Ghetto Princess Points

I’ve been achieving many a life goal recently. No, I still haven’t read Madame Bovary in the original French. And, no, I haven’t had, like, any professional success, but I finally achieved my dream of singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” at karaoke. (I rocked it, by the way.) And, I am finally on my way to becoming a black girl.

Before everyone's panties get all twisted up, when I say “black” I’m not talking about a race as much as an attitude or state of mind, the “Oh heeeeeeellllll naw” or “Oh no you di’ent” state of mind if you will (with accompanying neck roll and snapping). I know many African-Americans who are not “black,” and I know many Caucasians who are. Hell, I’m from Tampa. Everybody’s black in Tampa. And in Tampa, we will cut a bitch.

During my most recent bout of unemployment (unemployment to me is like allergies to others… it never really goes away, but at certain times of the year it gets real bad), I ended up watching a lot of BET. Between viewings of Blackbusters like Soul Plane (Snoop’s performance is inspired) and Three Can Play That Game (not anywhere near as prolific as the immortal Two Can Play That Game), I started watching a show called Hell Date.

Hell Date, if you haven’t seen it, is BET’s spin on a dating show. Its host is a midget in a devil costume, and the prospective suitors are deliberately outrageous in order to get the girl to react. If the girl says she's looking for someone independent, the man will be on the phone with his mama during dinner. If the girl loves animals, the man will pretend to be a hunter who eats bloody steak. The girl thinks she’s on a date from Hell (hence the title) until some time during dinner, when it couldn't possibly get more awkward, the midget in the devil costume pops out of nowhere and thrusts his pitchfork at her while screaming “You’re on Hell Date!”

What I love about Hell Date is not the show itself, or even the midget host in the devil costume (although I do think he’s pretty wonderful), it’s the way the girls react to these situations. What I love about black girls is they say the most obvious things, but things that would never occur to me to say. For instance, if I was on a date with a man who was eating bloody steak and dipping it in milk, I would excuse myself, vomit quietly into my napkin and continue making small talk. But a black girl in the same situation would say, “You like that blood, huh? Boy you crazy.” Situation handled. That's the beauty of this show. You can't put one over on a black girl. She will call your ass out. My reaction would be something like, "Oh dear me, thank goodness it was all a hoax! I almost believed that man to be truly uncouth."

I’m blown away by how forthright and no-nonsense these girls are. My people like to play a game called “If we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.” But it’s like black girls are constantly playing a game of “Bullshit.” Call it out, gurl. Call it out. Plus, they don’t bullshit with their feelings. Country Club white people believe that you choose your feelings to suit the situation according to what Emily Post recommends. My people are retarded. Where was my strong black mother who was supposed to teach me not stand for injustice or insult? Why instead do I know how to properly use a shrimp fork?

My roommate walked out of his room last weekend wearing what I can only describe as the most hideous pair of shorts I’ve ever seen. They were neon-green nylon/vinyl with some kind of large spray-painted camouflage print. “Do these fit right?” he asks me. “Is that a bathing suit?” I asked, blinking because I was at once awe-struck by the awfulness and blinded by the neon. “No, they’re shorts,” he says. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yeah,” he says. “Do you like them?” “Where are you going to wear them?” I asked. “Around the house, or maybe to the Mac store. People wear crazy things there.” “You’re going to go, not only out in public, but to work in those?” I said. “What’s wrong with that?” he asked genuinely. The problem was that he was really jazzed about these shorts. He thought these shorts were really cool. “Because those are the fucking ugliest shorts I’ve ever seen,” I said.

He ran to his room and came back with another pair of shorts exactly the same as the first pair, but these were covered in a pattern of boom boxes. “Does that mean you don’t like these either?” he asked me. And then I laughed in his face. I just could not stop laughing. That’s what I thought of them. And I told him to his face just what I thought of them. And then I told him to get them out of my sight, return them to TJ Maxx, and never go shopping without a chaperone again.

Step One to being a black girl: giving someone your honest and unedited opinion when they are acting a fool- whether they ask for it or not. The next step- tackling conflict head on, or “I’ma handle my bid’ness.” Snap.