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