By: Ann Brown
I ran into my African American friend today.
You know Wade? Yeah, he’s African American. I have an African American friend. A real one, too, not some African American person I recognize because we go to the same bank or dentist or something. Wade comes to my house and everything. He has even been here when I’m not home.
Okay, that’s not true, but I wanted to stress that we are so close, I would totally let him come here when I wasn’t home. Although not with all his kids. One of them is a vomiter.
There are precious few things a nice, white, suburban Jewish girl can do that are cooler than having a black friend. Especially with my family history of political activism, being friends with Wade is the official PC notary stamp on my life. I love that I can tap into my militant angst and rage against the machine right alongside my strong, angry African American brother.
Like this afternoon? At the market? Wade’s wife couldn’t find a gift card for Justice. Even though she totally saw them there the day before. Hate crime. Fucking A.
Oh yeah. They shop at a store called JUSTICE. Man, they are so fucking hot. Compare that name to Safeway. SAFE way. Puhleeze. Even I want to beat myself up for being so white.
And yes, I did check out Justice on their pink and purple website. And yes, they do sell Webkins and Zhu Zhu pets and pink go-go boots, but still. It’s called Justice, for fuck’s sake. I am totally shopping there from now on for all my…er…cute ‘n cozy pj’s and 4-undies-to-a-pack in lollipop colors.
I wanna be like Wade. I want oppression issues. Cool ones, not stupid shit like demanding a Hanukah menorah next to the Christmas tree in in front of the library or lodging a complaint that school dances are on Friday nights when, supposedly, all the Jews are in temple. Because they aren’t. I know; I’M in temple and there are A LOT of empty spaces in the pews. I’m just saying.
Everything Wade does is cool. Like, this one time…um…um…hunh. Well, nothing specific comes to mind but believe me, when you are black like Wade, with a shaved head and a ‘tude, everything you do is cool. Well, except when he wears that Christmas sweater with the dog angels on it. Even Wade can’t sex up that weenie thing.
Or when he hit his elbow on the corner of the coffee table and he, like, practically howled and kept talking about it all fucking evening.
Or when he dances. Yikes.
I joke. I’ve never seen Wade dance. It would be racist of me to try and get him to do it and I just don’t see it coming up authentically in our everyday conversation. It would be like if he said to me, “oh, by the way, Jew, will you come over and count my money?”
And I’d say, “what money? You don’t have any money, homey.”
And he’d say, “yeah, cuz your people stole all of it to buy the banks and movie studios, bitch.”
And then we’d laugh merrily and toast to our awesomeness.
‘Cause Wade ‘n me, that’s how we roll.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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