Staying Vigilant

Rarely do I feel like the whitest guy in the room. In fact, quite the opposite, I often feel like the blackest. But yesterday was a rare exception. With the African Bull in town for a little "work", I capitalized on an opportunity to mingle with my people under the shelter of the Chicago Sheraton. And mingle I did. The only thing more prevalent than the snow flurries littering Michigan Avenue were the dashikis colorfully occupying the lobby. And where Africans congregate, so too do those who love studying Africans and their history. It's as if bald jewish graduate students are magnetically attracted to two things in life: Africa and corduroy pants. I'm thinking its our collective appreciation for flattering headgear.

So there I sat, intrigued by my Cameroonian associates, yet disturbingly out of place without facial hair, my nalgene bottle or a Mac computer. I didn't even have one of the fancy tote bags they gave to each conference attendee. But something about me must have made it clear that I was down. Perhaps it was my savvy use of urban slang. Or my draft day suit. Maybe it was even my Marcus Garvey shirt. One way or another, my African connection was quite clear, and my jaunt downtown proved well worthwhile when on the way out of the lobby one of my brother's colleagues did the unthinkable and dropped the N bomb on me! I felt so honored, like I had finally arrived in this world. He wasn't calling me the N word, but he felt quite comfortable using it in my presence. Actually, on second thought, I'm pretty sure he directed it at me. Regardless, being accepted is a beautiful thing.

Last night I went out with a couple brrrrroads who I hadn't seen since I was in Australia. But first I went to some meat market bar in Wrigleyville to link up with an old chap from college. I waited in line. I rolled my eyes at my surroundings. I stared at the tiny skirt directly in front of me, and I took out my ID and showed it to the surly bouncer bursting with authority. Then to my dismay, he pointed at my feet, pointed at a conspicuous sign on the door, and yelled "No Timberlands in the Club!" This is pretty much my biggest pet peeve out there in the world of socializing. That and when every white person in the spot joins voices and sings "living on a prayer" or "pour some sugar on me." That video is inspiring. Why the fuck can some little shit in beat up Chucks get into the club but my crisp Timbos get me not so politely booted out of the line, so to speak. I even have glasses on for God's sake! There is but one explanation. So I cursed at the bouncer, and may have called both him and his policy retarded. But when he began to indicate a willingness to physically remove me, admittedly...I stepped to the side. Point being, I don't want to be in some shit bar that doesn't allow Timbos anyway, so ultimately, my best interests were served. And that's why from here on out, I'm hanging out here, and not here.

And yes, I fully intend to link to an Eddie Murphy movie in every post.