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