Date: Tue, 4 October 2013 19:52:56 -0750
Subject: Chekhov/#MinstrelShit
From: chukwuokoye@hotmail.com
To: subwayninja@aol.com
Postscript from last week. Dope. Monologue, little throb under it, everything. Yeah, lemme get loose. Give me a day or two, I’ll throw some bars there on the end. Like a remix . . .
For the rest of it, bro, no clue. I’ll be honest . . . Still no idea how I’m gonna make it all work! Drawing. Writing, drawing. Going crazy, up all night. In reality, more like two, three hours a day, but it’s all I think about! Ecstatic, triumphant. Then I come out of it. To the mess of scratchy doodles, the old-same nonsensical love letters, to like every girl I’ve ever met. Still can’t draw for shit. Obviously. I don’t even know if that’s what I’m chasing anymore. Comic books. Poetry. More like some hidden thread. Some missing link, to thoughts, feelings, to real memories. From that to this Tek War, all this retro sci-fi garbage I’ve got, spinning around . . .
Ok. Here’s one. Like a social-justice, Rorschach quiz. True story! Middle school. The Suburbs. This was during New Kids on the Block, so, 1988, something like that. Back then, I’m exactly who you expect me to be. Uncombed hair. Skinny, nerdy guy with glasses. It’s private school, so, of course I’m the only black kid. And I’m African—their view—so multiple, multiple levels of separation . . . There were school dances, but even better were the birthday parties at people’s houses, these sort of, mini-mansions. Pools, patios, basement lounges. That kind of thing. And everyone’s invited. The whole class, even the black kid, right? There’d be food, music. To give you an idea, I remember the hottest girl on earth, for this brief sliver in time, was Brandon Rivers. And her best friend Nicole, that spiky blonde hair. Don’t remember all the setup, definitely someone’s birthday. We’re indoors, and of course, it’s slow dance time, as per the DJ. Right? The black kid, not an outcast, but I’m a side character, so I’m in the back there somewhere playing the wall. Don’t remember having pals at that time, but if I did we were wallflowers. Here comes that New Kids song, I could look it up, but, whatever, some long-ass ballad. And here we go. Pop quiz. What am I feeling, what does it mean? I can’t dance. All these beautiful white girls. My view. Everyone’s pairing up, holding hands. Stepping out to dance. White dudes, tucked-in polo shirts, moccasin loafers. Like I said, not hate, but none of these girls is gonna really speak to me, much less touch me or be the one out there with my hands all clumsy on her waist. So now, what am I feeling? Humiliation? Anger? I don’t know. Jealousy? Lust? Is it still too early for that? Had I even interacted with a black girl my age by that time? “And nothing, nothing in the world I wanted more, in that moment, than to be an ordinary white dude . . . Is that it? What I was feeling in the moment? I can’t even remember. I was definitely a super shy, passive kid at that point, but I just remember, like, this little jolt running through me. I loved pop music. New Kids, all that, still do. But I knew all the words to that song. So I jump up, grab a cup or something, as a microphone, I lunge right into it, strutting around, everyone’s paired up, right? Slow dancing, and I’m out in the middle, like, mincing between everyone, lip-synching this fucking New Kids song, girrrrrrrrrrrlllll. Like that, on the verge of tears. But on the inside! So passionate! Can only imagine what it must have looked like. Now, in that moment am I on some minstrel shit? You call it. Is that valid, am I only the hero within my own mind? With a thousand faces. What am I thinking about? Little spin move, all that, doubling over, I’m holding the fist, squeezing it out. All that, please-please-don’t-go-girl stuff. And everyone’s smiling. Pop quiz, but is that pity? For real, what’s your take? Reading right now. Man, I hope I was lip synching! Shit! Can you imagine? Because there’s always another side, right? Some white dude, he’s out there, this is supposed to be his moment. He’s been waiting, like waiting, all year, working up his courage to get that slow dance with Beth or Jenny or Holly Watson—his moment—with her, and now here’s this black geek, this fucking goofball, having some kind of weird catharsis.
Also, and what does this even have to do with poetry?!
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-Uzodinma Okehi. Failed writer, father, comic book artist. Failed filmmaker. Failed male model, astronaut, restauranteur, corporate middle-manager. Retro sneaker reseller. Failed pick-up artist. Failed infomercial host . . . But on the other side of all this failure, thankfully, there's still more life.