Chris Matthews Forgets that Obama is Black for the Hour...

Urban Chameleon news

In the YouTube clip below, Chris Matthews states that he forgot Obama was Black in the hour he delivered the State of the Union Address. Now in all fairness we did not see the actual news segment and lord knows people will take something out of context but it got us thinking about a larger issue:

Is it considered a compliment when someone forgets what race you are?

In a really funky and twisted kind-of-way we really think white people mean it as a compliment when they say things like this as this is not the first time any of us have heard these words but boy is it hella insulting. These are the growing pains of being an Urban Chameleon for what some white people often don't realize is that as a person of color we have to work our asses off to constantly be accepted in your white world in order for us to educate our children, accelerate our careers, provide for our families and most importantly make change. What this has entailed is "Wearing the Mask," muting parts of our ethnicity and eccentricities because for some reason these qualities have been associated with being "less than." The even more unfortunate part is that when we chameleon so well you forget who we are but the truth is you never knew...

click here for: How the Urban Chameleon Came to be

Does the term “Oreo” always haunt the Urban Chameleon?

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

Growing up living in a predominantly Black neighborhood and commuting to an all white neighborhood where my parents sent me to school I definitely experienced the “confused years.” I was considered neither Black nor white enough. I can remember clear as day the first time this little Black girl from around the way, whispered “Oreo” at me under her breath after my mom shouted out the window for her to put down a toy of mine she was mishandling. The connection? She was embarrassed and felt the need to taunt me. I can also remember the white girls at school telling me that I was not like the “others.” Cut to 20 years later- same sh*t different century

I was recently out to dinner with a friend of mine who came to meet me after wrapping up his last day on an acting job. He was telling me how the white people on set asked if he was from the suburbs. We both busted out laughing knowing that his designer John Varvatos shirts, slip on suede shoes and pronunciation of his “i-n-g-s” is what was throwing these folks off. But we both knew this Harlem-ite, reformed drug dealer, damn near high school drop out whose version of anger management growing up was to shoot different kinds of guns off the rooftops of the projects was NOT from the suburbs. However, his second identity was born when he was accepted to Yale on a drama scholarship and for the first time had to exist amongst white folks. What was at first an uncomfortable (to say the least) adjustment for him to make eventually turned into him mastering the ability of being an Urban Chameleon-but now what? What did that mean? Especially if white people are STILL so curious to know where the hell you’re from.

The reality is- it doesn’t matter where you’re from. At the end of the day it comes down to where people think you’re from and you can choose whether or whether not to correct them. He said that he enjoyed eventually telling them folks that he grew up in the projects in Harlem – it was his attempt to shake up their perspective of what they think they know about one particular group of people. It’s then that I realized that being an Urban Chameleon is a state of mind where hopefully you are no longer confused as I once was growing up- where you’ve experienced enough worlds that you’re the one that’s now clear.

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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.

Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com

click here for: How the Urban Chameleon Came to be