This happens to me a lot.
In case you weren’t aware, I live in the south. And not even the “new” south like Atlanta or Richmond. I live in the only state recently advocating seceding from the union and where the governor actively supports whitewashing textbooks to paint slavery as some sort of colonial welfare-to-work program.
There is racism in this world. I get that. Post-racial my ass.
But this is not that.
There I am, in the meat section, digging under mountains of Texas bred beef to find some ground turkey, when I see a handsome black man cross in front of me. I let him pass, return his friendly smile (I am southern, after all) and continue digging for something that did not graze the likely polluted grass in the field next door to the gas station near my old house.
“Are you searching for turkey products too?”
“YES! It’s like looking for Republican at a gay pride event. You know they’re there but they’re carefully hidden.”
He laughs at me while he hands over a package of lean ground turkey. It only took two people and 10 minutes to find. Awesome.
“Thank you,” I say as I slide the ground turkey in my basket. Around the end of my sentence, a really pretty redhead starts marching towards us. She has the most fantastic hair color I have EVER SEEN. I am hoping it is the work of some talented queen in Midtown and not given to her by God. Just as I am about to stop and ask her who does it, she slithers up next to my ground turkey savior and fuses herself to his side, her hand becoming glued to his, her head magnetically drawn to his shoulder. I look her up and down, mostly bemused and a little jealous of her shoes.
Ma’am. Have ALL THE SEATS.
Noticing my raised eyebrow, Stephen Colbert style, at her demonstration of insecurity she tosses a terse greeting in my direction. I say hello as well, and move around them so I can find some pepper jack cheese for my future turkey burgers.
“You know,” I hear her shout from behind me, a little too loudly for my liking, “you can stop staring. Just because I am white and he’s black-“ I whirl around fast enough to cut her off and walk back in her direction. Without a word, I hold up my Black.berry to her face, the picture I just pulled up enlarged on the screen.
“This,” I say as condescendingly as possible, “is my father.”
It is important to note here that for all intents and purposes, my daddy is black. He just so happens to be that kind of black that looks like what happens when milk gets a tan. And he has green eyes and curly hair. But for right now, his inability to tan to any shade beyond toasted mother of pearl is serving my purpose.
“I know it is the “in thing” for black women to have problems with interracial relationships. But not all black women do. I certainly don’t. And maybe half the time what you perceive as resentment of your relationship is really just a reflection of your own defensiveness and insecurity. You should really know who you’re talking to before you get all in your feelings unnecessarily over a person who doesn’t even feel the way you perceive them to.”
I turn on my heels, leaving her sputtering what sounds like an apology. I just shake my head. I don’t have time for this. Ignorant, insecure bitches, even the self professed liberal white ones, will never change. And hungry bitches just wanna go home and make turkey burgers.