When we lived in Milwaukee, Monica taught at an inner-city elementary school with a student population that was 100% African-American. I think there was one other white, female teacher there.
We attended a Christmas party for faculty and staff where excellent soul food was served – collared greens, potato salad, fried chicken. I was uncomfortable, to say the least. I didn’t know a soul. I felt like a zebra who confused my own herd for a herd of horses – instinctually and culturally ignorant, and very, very obvious. I was sure everyone was looking at me.
I commented on the chicken and one of the black male teachers asked me how I fried chicken. I stammered, unsure how to respond. “What?” he asked. “You don’t cook no fried chicken fo’ yo’ woman? Email me. I’ll send you a recipe.”
It’s a line that Monica and I repeat frequently. (Aside) Another repeat-worthy comment is one I heard in a men’s bathroom after a movie. The bathroom was crowded, but no one was speaking. A dude was standing at a urinal, taking a leak. He farted. Audibly. Then he said to the wall in front of him with complete sincerity, “Ah yeah, there we go.”
I’m about to go upstairs to cook some fried chicken for my woman. For any of you zebras out there who are interested, email me. I’ll send you the recipe.
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