I had any friends for her single son who apparently likes the darker kind. WHAT?! Who actually says that? Was this woman really referring to Black people like the meat selection on a buffet table- light or dark meat? I was done. I grabbed my date, wished the wedding couple well and we were out.

After the wedding, my girlfriend and I traded stories about our white wedding experiences. She told me how a couple of weeks ago, during a bachelorette party she attended, the bride’s cousin brought black and brown penis cookies for the party-gals to munch on. The cousin was so delighted to find this bakery website, Mandingo, that specializes in ethnic dicks. My girlfriend said she thought to herself, now wait a minute, the bride is marrying a white man why couldn’t there be a white dick included in the selection? The cousin went on to explain to the bachelorette party, who were all white with the exception of my girlfriend, that a Mandingo is apparently a very large Black man’s penis. What she failed to mention is that it’s also a derogatory term! My girlfriend said she could either:

A) Slap this woman upside her head B) Excuse herself from the party or C) Tell me about the story so I could write about it here.

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Mama always said if you want good real estate follow the crack heads…(part II)

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor FunnelCake

Read part I by clicking here

My mom has been living in Hot-Lanta for ten years now; enjoying her 2400sq ft, three story, balcony off the bedroom and living room with a view of the downtown skyline loft located in the crack head infested, gun shot bucking, drug dealer having neighborhood also known as da ‘hood. Just a couple of years ago she met a wonderful man, who she dated for a short time before deciding to get married, and invited him to live with her … cause uh…mama wasn’t moving. He, being head over heels over my mother, without question leased his four-bedroom chateau in the peaceful, quiet, suburbs to be with her.

However, da ‘hood has been a bit of a hindrance to his consulting business; as his conference calls are often interrupted by loud neighborhood arguments, (possibly over crack), with groups of people shouting, “YOU MUTHAF*CKA!”, every other word. Occasionally a gunshot or two followed by police sirens, which makes their Bichon dog, start barking.

One day my husband and I witnessed my step father, literally, running from room to room trying to avoid the blaring soundtrack of da ‘hood while on a conference call. Now I will say, in the short time they’ve lived there we’ve already begun to see change: a Japanese restaurant opened up around the corner, and you can even get a cappuccino at the new neighborhood coffee shop. Once, my husband and I went for a jog around the neighborhood and when we got back to the front of mom's loft to stretch, a crack head came up to us and asked if she could join. "Sure", we said, and she took our lead in the group stretch. We ended with a little Namaste Yoga meditation and she was on her way. It looks like a climbing Real Estate market can not only change a neighborhood but a crack head too.

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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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Tryouts for My Negro League: A Little More than Botanical Brunch

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

As part of my ongoing effort to date Black men in spite of my endless queue of fair-skinned suitors, last week I attended an all-Black black tie event. It seemed like the perfect investment of time and money for a busy Wall Street banker, sistah girl like myself: an evening of dinner and dancing with a self-selected group of young urban professionals all in an effort to raise money for the kids. I was game. And wouldn’t you know it yall, I meant a really chill brother in the process. He was funny as hell, entrepreneurial but not pompous and didn't look at his Blackberry every 2min … I was pleasantly surprised. So, long story short, we exchange digits and met up last Saturday. The problem is that you can't always tell what kind of brotha you're really getting when he's in a uniform suit. Regardless, we still made plans to hang out. The goal was to do something other than the typical dinner and/or drinks so we decided to check out Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and grab a late Brunch. Little did I know just how “out of the ordinary” our rendezvous would be.

And so there I was patiently waiting for him amid a sea of hydrangeas, when the following pink object moved into my line of sight:

“Oh lord.” I thought. “You have got to be kidding me.” But it was no joke yall! My ass had trekked it all the way to Brooklyn (I live in Manhattan … no, not Harlem, just Manhattan … don’t judge), and here I was about to spend the day with the damn Easter Bunny? Lord-a-mercy. Now it's not like I was expecting the brotha to show up in black tie but this is not what I call casual Saturday attire.

Yall shouda seen the looks on the faces of the kids! They weren't sure if he was pimped out Easter Bunny or a Power Ranger pimp … maybe a Tell-a-Tubby pimp? It was Hilarious! I mean, talk about putting a sista out there yall. Suffice it to say, we were NOT incognito at the Botanical Gardens among the swarm of Park Slope children, strollers, nannies and biscotti's.

But, the eccentric fashion sense aside, TJ was actually fun! There was not a dull moment. He's good people and a breath of fresh air from the stuffy wall street types. Plus, he's a consummate hustler. If any of yall are looking for a flatscreen TV, this homeboy "has" some phenomenal ones that he's selling at half the price. So just holla black.

However, after learning he was fifteen years older than me with six children (not to mention that suit) sadly he has not qualified for the starting line up of the Negro League. I can't be having this brotha laughing my ass into popping out a another baby for him. But what's a sistah to do the dating pool is ROUGH out there. Maybe I'll just guarantee him a secure seat on the BENCH. I mean it's not every day you walk around Grand Army Plaza with a modern-day urban pimp from the Bronx with a great sense of humor!

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Don't Hate Cause I Moved Out da 'Hood

by today's Urban Chameleon Contributor:
Don't Let the J. Crew Fool Ya

It’s happened twice now … twice in a month. Inevitably, you are out to dinner with a couple friends. Everyone answers the “Wassup witchu?” question and breaks down the progress and frustration with the job, the latest in the love life, ideas and ambition on the entrepreneurial front … and inevitably, the question of giving back comes up. Generally, the conversation is rooted in the overall lack of fulfillment we get working in Corporate America. Everyone nods and agrees: “This is not the end-all, be-all. It’s about gettin’ that money right to start your own thang.” And sure, part of that is giving back. Again, everyone nods. One person will bring up an organization they support. Another will mention a tutoring program. And then, like clockwork that one friend will weigh-in … “Well, ya know? The best thing we can do as young, successful urban professions is move to a Black neighborhood. ”

And that’s when I check out. “Here we go again.” Move back to the 'hood? For real? Seriously?

You see the thing is, I have no problem with the folks who get that degree, get that coveted J-O-B, and move to THE latest, greatest, regentrified ‘hood in city and then go around from cocktail hour to happy hour touting their zip code like it’s a damn membership card to the “I’m Black and Conscious” Club. Go ‘head and self promote based on your zip code. But I do have a problem with how those folks try to make me feel that by not livin’ in the ‘hood somehow I am turning my back on my community. Annnd don't even get me started on the rebranded neighborhoods by real estate agents trying appeal to the latest stock of up and coming urban professionals … for NYC folks the clearest examples are DUMBO or “Down Under the Brooklyn Bridge” and SoBro “the South Bronx”—Wait a minute are you really tryin' to Jeti mind trick me with the KRS-One " South Bronx, south, south Bronx" as SoBro as oppose to Soho???????????

Save it. The bottom line is that, anyone who really grew up in the ‘hood AIN’T tryin’ to go back to the 'hood!

Which brings me to my point: I will bet you that 9 out of 10 of those over-educated, young urban professionals living in the newly-remodeled condos of our gentrified ‘hoods DID NOT GROW UP IN THE HOOD TO BEGIN WITH!

I did my fare share of time in the 'hood even though, technically, for part of my childhood I grew up in a mixed middle-class area just so I could be zoned to a better public school but best believe I lived in 1-bedroom apartment with my mom, my aunt, my cousin and my grandmother. So don’t even try to come for me.

PLUS, after college, I lived and worked in the townships of South Africa, favelas of Brazil and shantytowns of Jamaica where you don't have the luxury of not eating everything on your plate and taking a shower ever day let alone with hot water. I have swerved around tear gas and dead cars in the middle of a coup d’etat in Haiti. So, don’t even try to tell me that I’m somehow turnin’ my back on my community because I don’t live in a Back neighborhood! Believe me, you can’t see the ‘hoods I’ve been to from the windows on that newly-remodeled duplex your renting around the way down the street from your Bodega.

Lastly, did you ever stop to think about what my presence in a non-Black neighborhood might do to change misconceptions about us? Last week, my neighbors Edith and Marvin Einstein-- an elderly Jewish couple--and I watched the PGA tournament together.

All I know is between Edith’s homemade matza ball soup and Marvin’s incessant rants about miscalculated plays, this sistah is creating a new perspective from inside an old rich white neighborhood. Don't come for me...


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Urban Chameleons in Transition…Trying to get to the Vineyard

by today’s Urban Chameleon contributor

Not matter where you are and what you’ve achieved on your Urban Chameleon journey there is always some new obstacle to overcome (just look at Sotomayor having to deal with the latest Senate Committee vote hearing. Click to see: White Men Judging Sotomayor)

The latest hurdle for my friends and I? Trying to get to Martha’s Vineyard for a networking event that’s taking place the end of August, coincidentally the same time the Obama’s will be there. However, regardless of whether the Obama’s are there or not the Vineyard truly tries to price the up and coming out.

For a roundtrip flight and three days we’re looking at close to $2,000! EACH! These round-the-way girls need to find another way around that. We’re definitely of the mindset of investing in your future and see this as a great business opportunity. It takes money to make money. We come from parents who scraped together pennies for our private school education and piano lessons so we surely can’t give up now. The brainstorming began,

“What if we fly to Boston, then rent a car and drive?”
"Who wants to get off of a flight to then still drive a couple of hours."
“How much is the bus?
“No girl it's not about a bus.”
“We could take the ferry from NY-I think it’s like 7hrs?”
“I’d rather jump off the ferry and end it I get sea sick- I won’t make it 7hrs.”
"I second that."
“Wait I just found a hotel room for $299.00 it’s a little further out but the cheapest we’re going to find.”
“Do we just need to crash in that bad boy and split it four ways?”
“My goodness, I had hoped at 30ty I would have out grown the two in a bed but consider it done.”
“Yea but we still need to get there.”
“See if your mother will let you borrow her car.”
“Alo maman, Regarde, mes copines et moi veulent allez a Martha’s Vineyard mais les billets d’avion son telement chers qu’on voulais…Quoi? Oui, on aime rait preter ta voiture pour…Oh, parait! Merci maman! Annnnnd we have a car yall.”
“Wait girl, we still need to get the car onto the island.”
“Apparently we have to put the car on a steamboat to take over.”
“It’s still cheaper than flying.”
“Have we looked at Amtrak?”
“Hmm, this might be a good option…ooh look $30.00 each way!”
“There’s even a shuttle that takes you to the ferry.”
“So we have to take a subway, to the train, to a shuttle, to the ferry, to a cab, to the hotel and then split a bed?”
“That’s what it’s looking like.”
“Wow, first you’ve got to fight to get into the elite white schools then you have to fight to get in the elite Black social circles.”
“When does it end?”
“When you’re the Obama’s.”
“No girl, they’re even still fighting to be accepted.”
“The journey of an Urban Chameleon... it's exhausting.”

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The First and Last Black Man at the Country Club

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

My darling grandparents (God rest their souls) decided after decades of fast and fabulous New York City living, that it was time for them to make that pilgrimage down south back to their roots for retirement. They settled on a good two acres of land that was footsteps away from a marina. My grandfather was an avid boats man and former member of the Jamaica Bay Yacht Club. It was perfect.

They moved in when I was about 5 years old. And every summer we would spend down there with them. My sister, brother, cousin and me building countless memories of an adventurous childhood in Little Washington, North Carolina. However when my grandparents learned that the country club across the street did not accept Black members, my grandmother insisted on having a pool put in the backyard so as not to "make her grandchildren feel slighted.”

Fast-forward a decade. Grandma has gone on to heaven and us grandchildren are now grand teenagers, too cool to spend our entire summer down in "North Cack", leaving my dear grandfather to socialize more with the neighbors. At a dinner party, a newcomer to the neighborhood casually asks my grandfather, "how come you're not a member of the country club, Charlie?” Crickets. Crickets and more crickets.

By the next week, everyone was up in arms with guilt and obligation and so my grandfather became the first Black member of the country club. I remember the first time going to the club’s restaurant for dinner (less than 10yrs ago) and the only other Black person was the bartender. And he was kind of cute.

A year or so later during a visit, my brother and cousin decided to get into some typical teenage mischief. They'd left the house in the morning and gone for hours. Dusk was near. The doorbell rang. Grandpa opened the door to my brother and cousin and the local sheriff. "Are these your grandsons?"
"Yes," Grandpa replied.
"We caught them driving along the main road in a golf cart they stole from the country club".

Damn.

I don't know why they thought it'd be a good idea to take a golf cart to the local gas station to pick up a pack of Newports and think their Black asses wouldn't get caught.

[Sigh] I think my grandfather might have been the last Black member that country club allowed 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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Blame It On The AAAAAAAlcohole…

by today’s Urban Chameleon contributor

Why is it always deepness to get into the club?! Why do we so value and honor THE CLUB? And on a random note, why are Black people always mentally at the club? Take this man below for instance.














He’s at the club. I know in my thirty years on this planet I have never had that much of a mind blowing experience at the club that warrants my effort to continue to fight to get in and then fight to get a drink. In fact I probably have had more experiences where I’ve usually loss some bit of a dignity at the club.

Last night my cousin invited me out…to the club. Being that he knows just about every promoter in NYC he definitely doesn’t do lines so going out with him usually entails waiting by the door until his “boy” or “girl” comes out to get him but even that process can be deep. Like last night for instance, he almost got into a fight with another dude who was waiting by the door, I guess for his “boy” or “girl” to let him in. Ego crushed when he was asked to step aside so that my cousin and I could pass. This dude had to prevail and say something to my cousin, “Yo, you better not step on my kicks fam.” Of course this was a Black man, I mean what other culture gets that emotional about their sneakers.












My cousin had to try and restrain himself because business suit and all he has gotten into it with dudes before and it aint purrrty. (I’m convinced it’s the pretty boy complex, you know he’s light skinned with lights eyes, so he’s always on guard). Regardless, Black man testing Black man -someone’s ego is either being swallowed or someone is getting shot. Fortunately my cousin played the cool card and just responded, “It’s all good playboy” but not before a very intense 40 second stare down.

Once inside you would not believe what I saw, it was absolutely unbelievable, riveting and mind blowing. Get a load of this, music was playing and people were drinking. That’s it people nothing more special than that. It was the club so why are we so obsessed? Don’t you know we found ourselves encountering yet another altercation- this time my cousin was holding back some other random dude who had broken a bottle against the side of the bar and was ready to cut this dude. Apparently one dude had bumped his drink against the other dude causing some droplets of Hennessy to splash upon the outfit. Can we just assume that this was accident? I mean this is what happens when you know…you’re at the club! Every time I go to the club I think I will not be back. List or no list it’s just too deep. But then enough time passes and someone I know always says to me, “You know what we should do tonight? Hit the club.”

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