My worst fear, realized.

Three fears have haunted me since childhood. I’ve never revealed these to anyone for fear that I would somehow speak them into existence, but recent events have caused rethink my silence. I wouldn’t wish wish any one of the these atrocities on my worst enemy (and yet, I wish all three of them on the creators of Soul Plane, and Rihanna). 

1. Falling down the stairs and cracking all my teeth 

2. Losing a limb in a freak accident 

3. Going bald. 

Until a few months ago, all these fears were merely a product of my own vainglorious neurosis, and for the most part had no basis in reality: I’m pretty well-coordinated (…off the dance floor) so falling down the stairs is unlikely. Back when I was behind the wheel my chances of losing a limb were actually quite high as I am unable to drive and process information at the same time but now that I’m off the road both me and the driving population at large are lot safer. And as for going bald, I’m only 23 so losing my hair this early is quite unlikely. 

…or so I thought. 

I had been under the impression that men don’t start to go bald until they reach their forties. Plus, my father is 60, and he still has all his hair. So I had assumed that my crown and glory would stay with me till the very end. That was, until a few weeks ago I woke up, took my 17 minute morning piss, looked in the mirror and to my utter devastation I noticed that the hair around my temples was receding, rapidly. My hairline had begun making a slow and painful migration back to my ears. 

 

At least he still has his hairline...

 

Face-to-face with my worst fear, I did what any OG would do:  I called in sick to work, went back to my bedroom, put the covers over my head, assumed the fetal position and begin to mourn the loss of, well, everything I knew to sacred and pure in this world. 

When bad things happen to me I find a way to blame other people, regardless of whether or not they had anything to do with it. It’s my healing process: turn ravage into rage. So as I sat in bed, my catharsis began: I blamed my parents for the deficient genes they passed down to me. I blamed Boris Kudjoe and Taye Diggs for making it seem like going bald was cool. I blamed Gillette for sending me those razors on my 18th birthday. I blamed the scientific community for curing polio and yet completely ignoring the much more widespread and debilitating baldness epidemic. I blamed Rogaine for only featuring old, geriatric white men in their ads. I blamed the hair on my chest for not being where it was most needed. I blamed FEMA for not being where it was needed most. I blamed the PLO. I blamed the Taliban. If it came across my mind during my alopecic witch hunt, I blamed it. 

After my rage subsided I shift to the next stage of grief–acceptance. “OK…I’m balding. So how will I deal with this? Maybe I can grow an afro the magnitude of which would distract everyone from the glaring reality of my receding hairline? There are no toupes for black men with short hair, so that won’t work. Maybe I can pencil in my hair, like the Cholas in my high school penciled in their eyebrows? Or what if I don a turban or an oversized yarmulke?” My ideas got progressively more outlandish until I submitted to what was the only logical conclusion: I’d have shave my head bald. 

So in my dramatic Angela Basset, Waiting to Exhale moment, I went to an African barbershop, got in the chair and demanded, “Take it all off. Just shave me bald.” 

The barber must have noticed the crazed look in my eyes. “Everything cool, bruda?” 

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Just shave my head please. Thanks.” I said it as quickly and pleasantly as my mental state would allow but I still came off sounding rather curt. He shot a bewildered glance to the other barbers through the mirror. They responded with shrugs and raised eyebrows. 

He turned on the clippers. I was nervous, but I knew what had to be done. 

The clippers began their descent and right before they landed on my head the barber intervened, “Hey, who cut your hair before?” 

“Some Pakistani guys in the shop down the street.” As soon as I said that everyone in the barbershop began to laugh for some reason.   

“They really messed up your hairline.” 

“No, that’s natural….I’m going bald on the sides.” I murmured. 

“No, you’re not,” he smiled. “Them Pakistanis just cut your hair back too far.”

“No,” I said, annoyed that he continues to poke at the wound that I’m so desperately trying to let scab over. “It’s natural. I just don’t grow hair there anymore.” 

“Here,” he passed me a magnified mirror. “Look at your head.” 

 I took the mirror begrudgingly, knowing that this would be the only thing that would make this fool leave bald enough alone and do his job. 

“Here,” he touched the side of my head to indicate where I should look and when he lifted his finger I saw sprouting hair follicles.     

Still, I was plagued by a certain cognitive dissonance. Even if I did see those small specs of hair, I had already mourned the death of my jet black locks. They were gone and nothing, not even a delusional barber, could bring them back to life. 

In the end, after seeking the second opinion of every other barber and customer in the shop, he convinced me to go without a haircut for two more weeks to see if the hair would grow back. I conceded, not because I believed him but because I had 15 people around me in a circle yelling, “Come on!” “Just try it!” “It’s dem Pakistanis! Why you let them do that to your head?” 

I could not wait for two weeks to come, only so that I could strut back in that in that barbershop, take off my hat, reveal that I was still balding and thus be vindicated. I was going to show them that I knew what I was talking about. But about a week later I woke up, went to the bathroom, washed my face and the process noticed a layer of fuzz growing right in the area where the barber touched. Amazed, but still skeptical I let nature take it’s course…

 

 

 

My after picture. Can ya dig it?

 

 

Only, I have to find another barber because I can’t let them fools know I was wrong. And in the spirit of reciprocity, as soon as Ramadan is over I’ll be taking a stroll up to the Pakistani barbershop and scalping my old incompetent ass barber. It’s only fair. After all, it’s only hair.

TG

In the end, it all goes back to self-interest.

I’m afraid of commitment, in any form. I like to do what I please, and do it with ease. My freedom is something for which I am consciously thankful. Perhaps it’s just a maturity issue, but at this point in my life I don’t want to be responsible for, nor accountable to, anyone in this world except myself. I strive to evade commitment as artfully as R. Kelly evades justice.

 

 

"Oh, that ain't me. That's my brother." Ah, The Parent Trap defense--fucking brilliant! I tip my hat to you, sir. You are a scholar and a gentleman.

 

I started this blog because I like to write, and now that I’m no longer in school I don’t have anything that motivates me to do so on a regular basis. I get pleasure from putting these entries together and I’m glad that you guys seem to like them. But this morning, as I was on my way to work, I thought: “Oh hell, TG, you said you were going to post every Monday to Friday. So now you actually have to do it, you fool. What if you don’t have anything interesting to say? What if you’re busy? Or what if you just don’t feel like it?” For a minute I was actually starting to regret that I committed myself to this, and then I got to work, sat at my desk, started to look over some paperwork and came across this sentence:

 

“CQ2S Transfer Agent sends lodge note for redemption orders via GP231 to CBRDelta Frankfurt and redemption orders booked in the order management system by CQ2S transfer agent and CQ2S Custodian for settlement on B+4″

I had to read that sentence 5 times over to understand it and in the process my soul died, 5 times over. Honestly, I should never have to lay eyes on an insipid, overly-technical, soul-strangling, punk-ass sentence like that. I don’t deserve it. There’s supposed to be a division of labor, but somehow I’ve been drafted to the wrong camp. That sentence was written by and for people who laugh at math jokes, people who spent their teenage years locked in a basement playing Dungeons and Dragons, people who get hard-ons while performing regression analysis. Of all people, that sentence was not meant for me.

I must say, though, my job on the whole isn’t bad. It affords me a comfortable lifestyle in a cool city. The people on my team aren’t pretentious. And, most importantly, I’m at home everyday by 7PM–which is almost unheard of for investment banking.

Still, I know that I was never intended to be a banker, in particular, or a “worker,” in general. My career, whatever it ends up being, will not require that I be chained to a desk all day (though if I’m lucky chains, and whips, will be involved in some way). I need to do something that allows me to exercise the right side of my brain. And so when I read that whore of a sentence above, I actually became grateful that I’ve committed myself to doing this blog. It’ll be my shit-slinging sanctuary in a world otherwise infested with graphs, balance sheets and pitchbooks.

Aside: For those of you who don’t know me in real life, I’m a Muslim. And Ramadan will most likely begin this Monday. I’ve been fasting for Ramadan for about 13 years now, so abstaining from food and drink is not that much of an issue for me. The first couple of days I’m pretty hungry/thirsty, but after that my body gets used to it. The real challenge with Ramadan is not having a stank attitude all day. You’d be surprised how much of an impact food and drink has on your temperament.  Something that would normally be a bit of an annoyance, can send you into a fit of rage.  You’re supposed to suppress it, but I haven’t conquered that tidbit yet. So be forewarned: Come Monday morning, I’m cussin’ all you motherfuckers out.  

 

Assalamualaikum,

 

TG

The Objectification of TG

Hey guys, 

Here’s another story from last year, which occurred during the first couple of weeks after I got to Dalian, right after I found my apartment. Enjoy!

…

When a foreigner gets an apartment in China, you have to go to the local police station to register. So when my roommate, Caitlin, and I finally found a place, our landlord took us to the police station. Caitlin and I stayed downstairs while my landlord went upstairs with one of the police officers. We chatted for a bit, but then Caitlin went to the bathroom. I stayed back and played with my iPod. When I looked up I saw the chief police officer staring at me suspiciously. He didn’t avert his gaze when he caught me staring at him, instead he called his over one of his subordinates.

My Chinese at this point was nonexistent, and my resident translator/roommate was in the bathroom, so I had no idea what they were saying. But, as I had come from America a couple weeks ago, it wasn’t too difficult to fill in the blanks. It was a case of Existing While Black. I must have fit a very specific profile, you know–brown. I knew what they were thinking, but I couldn’t protest because I didn’t know how to do so in Chinese.

Each officer called over another of officer until I was surrounded by 9 officers, all staring at me with the same dubious gaze. They kept saying to each other, “Ta tai mei le” and then shaking their heads in agreement. I knew that “ta” meant “he” but I couldn’t piece together the rest of the sentence. I figured I was implicated in some mess.

Finally, my roommate peered through the circle of policemen staring at me. The look on my face must have been priceless because as soon she saw me she started choking with laughter. Through the small pauses in her fits of laughter she was able to tell me what they were saying. “Ta tai mei le” means “He’s very beautiful.”

The head officer, who had not cracked a smile yet, approached me, pointed to my face and then gave me a thumbs up. But it was the same way that a car mechanic would give a thumbs up while looking under the hood at a carburetor. It really made me feel like some of object. Still, I knew his intention, so with an awkward smile, I simply replied, “Shie, shie” (“thank you” in Chinese.) But that didn’t make him, or any of the other officers avert their gaze. They continued to stare at me until finally our landlord came with our paperwork and we were able to get the hell out of there.

That was the first time that that happened, but it definitely wasn’t the last. Since then, a variation of this scene has occurred at least once a week with random people in the grocery store, street peddlers, restaurant employees, cab drivers, etc. It’s always people who are over 30 years old, and it always, always, makes me feel uncomfortable as hell. I mean, they’re crowd around me in a circle and start dissecting my physical appearance right to my face. Now that my Chinese is a bit better, I understand that they’re talking about my eyes a lot (having “big eyes” here is considered very beautiful. Oddly enough, every race defines beauty in terms that are uncharacteristic to their race: white people want to be darker; black people want to have straighter hair, Asians want bigger eyes. Self-acceptance, my people. Self-acceptance.).

The situation is so awkward: when they encircle me it’s always really sudden and so I can’t avoid it. I never know what to do: should push my way free? Should I be a good Negro ambassador and just smile and pose? Should I bark like a dog to scare them off? (I actually did that once–it works) No matter what I do, I really do feel like a piece of meat every time it happens. And no matter how long I’m here I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

Sandwiches are ruining my life.

What quality do I like most about myself?    

Cheapness.

I bask in frugality. I let her golden rays nourish every crevice of my earth-toned soul. I do not hide her when in the company of others, nor do I hope to one day escape from her grip. She is my mistress. I am her whore. My miserly ways have little to do with money itself. No, my friends, I’ve got a deeper love. Cheapness is my comrade in arms, my paramour in lust and without her, I am nothing. While many revel in flaunting the excessive amounts of money they spend, nothing gives me more gives me more pleasure than exclaiming to the world that I paid $40 for a $700 sofa.

 

Although I am quite cheap, I don’t actually value money all that much–I’ll save rigorously for months and then one day on a whim decide to blow everything on popsicles and skittles. I save for the sport of it. It’s like when teenage boys hang out at the mall asking every woman who walks by for her phone number knowing damn well that they’re not attracted to, and thus will not call, the overwhelming majority of them. But there’s an undeniable thrill in the pursuit.

As for me, I get my thrills in other, more economical ways. Last Friday I went to the ATM and took out $100. I resolved that I would live within a $100 budget for that entire week. All my expenses–food, transportation, entertainment, laundry, everything–would have to be $100 or, preferably, less.

Well, it’s Wednesday morning, and that $100 has been gone for three days.

The culprit: food.

 

I got 99 problems, and somehow 93 of them are related to sandwiches

 

I realized that I spend nearly $25 a day on food. Food! The thing is, western food is expensive in general in Hong Kong and then when you factor in the fact that I live and work in the city’s most expensive areas, something that is already overpriced becomes astronomical. It’s not that I’m eating some highfalutin, gourmet food either. All I eat is cereal and sandwiches (cereal for breakfast, sandwich for lunch and a cereal/sandwich combo for dinner).

Chinese food is pretty cheap here. But I can’t eat it anymore, I just can’t. See, in America we’re spoiled. Our national cuisine is for the most part international. It’s quite common to have American food for breakfast, Thai food for lunch and Italian food for dinner. But not in China (at least not the small city I was in). You eat Chinese food everyday, for every meal of the day. Granted, Chinese food can be rather varied but not if you, like me, are a vegetarian. I had the same 2 dishes everyday, three times a day, for a year . At a certain point, I was eating solely so that I wouldn’t die. The whole time all I wanted was a caprese sandwich from Au Bon Pain and some Kashi cereal. Now that I can finally have those things, I don’t know how to act.

I feel as though food may be driving a wedge between me and my friends here. Everyday they call me for dinner and everyday I have to make up some excuse about why I can’t go. Last year in Dalian, within 2 minutes of meeting any Chinese person without fail they would ask me the following questions: Where are you from? and Do you like Chinese food? They are sooo fucking proud of their food, so much so that they would be tickled in delight if I said I too loved Chinese food, and if I told the truth the conversation would become irreparably sour. So now, I just lie. “Oh sorry, I have to work late.” “Oh, my bad, I actually have to go to the gym.” “Oh, I didn’t tell you? I’m getting my leg amputated tonight.” I’ll say anything I can to avoid eating more white rice and carrots

So here’s the conundrum: I can’t revert back to eating Chinese food everyday, but yet my soul won’t let me continue to pay for this gougingly expensive western food. And so with deep regret, I must confess that I’ve started to whore myself out. I’m not proud of what I’m about to divulge, but I feel like I have to tell someone in order to absolve my guilt.

On the corner of my block you’ll find the best sandwich shop in Hong Kong–the best one I’ve ever been to in my life. They have all sorts of healthy, hearty, vegetarian sandwiches laced with basil leaves and fresh pumpkin and brie cheese and vinaigrette sauces. These sandwiches are more addicting than meth. They’re the fat man’s crack. The only problem is that each sandwich costs about $10. And as you know, I can’t get down with that. This Sunday I went in, fully convinced that this would be my last time. This love-affair was too costly to continue.

I ordered “The Rocko” sandwich and went to the bar to wait. I stared off into space thinking about how I was going to savor every morsel of this sandwich. I was going to eat it slowly, wistfully, experience the texture and the tango of sweet and tart flavors on my taste buds. This was going to be a sensual experience, if not sexual. In the midst of my wet daydream, I looked up and saw the British college student (better known as the deli manager) staring at me and smiling. Now, she’s not my type so I just offered an obligatory smile and nod and went back to the thoughts of my one true love–sammiches. Then all of a sudden it hit me: She, and she alone, had the power to keep my love affair going. She could give me free sandwiches.

So I walked over, introduced myself and started chatting it up. 10 minutes later she gave me my order and just as I had hoped, when I went to pay for it she said, “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”

Victory.

I felt a bit slimy when I first walked out, but once I started eating that beautiful sandwich all feelings of guilt melted away.

Not knowing when to cash my chips in I went back again, and again. She gave me her number yesterday (unsolicited), and we’re supposed to go out sometime next week.

Please don’t judge me: I’ve never done anything like this before. Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve done a lot more for a lot less. But I’ve never done it continually. Now I’m stuck: I have to get out of this, but to reject her is to reject those delectable sammiches. And that’s not a price I’m willing to pay.

"Forever, for always, for sammiches"

 

TG

Blast From the Past

Whaddup Lokes, 

As many of you are new to the blog, I figured that I should share more info with you to help you better contextualize what’s going on now. Last year I taught English at a university in mainland China. Below is a post I wrote about my first day, which was one of the craziest experiences I’ve had. It’s long, but a quick read. Check it out!

…….

Dig, if you will, the picture: I’ve just arrived in mainland China for my one year teaching stint and I’m having a SEVERE culture shock. People are staring at me everywhere I go, and not just a casual stare—it was an “I just saw a ghost” stare. They’re asking to take pictures with me, and those who aren’t that bold just pull out their camera phones and try to take my picture on the sly. They’re pointing and whispering “Hei ren! Hei ren!” (translation: “Black person! Black person!”) whenever I come into view. So I start to think: If they’re freaking out this much when they see me walk down the street, just imagine how my students will react when they find out they have a black teacher.

I started to get really nervous about teaching. But before I knew it, the first day had arrived.

I woke up, hopped in the shower, threw on some slacks and an oxford shirt, went over my notes and made my way to class. On my way walk, I was surprised by how nervous I was—I never got like this! Before I entered the room I took a deep breath to collect myself. I began to walk in, carrying myself as if there was nothing odd about a black man being in China teaching Chinese students who were the same age as him, or older. As soon as my foot hit the threshold and I was within eyesight there was a collective gasp amongst the students.

Oh shit.

From the sound of that horrific gulp, I thought I would look up and see faces paralyzed by fear. But when I turn to look at them I saw that they’re really giddy and excited. “That’s promising,” I thought. ”I can work with students who get this happy, even before I say anything.”

So I come in, get settled, and begin my introduction: I tell them where I’m from, why I came to China, my past experiences (being careful not to let out any clues about how old I am, because any little authority I have in the classroom would be out the window if they knew we were the same age), why I came to China, how the course would be ran and how they’d be graded. Then I asked if they had any questions.

One student meekly raised his hand and stood up, “Will you please rap for us?”

Now, I had only been in China for a few days, so my mind was still very much carrying all the baggage of America’s racist history, and of course, in America that would have been racist as hell. I thought that he trying to be funny. I was going to nip this shit in the bud—real quick. Right as I was about to launch into my diatribe, I looked at the boy and the rest of the class and noticed that no one was laughing, or even smirking. They were all looking at me, sincerely waiting for me to bust a rhyme. I had to check myself. No one meant any disrespect. So I smiled and responded, “No,” at which point everyone sighed in disappointment, “but maybe I can bring in some rap music for you to listen to.”

Another kid raised his hand and in broken English managed to get out,”It always been my dream play basketball with a black man. Will you make my dream come true?”

 Again, no one seems to think this is funny except for me.

 ”Um, I’m not very good at basketball, but sure, maybe one day we can play together.”

 More hands went up.

(During this whole time, there’s a large crowd of passersby starting to form at the classroom door.)

 ”Can you dunk?”

 ”Did it hurt when you put holes in your ear?” (meaning getting my ears pierced. Very few people here—men or women—have their ears pierced, so people are pretty intrigued by these little $2 cubic zirconias in my ears.)

One kid asked, “My old English teacher told me that in America if you meet someone named Jack and say hello to him he will rob you. Is that true?”

 ”Um….what?”

 ”Is it true that if you meet someone named Jack, and say hi to him [waves to illustrate] he will steal from you?”

 ”…Uh, no. Who told you…OH! You mean highjack! Yeah, no, highjack is a word,” I write it on the board to show that it’s not “Hi Jack.”

“Highjack means to take over a vehicle illegally.”

 ”Oh,” he looked embarrassed.

 ”No, I understand why you would be confused. Anyone would be. Good question.” I said as I ran over to give him a high-five.

 Another girl raised her hand: “May I ask, how old you are?”

 Now at this question, people began to smile. Out of everything, this was the one thing they knew was inappropriate to ask. So I told her that if she could guess my age I would tell her if she was right. She guessed 24. I asked if there were anymore guesses. Someone shouted out 25, and someone else said 28. I stopped it right there.

 ”All those guesses were incorrect….and that’s all I’m going to tell you.” Everyone laughed, and more hands went up. Although I was thoroughly entertained by their questions, I had to save time for them to introduce themselves.

 At my teaching orientation, I found that that the standard practice is to give your students English names. Something about that didn’t sit right with me. Even when Asian Americans have “English” names, I don’t really like it. Assimilation should only go so far. Your name is your name. Don’t change it to accommodate other people. Sure, it may be difficult for them to pronounce it at first, but they’ll learn.

That was my firm stance. Until I realized that I would have over 200 students in total, and it is really difficult for someone who doesn’t speak Chinese to pronounce the names properly given that the Chinese language is tonal—not only would I have to remember their names, I would also have to remember the proper tone of each syllable in their name. So with this realization my stance softened. I told them they could tell me their name: English name, Arabic name, Swahili name, whatever they chose. Luckily for me, they chose names that I would remember, and in fact, would never forget.

In America we mostly choose names based on how they sound. In China they pick names based on what they mean. So when students choose English names, they pick names that mean something. Here is a short list of my students’ “English” names:

 ”I-Can-Do-It”—because he can do whatever he puts his mind to.

“Ball”—because he likes sports.

“Apple”—because her head is shaped like an apple.

“Nintendo”—cause he likes Nintendo.

“Teabags”—cause she likes tea.

“Allen Iverson”—because he likes…take a guess.

These names were funny to me at first, but now they’re just their names, and I use them as such: “Hey, I-Can-Do-It, you need to stop speaking Chinese in English class,” or “Good job on your essay, Teabags!”

But the freshmen don’t have English names because most of them have never had a western teacher before. So almost everyone asked, “Will you please give me an English name?”

And, of course, I had to oblige, but it was hard for me to think 30 names on the spot. I knew I wasn’t going to give them generic names like Bob, Tim and Betty. Then it hit me: I would give them the names of the people I knew when I was growing up. Here’s just a short list of the English names that I gave my freshmen students:

Keisha

Leroy

Big Mike

Rasheeda

Jamal

Shaquita

‘Tasha

Peaches

and my favorite, Pookie Inem.

 

Ignorant, I know, but who says those names are any better or worse than the Jen and Steve. Besides, what’s in a name? That which we call Shaquita by any other name would smell just as sweet.

They will keep those English names definitely until they graduate, and if they work for a western company they’ll use those names for the rest of their careers. It’s nice to know I made my mark.

Negronizing the world one classroom at a time, 

TG

My favorite class. They were ALL stalkers: somehow they found out my number and would call me incessantly. Still, I miss these little fuckers.

A Precursor to My Wrongful Termination Lawsuit

This week my manager is on part 2 of his paternity leave. I didn’t know there was a such thing as paternity leave. Hell, if I did I would’ve start popping out kids a long time ago, or at least acknowledging the ones I already have floating around out there. 

 

I don't have any kids, of course. But if I do ever decide to get one of those things, this is the only model that I'll be in the market for*

I’m working on a project but I have to wait for regulators in Singapore to get back to me before I can go any further. You know how you’re supposed to be an aggressive go-getter in business? What exactly does that mean? I told the other people on my team that I’m available until Wednesday so if they’re swamped I can absorb some of their workload. They thanked me and said they would pass projects my way if they came across anything. But since they’re all vice presidents or higher, they probably assume that most of the work would be over my head, and they’re probably right. Still, would the “aggressive” thing to do be to ask again…and again…and again? I would just consider that annoying, but I’ve never been much of the business type. So I’ll just sit here and shoot the shit with you.    

Another question: since I’ve already made it clear that my workload is nonexistent until Wednesday, do I still have to minimize this soft-core porn New York Times article on my screen whenever somebody walks by? They know I’m not doing anything work-related so why even fake the funk? 

Luckily, I do have something to keep me occupied. See, they sat me by the bathroom (you know, where they sit all the blacks so that we can be ready to take over just in case the janitorial staff gets overwhelmed. Well, I can’t exactly confirm that that’s true as I’m the only black person in the company. Nevertheless, I’ve listed it as one of the grievances in the Wrongful Termination petition that I’m drafting. Things are going well now, but you never know. I have to be ready just in case they want to get it poppin’ up in here and start accusing me of some racist shit, you know, like using company property to work on my blog or taking half hour naps in the bathroom. Gotta have your exit strategy ready, yo. Me, I like to go out with a bang, and a few bucks, if I can help it.) 

But anyway, back to the bathroom. I have a staring problem that I developed in mainland China (as you may have noticed the root of every problem I’ve ever had, or ever will have, originated in mainland China). There, people would stare at me constantly, and they wouldn’t avert their gaze when I would look at them the way one would in a western country. Initially I was really uncomfortable, but after a while I too “Caught the Crazy” and started staring at people. And now that I moved on to greener pastures I’ve discovered the sad truth: you can take me out the mainland, but you can’t take the mainland out of me (Dear God, I hope that isn’t true. I need to purge these toxins out of my system immediately. Somebody get me some cayenne pepper and lemon juice–STAT!).  

You know, they really launched a war on productivity when they decided to sit me by the bathroom. There are at least 200 people on my floor and every time I see someone approaching, no matter how hard I try not to, I stop whatever I’m doing and watch them as they sashay in and out the bathroom. I’m making all sorts of mental notes. I’ve started timing how long people stay in there, and let me tell you, I’m not the only one hip to using the bathroom stalls for bed away from home.  But I am apparently, the only person who washes his hands. I know for a fact that the bathroom was out of paper towels as of 3:30PM. It’s currently 5:43, no custodian has come to replenish the supply and yet a lot of people are walking out the bathroom with completely dry hands. Unsanitary sluts. I need to think of some elaborate lie to explain why I can’t shake anyone’s hands here: 

“Oh sorry, in my culture we bow when addressing business associates.” 

“Well, TG, just so you know, in Hong Kong it might be considered disrespectful if you don’t meet someone’s extended hand” 

“Wait, are you trying to tell me that I have to hide my cultural traditions here?” 

“What do you…of course not! I only meant…” 

“Oh naaaaw, I know what you meant! You ain’t gotta say no more. I see what y’all tryin’ to do—y’all tryin’ to get it poppin’ up in here! Well come on, motherfuckers, I’ve been waiting for this!” 

  

At the press conference the following day. "Go on, Al--tell them! Tell them about how they kept me chained to a radiator in the boiler room!"

 

I really need to get me some business, 

TG

*If you don’t know who this wunderkind is: first, kill yourself, and after you do that click HERE. 

“Come on in, motherfuckers!”

Welcome to Your Negro Travel Guide. 

Over the past 3 years I’ve traveled throughout Africa, Asia, Europe and South America. While on my excursions I sent out mass emails to family and friends telling them of all the devastating things that were happening to me on a daily basis. They, of course, used my tragedies as their morning pick-me-ups. Callous whores. So whenever I sent out an email I would get a number of replies encouraging me to start a blog. Initially, I resisted. I talk so much shit that having my ramblings available in a public space would most certainly annihilate any bid I had at a successful future. I still know this to be true, but now I no longer care. 

To get you up to speed, below you’ll find a few entries I’ve written in the past few weeks since I first arrived in Hong Kong. From here on out I plan on posting every Monday to Friday, so stay tuned.* 

Your Negro Travel Guide (TG) 

*If you’re reading this from America (and happen to be borderline retarded like I am), know that I’m 12 hours ahead of Eastern time (If it’s 3PM in NY, it’s 3AM where I am). So don’t be confused if you wake up on Monday morning and I’ve already posted about how I had to strangle that old bat in my Monday night Body Pump class. 

The Complications of My Affliction

I have an affliction. My brain doesn’t react to information in real-time. There’s not a moment of my conscious day when I’m not processing 100 thoughts per minute, so when I get new information my brain is still thinking about old stuff, which results in a weird delay. I first began to notice it as I would come inches away from losing my life after I’d drive right through a red light. I saw that the light was red a half block before I got to the intersection, but by the time my brain actually processes that red means I have to stop, I’m swerving to avoid–and giving the finger to–all the cars that almost took my life (I know. There’s no reason to give the finger when I’m clearly in the wrong. But when 10 cars are honking at me, I become irrationally defensive. Only, my car horn sounds like a clown horn. So instead of further embarrassing myself by honking back, I roll down the windows and start screaming shit out: “Fuck you! Why don’t you learn how to drive that raggedy ass car,” which makes no sense whatsoever considering that my car was damn near older than me, with new parts falling off everyday. Still, I would drive off feeling victorious, and that’s all that matters.). 

 

Just one of the many charming locals you'll meet when Your Negro Travel Guide takes you on a spin through AnyTown, USA.

 

In college sometimes I would sit in class and someone would raise their hands and say something really bigoted. Meanwhile, my slow ass is smiling at them and offering nods of encouragement. Until 5 minutes later I finally processed what they said and now I’m incensed. The conversation had long since moved away from the original topic, but that never stopped me: “Um, wait, hold up, I don’t know what we’re talking about now but let’s get back to what you just said 5 minutes ago…” 

This affliction has always caused complications in my life, and this weekend was no exception. 

Saturday was Jackie’s birthday so we all went out to dinner and then afterwards to a club. Now, normally, if the music is right I’ll stay on the dance floor, or the stage, the entire night. But since I had just had the devastating revelation of how I actually look when I dance, I decided to salvage some dignity and sit at the bar instead. I sat there for a while talking to someone in my group. He got up and went to the bathroom, and as soon as he did, this muscle-bound Chinese guy came up and asked me where I’m from. I told him, and he responded, “I knew you were from the US because you have a fresh line in your hair. Africans don’t usually have that.” I knew he was speaking truth, because I had just spent that entire morning asking every African I saw for barbershop recommendations. “Yeah, trust me–I know.” 

He continued: “So where do you go because I get lined-up every week?” I thought that was odd because he had a pretty standard Chinese haircut, so I didn’t know what exactly they’d be lining up. But whatever, they don’t understand my hair and I don’t understand theirs either. So I told him where my barber was located. 

“You use a doo-rag? I used to use one but then one day I looked in the mirror and said, ‘Chigga, please!’ and took it off. I just looked silly.” 

I started to laugh. 

“Hey man, you have a nice smile.” 

“Um, thanks.” Now, if you’re in America or most any other western country this would clearly be a tell-tale sign, but honestly, nothing registered on my radar. I am just coming out of spending a year in China where men, women, and children alike would come up to me and comment on my appearance everyday, multiple times per day. That’s just par for the course on the mainland. And as I mentioned before, I still haven’t fully adjusted to life back in the “western” world. So when Chinese people say things like that I always attribute it to cultural differences. 

But then he took the leap: “Hey man, I want to hang out with you sometime. Do you have a number?” 

My response can be attributed to a few factors: 1. my affliction, 2. back in Crazyland (also known as Dalian), random Chinese guys would regularly come up to me and say, without any introduction: “I want to make friends with you. What’s your telephone number?” That was just their awkward way of kicking off a relationship and 3. He seemed relatively cool, and as I’m just moving here I’m not really in a position to turn friends down. 

“Yeah, 4453-9524.” 

“Cool, I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” 

As soon as he walked away, some people in my group who were watching from the sidelines came up and asked “What was that all about?” 

“I don’t know. He just wanted to know where I get my hair cut.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Nothing, he said that he liked my haircut, told me I had a nice smile, and then asked for my….Oh, shit! Wait, what just happened? Did I just get picked up by a guy?” 

“Um, yeah,” they said in unison. 

But I wasn’t sure. Of course, you can’t tell by just looking at someone but you would just never, ever guess from looking at this guy. And if he was gay, we could still be friends–there’s no discrimination in Your Travel Guide’s Nation. I just wanted to make sure there was no misunderstanding, either. But that would be really awkward if I came up and said, “Sorry homie, I’m not gay” and he was like, “Yeah, well, neither am I. What are you talking about?” So I just decided to drop it. 

After much prodding by Jackie, I shelved my dignity and decided to go dance. I wasn’t on the floor for 2 minutes before this man came up and started dancing on the side of me. “Hey, so how long have you been here?” 

“Um, just a few weeks.” 

“Cool, I was born here but I moved to Harlem when I was 13.” 

So with that I deduced that it was one of two things: Either he’s gay or he has some sort of black fetish. Maybe he grew up around black people and just got really excited when he saw one out that night. I, more than anyone else, can understand that. 

But he was over my shoulder the whole night. A girl would come dance with me, we’d make it to the other side of the room, and when as soon as we did, there he was. Talking, and talking, and motherfucking talking. 

Eventually, I told him that I was going to the bathroom, and then proceeded to slip out the backdoor. 

I still don’t know if he’s gay, straight, really friendly, socially awkward, has a black fetish, or all of the above. What I do know is that he’s called me 17 times in the past two days, and as soon as I leave work, I’m getting my number changed. 

Why does shit like this always happen to me? 

TG

So Grandma Thinks She Can Dance, huh?

I go to the gym every morning before work. It gives me energy for the day and most importantly, it wakes me up and thus prevents me from coming to work with a stank ass attitude. When I get to the gym, I’m all about business. I don’t want to make small talk. I’m not trying to make new friends. I’m not even try to make eye contact. I’m there to come thisclose to a coronary attack and then limp my way back home. That was until last week. 

 

Where it all went down

So I don’t really have a group of friends in Hong Kong yet. Normally, I’d make friends with people in my work group but everyone on my team is a lot older with a family so they’re not eager to go to the club to do the Cupid Shuffle with me. I have the other Princeton in Asia people but they get off work really late so we hang out on the weekends but on the weeknights I pretty much fly solo. It’d be whack to go to a bar by myself. And I’m certainly not going to chill at the office. So for a while I would just hang out at a cafe or stay in my apartment watching old episodes of The Office on tudou.com. But one night last week, I decided that I would take one the classes at my gym so at least then I could be around other people. I took a class called “Body Pump,” thinking that it would focus on pumping iron and thus I’d be one step closer to completing the 4th stage of The Emancipation. 

After work I went home to change and then ran to the gym for the 7:30 class. I got to the aerobics studio a few minutes early and stood around with everyone else waiting for the instructor to arrive. At 7:30 on the dot, a flamboyant Chinese man bursts through the door, without saying a word he walks up to the front of the class, gets in position, throws his sunglasses to the floor and while vogueing in between each word begins: “Who (pose) is (pose) the (pose) QUEEEEEN? (pose) Beyonce!” Crazy in Love comes on and he starts to do Beyonce’s signature booty-hop. And he was so serious. 

So what I thought was going to be a weight lifting class is actually a hip-hop/international pop dance class–populated from everyone from young Chinese B-boys to old women in their sixties, all with an oddly attuned sense of rhythm. People talk about having a “return culture shock” which makes the transition back “home” difficult. I think I’m having that culture shock now, but ain’t nothing difficult about it. 

See, mainland China is sooo very homogenous, but not just racially. That, I can deal with. But for a number of reasons (including China’s recent history of purging all those who challenged the status quo, and Confucian thought which opposes standing out in any form), the overwhelming majority of people express the same thoughts, dress the same and have the same hobbies (playing computer games, singing karaoke and/or watching movies). This is especially true for the smaller cities like the one where I was stationed. So, it sounds silly, but standing in that class I was just in awe to get of a reminder of 1. how diverse Chinese people can be and 2. that globalization did, in fact, occur–so that although we’re from different countries we can appreciate the same songs. 

I know I sound really provincial right about now. But let me tell you, you don’t know from where I’ve come. I am just starting to get over the shock of people NOT staring and pointing when I walk out my house everyday. As I’ve told a lot of you, going to Dalian was literally like going back in time 100 years when it comes to social issues and political ideology (you know, the only things I really care about). And although I knew in the back of my head that there was a more evolved discourse happening in other parts of the world, after a while I sort of became a product of my environment. And crazy just became normal. So now that I’m back in the 21st century, I am pleasantly surprised by and grateful for some of the simplest things. 

But I had another shock in this class. One that rocked the very core foundation upon which I have built everything I know to be true. I don’t know how it happened, or when, or why, but somehow I have become rhymically impaired to the point of retardation. As I watched myself practice the moves on the mirrored walls I was just shocked and appalled. I was so stiff and uncoordinated. And you know who I blame for this: YOU! This didn’t just happen suddenly; there was a progression. You saw me dancing in the club, on the streets, in the supermarket aisles, and you must have noticed my atrophy. You had to. But you sat and watched silently as the only thing I had going for me was taken away. And for that, I hate you with a rage that burns like an inferno. 

 

I could learn a thing or two from her

This isn’t just in my head either, in the class we were doing Soulja Boy’s “Superman” dance. Well, they were doing it, I was being done in by it. After class this short, gray-haired Chinese woman approached me: “You no know how do Soulja Boy. I show you. Do like me,” and then she proceeded to do a blazing rendition of Superman, with the “Yoooooouuuus!” added for effect. I kid you not. Call me paranoid, but I think she was trying to show me up. Now I am hell-bent on challenging her to a dance-off in 2 months time. Until then, I’m practicing everyday. I’m going to make her rue the day she tried to upstage me. 

At the end of class I told him the instructor, whose named I found out is Frank, that I’m coming to every class he has. He was really excited. I should’ve never came up and introduced myself because now he focuses on me all throughout class, “Give me drama, TG!” “I don’t have it to give, Frank.” That is, until I see that old bat shoot me a smug look out the corner of her eye, then I start dancing like my life depended on it. 

Rue the fucking day, she will. Just wait.

TG

In a haggardly haze, I break free from my raggedy ways.

You ever had one of those mornings where you look in your closet, not knowing what the hell you’re going to wear? Then suddenly, by the grace of God, you manage to spot see two pieces that would seemingly be dope together. You’re geeked, anticipating how fly you’re going to look that day. So you get ready, excitedly tip-toe towards the mirror to gaze in awe at the finished product.  Only when you get there you realize you look like hell ran-over. Well, for me that morning was this one. But since I was running late, I didn’t get a chance to look in the mirror until I was on the escalator down from my apartment to the main street. When I finally saw myself, it was if the world stood still and almost involuntarily, in a tone that should only be used in a Shakespearian tragedy, I cried out in solemn terror: “Dear God, what have I done!” But it was too late to turn back then. I had a departmental meeting that I couldn’t be late for. So now I’m at my desk and come hell or high water I’m not leaving. I don’t want the world to see me like this. Avert your eyes from the horror of these rags that I don! Forgive me, for I knew not what I did.

When he saw what I was wearing he immediately slapped the shit out of me and demanded to know, "Bitch, what the fuck was you thankin'?"

Banking attire is really just a uniform: dark pants, and a plain white or pale blue shirt. Everybody has on the same thing. But not me. I just couldn’t go with the flow. See, I’m a prime example of why you shouldn’t give black people jobs. Our need to shine outweighs our need for financial security (I know, it’s not really “our need,” it’s just mine. But fuck that, you can’t only use the collective voice when it’s convenient for you. If you want to go out in the streets screaming “We Won!” when Barack becomes president, you have to hang your head in shame and say, “We look like a damn fool” when I decide to come to work dressed like a washed up pimp from 47th street. Like it or not, we’re both skinfolk and kinfolk).  

However, not all bad came from this. Inspired by this tragic turn of events, I’ve decided that after all that I’ve learned about investing in futures and indexis and hedge funds and other productive ways to make my money grow, as soon as I get paid I’m going straight to the mall and spending every last dime on a whole new wardrobe (see: “our need to shine outweighs our need for financial security”). I’ve been quite looking haggardly as of late–lately being the last 3 years. Part 3 of “The Emancipation of Saddy” is all about getting fly again (Part 1 was getting back in shape–which is not to be confused with Part 4: “Getting Ripped.” Part 2 was escaping from Dalian. Part 5 and 6 will be revealed at a later date.) 

Everything in Hong Kong is about 75% of what it would cost in the States, except for clothes. Clothes here are easily more than twice what clothes would cost in the US (and about 10 times more than I would pay for them–I don’t think I’ve ever bought any clothes that weren’t on clearance). Brooks Brothers is supposedly having a “Blow-Out Sale” so about 7 times in the past two weeks I’ve gone there to get some shirts for work. And every single time I pick out what I want, go to the cash register, have them ring up my stuff and right as I’m about to hand over my credit card something comes over me. “Wait, sorry, I can’t do this. I just…can’t. I apologize.” And then I scurry on out–raped of my dignity, but my bank account unmolested. The employees are used to me now so they laugh (or roll their eyes) when I come in. Seriously though, $70 for a plain white shirt? Lawd Hammercy! Nothing in my wardrobe costs $70. Not a coat. Not a shoe. Nothing. The dress shirts that I currently have cost $6. You read that right—$6 a piece. Knockoff Paul Smith–and don’t nobody know the difference but me and you. My couch in my apartment cost $40. My family size refrigerator costs $47. I lubs me a good bargain and I will scour the hilltops of hell until I find one. Or at least until I find the man the sells shit that “fell off the truck.”

 

All the beautiful shit in this picture: $66.94

One homely ass shirt: $70

In the words of the internationally-renowned scholar and poet Alexyss K. Tylor: “This don’t make no sense!”

I have a really schizophrenic relationship with money–meaning, I’m not the traditional cheap prick. I’m always the first one of grab the check if I’m out to lunch with friends, or when I lend someone money I never expect to get it back, and don’t pursue it. But if I know I can manage to find something for 15% of normal price, then why the hell would I pay full price. 

But anyway, times are getting tough, and I’m getting raggedy so I might have to just go on and buy those $70 shirts….Wait, I’m talking crazy. Ain’t no way in hell I’m spending $70 for a plain white shirt! What I look like–”BooBoo Da Fool?” I don’t know how but I promise you that in one month’s time I will be decked out in a fresh-to-death new wardrobe for grand total of less than $300. 

Young, fly and flashy by any means necessary, 

TG