The Quintessential Negro

Damn. Which way to MLK Boulevard?

2007-10-03T09:15:00.000-07:00

In the course of my reporting, I often refer to a book called The North Carolina Gazetteer: A Dictionary of Tar Heel Places. As its name implies, the book contains geographic information about the state, including details about counties, towns, cities, rivers, creeks, lakes and mountains. My worn copy, which dates back to 1982, sits on a small bookshelf to the right of my cubicle, within easy reach in fact-finding emergencies.

Once I was working on a news story about the Department of Justice's recent efforts to investigate unsolved deaths from the Civil Rights era. I'd obtained documents that suggested there were unsolved, racially motivated killings in three North Carolina towns: New Bern, Shelby and Gaston. I needed to match those towns with their respective counties in order to contact the local branches of the NAACP, which organize at the county level. Of course, I grabbed the Gazetteer. While thumbing through the book's 'N' section, I discovered some of the state's old geographic treasures.

There's Nigger Bay, which lies between Swan Island and Currituck Banks in northeast Currituck County. Nigger Head, a mountain on the Clay-Macon County line, climbs to 4,900 ft. Niggerhead Creek rises in east Union County and flows into northwest Richardson Creek. Nigger Mountain, also known by its proper name, Mount Jefferson, is in Ashe County. Niggerskull Creek rises in central Jackson County and flows southwest into Tuckasegee River.

And there is Nigger Skull Mountain (not to be confused with Niggerskull Mountiain) in west Haywood County on the head of East Fork. Niggerskull Mountain (for Nigger Skull Mountain, see above) is in central Jackson County between Niggerskull Creek and Gladie Creek. Nigger Spring, in south Haywood County, feeds into the Little East Fork Pigeon River.

I turned to the 'W' section of the book, looking for a little justice. I found Whitehead Creek, White Hill, White Lake, White Marsh, White Pond, White Rock, Whites Creek, Whites Crossroads, Whites Island, Whites Store, Whites Swamp, Whites Township and, of course, Whiteville. No White Trash, though. And I couldn't find any mountains or lakes named after cracker-ass-crackers or honkeys.

I picked up the phone and called my local county branch of the NAACP. "Hey man, this is Quint...yeah, me again! You aren't gonna believe this one..."

The revolution may be televised (but some of y'all will still miss it)

2007-09-23T12:26:00.000-07:00

On Thursday I wore black to work in honor of the demonstrators who descended on Jena, La. to protest the treatment of the Jena Six, a group of black teenagers arrested for nearly stomping the life out of a white kid. The schoolyard brawl happened after some white students hung nooses from a campus oak--a not-so-veiled threat to ward off blacks spending too much time at the "White Tree." A small-town prosecutor charged the black kids with attempted murder, not assault, and set off a multi-media civil rights campaign that culminated in Thursday's rally and people all over the country wearing black, including me and several of my liberal white coworkers. I would like to assume that most readers know about all this and my detailed explanation is unnecessary, but a recent exchange with a good friend convinced me otherwise.

His name is Wayne, but we all call him Weasel. He graduated from an elite private school and went on to Harvard, where many people loved him but also laughed at him behind his back (and sometimes to his face). That's because Weasel is sweet and caring and quite eager to please: He would give you the shirt off his back and, if you told him, his pants, undershirt, socks and underwear, too. Six years out of college, Weasel and I live in different cities--he coaches wealthy Manhattan kids to take the SAT and I report for a newspaper down South--but we stay in touch with phone calls and texts, usually filled with my own mocking but loving sense of humor. On Thursday, we exchanged the following texts regarding the Jena Six.

Quint: you wear black today, monkey?

Weasel: no why?

Quint: jena 6

Weasel: what,??

Quint: Negroes don't read anymore! Google it.

Weasel: Fool I work all the time. When do you think I can read?

Quint: a newspaper headline? In the morning before you go to work.

Weasel: I read a book on my way to work.

Quint: did you google it?

Weasel: fool I'm at work

Weasel: I'm driving

Quint: set your home page to nyt. you'll be a more informed citizen. Or is HARVARD still your homepage

Weasel: you bout to get on my last damn nerve you preachy motherfucker. you are a JOURNALIST! do you know anything about the college board changing their stance

Weasel: on whether or not the SAT is coachable?

Quint: easy there fella. Harvard must still be your home page. ha! current affairs is important for everybody. not just journalists. that's the truth. but I'll shut up.

Weasel: I think educational happenings are for everyone too

Quint: man the blind are leading the blind

Weasel: i hate u

Treat yo mama right

2006-05-21T11:56:00.000-07:00

Last Friday after work I made the five and a half hour drive from North Carolina to Atlanta for a surprise visit to my mom for the Mother's Day weekend. My pops and my siblings managed to keep my trip secret, though my father did come dangerously close to revealing my plans. (Daddy on the phone with my mom in the room: "So Quint, what time are you getting in on Friday?...Uhhh, I mean what time are you getting in next Friday?) But for the most part, all went according to plan.

My folks live in the suburbs southeast of Atlanta in a neighborhood where modest homes are surrounded by large wooded lots. There are no street lights. It's quiet. Without the moonlight, the night is black and still. I arrived to an empty house a little after 10:00 Friday night. When I drove up the long driveway and saw that none of the family cars were there, I knew that I had a least a few minutes to hatch a little scheme.

I backed out of the driveway and drove around the corner, my headlights catching the glimmering eyes of some darting animal. I parked my car just beyond the mini-forest that separates my parents' house from the adjacent street. No one would spot the black car with its dark tinted windows in the dead of the night. Whether or not someone would spot me was a different story. There are no sidewalks in the neighborhood and pedestrians are rare, especially after sunset. So I ran the quarter-mile back to my house hoping no one would see me, a black man with a duffle bag cutting through the darkness.

When I got home I caught my breath and waited for the action. I sat in the room closest to the driveway so that I could hear or see anyone coming home. After a few minutes, the headlights of my mom's truck pierced the blinds. I crawled into a crouching position behind a door. All the lights in the house were off.

I heard the key turn and the door creak open. Both of my parents walked in, my father first. They were talking about the movie they'd just seen, Mission Impossible III, I think. They dropped their keys and kicked off their shoes.

My father walked into the living room and past my hiding spot. He saw me and we both smiled. "We're gonna get you good this time, Mama," I thought. "Real good." I choked a laugh and then heard her approaching.

I saw her just before she saw me. I jumped out and hollered like I didn't have no damn sense. My mom screamed for about three seconds, took a quick breath, and then screamed again, the second one short and sharp. Her eyes were wide and her lips quivered. I doubled over in laughter.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mama!"

"Quint! Where'd you come from? Don't do that!"

"Ahhhh, got ya good that time, Mama." I laughed for the next twenty minutes.

Another Day in the Life

2006-05-08T11:53:00.000-07:00

A newspaper's editorial boardroom is a place where the noblest ideas are crafted and honed. It's the sanctuary of the fourth estate where the burden of objectivity is cast aside in pursuit of the unadulterated truth -- where writers, reporters and editors can freely discuss what to tell their readers to think about the most controversial issues. Come to the boardroom with me. Things are not always what they seem.

I sit at a table with five others. I'm the only black person in the room (and the whole company). I'm surrounded by white, self-described progressives who lean to the left on all the major issues: healthcare, taxation, education and, of course, race relations. Our conversation is heated, opinionated, combative even. The debate is also punctuated with several awkward moments, all of them at my expense.

Peter, a fiftysomething who sits to my left, looks and gestures in my direction each time he mentions a black person or some issue that black folks might care about. "African Americans are really going to make a difference on this issue," he says before looking at me with a smirk. I ignore his glance, thinking nothing of it.

"Black males are dropping out of school at alarming rates." Peter and I lock eyes. His glance is a reminder that I'm black, I figure, just like those black people we're talking about. I nod in appreciation. I had forgotten.

"What do you guys think about the candidacy of Vernon Robinson, the so-called black Jesse Helms," Peter asks. He and I again lock eyes. His are so beautiful, so blue -- full of wonder and amazement. "I don't know why I look at you every time I talk about black people," he says with a nervous chuckle.

"Neither do I," I reply. I hold his gaze until he averts his.

Kelly, an arts reporter, tries to cut the tension. "Quint reminds you of Jesse Helms, right?" My editor clears his throat.

We ease back into the conversation, but Peter's looks continue, one after another. My other colleagues, who, it seems, have had more experience with their darker counterparts, shift embarrassingly in their creaky wooden chairs. After Peter's next glance, Barbara, a dogged, take-no-prisoners investigative reporter, sternly says, "Can you please stop tokenizing Quint?" We all glare at Peter and he murmurs something unintelligible.

"No, Barbara, that's okay," I say. "This is really fun. You all should try. I will stare at each of you every time we mention white people. Don't let the fact that you're all white and in the majority stop you from feeling uncomfortable."

When it came time to offer my retaliatory glances, I looked at each of my coworkers in turn, starting with Peter and working my way around the table. No one noticed.

"The NAACP has been reinvigorated in this region," someone said some time later. Peter whipped his head in my direction but caught his eyes before they met mine. Progress happens slowly, I suppose, on issues big and small.

The Cold Hard Facts

2006-04-24T21:09:00.000-07:00

Spring in North Carolina brings the blooming dogwoods, the frenzied flight of birds and bees, and of course, the rising mercury. The warmer temperatures also signal the end of my season-long science experiment in which I was both subject and scientist. Through most of the winter, I tested my own ability to bear the cold conditions in my apartment without turning on the heat. My findings, despite their basis on a sole participant, have implications for all black people everywhere. In order to withstand the review of my colleagues in the scientific community, I present my observations and findings below in the standard (if elementary) scientific method format. Let me school ya.

Preliminary Research: 1) Black people do not like cold weather. We don't like the winter. We don't like snow or any other form of cold weather precipitation. We don't like skiing or any other cold weather outdoor activities. We don't like seeing our breath when we breathe. We don't like shivering. We do not like frostbite. We think white people are crazy for liking all those things. 2) Black people do not like paying utility bills. This includes the gas bill, the light bill, the water bill, the phone bill and the cable bill. We make every effort to keep each bill as low as possible. Water must not drip. Lights must be turned off the instant they are no longer in use. We do not accept collect calls. We prefer to watch HBO, Cinemax and Pay Per View via an illegal converter box. 3) When efforts to avoid to the cold (Preliminary Research, Part 1) conflict with efforts to keep the bills low (Preliminary Research, part 2), black people face an agonizing conflict of conscience.

Question: How much is an African American male willing to freeze to save a little money on the bills each month?

Hypothesis: I believe a black man will endure sub-freezing temperatures before paying an exorbitant amount of money for mere creature comforts.

Experimentation:

Month One: The first month of winter served as the control for the experiment. I needed one warm pay period to establish the financial costs of warmth. Also, I was working with the assumption that black people don't tend to plan in advance for financial hardship. It usually catches us off guard (in this case, in the form of a ridiculously high gas bill). I set the thermostat to 72 degrees.

Month Two: The first bill arrived and I cried for two days and nights. Then I began the experiment in earnest, turning the heat completely off. After a couple of consecutive nights of sub-freezing temperatures, the conditions in the apartment were literally bone-chilling. Somehow it was colder inside than outside. My second toes, which are longer than my big toes and protrude farther from the warmth of my body, turned purple. My balls drew up into my torso. I became worried that I would freeze to death and no one would find me until the spring, so I turned the thermostat up to 58 degrees.

Months Three and Four: The second bill arrived. It was 75 percent less than the first! But since I'd already realized that I couldn't enjoy my savings from the grave, I left the thermostat at 58. The apartment was still far too cold for a black man's comfort, but with two pairs of sweatpants, four long-sleeve T-shirts, a hoodie, three pairs of socks (one thermal), and five blankets, I was able to keep my innards warm. Like that I persevered through the rest of the season with only a slight increase in the bill.

Analysis and Conclusion: The facts did not support my hypothesis. As the results show, black people cannot endure sub-freezing temperatures even when it means saving an extra hundred dollars a month. We are not white, after all. We can, however, endure moderately cold temperatures. And one fact is clear: we will push to the very limits of our survival when money is on the line.

Say "Trick or Treat" Three Times Fast

2005-11-02T21:21:00.000-08:00

I actually considered dressing up for Halloween this year, which is pretty unusual for me. I had a brilliant idea for a costume, which drew me out of my usual Allhallows Eve apathy. For one frightful night, I was going to be the Honorable Clarence Thomas, associate justice of the Supreme Court. (I could not think of anything scarier.) I wanted to don a judge's robe, a salt'n'pepper baby Afro wig and some big glasses in that classic 1970s, tortoise-shell brown. I would've walked around carrying a coke can with curly, black hairs taped to the top. If anyone spoke to me or inquired about my identity, I would've replied in a slow, southern monotone voice about the rewards of growing up in the rural south. "Country livin'll surely grow you into a fine, fine man!"

But, alas, I ended up sitting at home and watching Monday Night Football. By half time, I'd completely forgotten that that night was any different from any other Monday night, which is why I was surprised when someone knocked on my door at 9:30 p.m.

Let me set the scene before I continue. I live in a duplex apartment in the hood. When I didn't get my dream apartment, I settled on the first place I found because I didn't have time to find anything else. When I moved in a few weeks ago, the apartment had post-apocalyptic roaches that walked on stilts, a leaking bathroom sink and a stove from 1947 that did not get hot. And the place seemed much dirtier than when I'd visited a week before. All has since been fixed, but my little Durham, North Carolina duplex apartment still doesn't feel like home. That knock on the door (along with most other noises I hear in this place) startled me a bit.

My first thought was that my neighbor, a grad student, wanted me to turn my music down, but I quickly realized that the volume was already low. So I walked to the door and peered through the peephole to see who was there. I saw a black man, probably in his forties -- a round fella with a ragged beard and short hair. His red T-shirt was too small for his belly.

"Who is it," I asked.

"Chicken," he answered. Or at least that's how it sounded.

"I didn't order any chicken," I thought to myself. "I didn't even know they delivered chicken."

"What you want, man," I asked , confident that the chicken wasn't mine.

"Chicken," he said again.

I took a second look through the peephole. I was certain that this man wanted me to open my door so that he could burst in and beat me with a gnarly stick. I listened more closely.

"Trick or treat!"

"Riiight. It's Halloween!" I looked through the peephole again. I did not see a child or a costume, just a big Negro from the hood looking warped through the glass. He didn't have a bag of candy or any chicken. "Sorry man, I don't have any treats."

I really didn't have any candy, but I wouldn't have opened the door if I did. Maybe some fried chicken would have been worth the risk, but until I get used to my new neighborhood, I'm playing it safe. Ain't nobody trickin' me. And I ain't treatin'.

Home Sweet Home

2005-10-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

Ready with several classified ads, Mapquest directions and a rental car, I visited a handful of apartments in Durham and Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I was relocating from Houston to the Triangle, trying to find a nice home with a rent that I hoped wouldn't burn a hole in my pocket. I found the perfect place. There was just one obstacle: a little old white lady from Chapel Hill.

I'd found it advertised on Craigslist: "The most charming apartment in Chapel Hill." It was a garage apartment behind the home of an 87-year-old widow, who, I was later told, is a vestige of Chapel Hill's aristocracy. The ad showed hardwood floors throughout, old but superbly maintained appliances, molding around the windows and doors, and built-in bookcases. The apartment was, in a word, charming. I'd been corresponding with the friendly tenant, who had taken on the task of showing the apartment to assist her landlady. The tenant and I made an appointment for Wednesday afternoon.

After a quick look, I fell in love with the place. Before I left for the airport to catch my flight, I asked her the question that had long been on my mind: "How do you think your landlady will feel about a young, black man living in her garage apartment?"

Without pause, she replied, "Well, since I'm neither black nor male, that's hard to answer. But she really is a kind old lady. She's been renting this place for years. I'm sure she's had all kinds of tenants."

On my second trip to the Triangle, I visited several more apartments, but the most charming apartment in Chapel Hill was still my favorite. I made an appointment to meet the landlady in person. I drove to the house and parked in the driveway a few yards from the garage. I wore khaki pants and a nice shirt, ironed and tucked in. I'd shaved and removed both of my earrings.

To the left of the driveway was a paved path that cut through the manicured lawn and led to the house. I walked to the door at the path's end and rang the bell. After a few minutes, I heard a murmur behind me. I looked over my shoulder, and there she was--the landlady, hunched over her cane, frail, white haired and looking every bit of 87.

I followed her into the side door through a solarium and a kitchen and into the living room. The walls were covered with sepia photos of her late husband in his army uniform. There were shelves and shelves of photos. I acutely felt like I was in a white sanctuary, not because all the faces on the wall were white, but because it eerily felt like I was the first black person to ever lay eyes on them. It's a feeling that I questioned--a feeling that was the first, but maybe not the proper response. But it was visceral. The landlady and I sat in two low-lying chairs and talked.

"I fell in love with the apartment," I told her. "I would love to move in."

Silence.

"Your tenant showed me the place and I thought it was great. I'm willing to write you a check right now." But there was still something unsaid between us. She asked me how long I would want to live there, where I was from, whether or not I'd be living alone. But it was small talk--inconsequential. It was clear that I wouldn't be living there.

"Just to be fair," she said, "I would like to allow others to see the apartment." I sensed the futility of any further efforts and led our conversation to a close.

On my way out of the living room, she called out: "Can you close that door please?" I complied. I'm not sure what I closed the door on, but it left me feeling a bit blue. The charm had certainly worn off.

Restaurant Etiquette for Negroes: A Life Tutorial

2005-09-20T12:20:00.000-07:00

If you believe the hype, nothing better distinguishes a white restaurant-goer from a black one than the amount of gratuity he leaves after the meal. White folks recognize and amply reward the efforts of their humble servants while we Negroes finish our assorted poultry dishes and forget about the tip, or so goes popular conception. I'm not sure whether or not this thinking has any foundation in reality, but as a Negro that's ever eager to redeem his people, I leave generous tips. Twenty-two percent of the check is standard.

Last week, My Lady and I went to Chili's with some of my old friends from college. After a short wait, the friendly hostess seated us at a nice table near the door. The waitress arrived soon after. "Hello, my name is Kelly," the waitress said. She was a young lady of ambiguous ethnic background. "I will be your server tonight. What can I get you all to drink?" We ordered two waters, a lemonade and an iced tea. Unfortunately for us, Kelly's hospitality ended when she filled that order.

She didn't bring out my friend Deebo's Chicken Caesar Wrap when she brought everyone's food, and she failed to apologize or offer an explanation. She just walked away and left Deebo there in a state of wonder, mouth and eyes agape. When Kelly returned, the rest of us had nearly finished our food (Deebo insisted that we start without him).

"There was a problem making your chicken wrap," she said before she left again. A few minutes later, Kelly finally returned with Deebo's food.

"What was the problem," I asked her. "Y'all run out of chicken or run out of wrap?"

She paused.

"Yeah, you just forgot about my man, Deebo," I thought to myself.

On one of her few visits to our table, she refilled my water and Deebo's iced tea, and then turned to my friend, Sean. "You had the lemonade, right?" Sean answered that he did indeed have the lemonade. Kelly then silently walked away without refilling his glass. I guess she wanted to know what he was drinking for her own edification. Or maybe she was just taunting him.

When she brought out the check, the four of us took to the task of divvying up the cash. Somewhere in the process, My Lady pulled a red pen from her purse. "We're striking the chicken wrap from the check," she said. "Kelly can figure out what to tell her manager. I don't think we should pay for it." That proposition made us all a little nervous, especially Deebo, who ordered the wrap. The 250 pound Nigerian has the heart of a saint and wasn't ready to resort to such militant tactics.

"Let's just take it out of her tip," he said in his native tribal language.

"I hate leaving small tips," I replied in English. "She's just going to think that black folks don't leave good tips. You know that's how they think!"

"I feel you," Sean said. "I worry about that too."

"We're probably getting bad service because some other Negroes didn't come out of pocket."

"Maybe they didn't come out of pocket because they got bad service," Kim said.

"Damn, it's like the chicken and the egg!"

"I don't know which came first, but I'm sure glad God made chicken!"

"Shut up, Quint!"

"So what do we do about the tip," Deebo asked.

"Kim, hand me that pen," I said. "Sean, pass me the check. I'm going to write her a note."

"What are you going to say?"

Dear Kelly: I am writing to let you know that the tip is small because your service was sorry, not because we are black.

"There. That's the truth in red ink."

"I just hope we haven't made things worse for our Negro brothers and sisters that may come in the future," Sean said.

"Me too," Deebo said. "Me too."

The Incident

2005-09-06T21:42:00.000-07:00

After three months of marginal employment, I'm happy to announce that I will soon re-enter the American workforce. I accepted a staff writer position at a weekly newspaper in North Carolina. I start in October. I'm excited about the new gig, but also worried that my new coworkers won't accept me as one of their own. Unfortunately, my worries are not unfounded.

The paper I'll be joining is part of what's called the alternative press. For the most part, the alternative press (free, weekly, tabloid-style papers) publishes journalism from the liberal/left perspective. The papers are openly concerned with social justice and aren't timid about expressing an opinion or searching for truth, pursuits which are too often taboo at more conventional daily papers. But despite their progressive agenda, the staffs of these papers are almost always entirely white -- there's nary a Negro in any of the newsrooms. It's a hypocrisy that's ironically overlooked because of the papers' liberal politics. "We're good white people because we're liberal," the thinking goes. "We don't work with black people, but we write great things about them."

In my longstanding role as the token black integrator (at papers in New York, Houston and now, North Carolina), I've gotten the chance to give a few of these papers some credibility on the issue of newsroom diversity. Still, I haven't always been welcomed with open arms.

The last day of last November was the first day of my new job at Houston's alternative weekly. After a long day of settling into the new cubicle, I left the office in the early evening to head home. The smog-polluted sky had that beautiful pink orange haze that reminds you of romance. When I left, there were only a few cars remaining in the parking lot. I walked to mine, opened the door and got in. I fumbled around with the removable face for my stereo. I cranked the engine.

Unbeknown to me, one of my new coworkers, a white lady who I hadn't yet met, left the building just after I did. I didn't notice her until I was comfortably in the driver's seat listening to some music, which was probably Outkast. I looked to my right and saw her staring at me from her car, a red Miata convertible, which was a couple of spaces away from my green Honda. She had a quizzical look on her face like she needed directions. After a few long seconds of avoiding her gaze, I let down my window to see if I could be of assistance. She stared silently, penetratingly. I let my window back up, pulled out of my spot and headed for the parking lot's exit.

Before I could reach the street, she swerved her Miata in front of my car to block me. Oddly enough, I thought nothing of it. If she was in that much of a hurry, I thought, she could leave first -- no big deal. But she didn't move; she just sat there. I still figured that she was just a little confused, so I sat patiently. Outkast really soothes the soul of an Atlanta native.

When another few seconds passed without her moving, I tapped the horn a few times. Nothing. Growing frustrated, I tried to drive around her. When I moved, she moved. For some reason, she wasn't letting me out of the parking lot. I let down my window again.

"What's the problem, lady?"

"I'm not letting you out of here!" She screamed.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not letting you out of the parking lot with that car. That's my friend's car. You're stealing my best friend's car!"

I paused, baffled, then took a few moments to retrace my steps. I entered the car with my key. I cranked the engine with my key. I played my Outkast CD. Yes, yes, it was definitely my car. "What are you talking about. This is my car!"

"No! That's my friend's car. This is a private lot. You don't work here."

"Does your friend have Georgia plates?" Don't ask me why I tried to reason with her.

"Yes, she does! This a private lot. I've never seen you here before!"

"Today was my first day!" My patience had run out. I gunned my engine and headed directly for her car. Sensing that she was no longer dealing with a polite car thief, but an angry black man, she moved out of my way. I sped away from the parking lot ready to run over the next white lady that crossed my path. A couple of blocks away, the red Miata pulled alongside me. The white lady again stared at me, but this time she was blushing. She motioned for me to let down my window.

"I'm soooooo sorry," she pleaded. "I thought you were stealing my friend's car. She has that same car. I feel sooo bad. Pleeeeeease forgive me." She went on until the light turned green and I drove away.

The next day, she stopped by my cubicle to apologize again. She brought her friend with her -- the one whose car she'd accused me of stealing. They both apologized and apologized and apologized. "We're not racist, we promise. We're not racist!" Of course, you aren't. This is the alternative press.

I hope things will be different at my new job. They better be. I'm not as nice as I used to be.

Black Man of the Week

2005-09-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

If you haven't already, listen to New Orleans Mayor C. Ray Nagin give the feds a little encouragement.

The Little Chickens' Academy for Self-Defense

2005-08-31T23:00:00.000-07:00

Road Trip Lesson Number Three: My Lady Has a Supersensitive Sense of Smell

2005-08-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

You can learn a lot about your traveling companion when you spend 30 hours together in the cramped confines of a Honda Civic. The combination of limited space and extended contact can bring all kinds of personality quirks to the fore. Around the second day of our trip, it became clear to me that My Lady has a superhuman sense of smell. She sniffed out the faintest scents 30 to 60 seconds before I did, and sometimes smelled things that I couldn't even detect. Every few minutes for the length of the trip, she complained about some odor or another that offended her sensitive little nose. In order to illustrate this, allow me to share some of those outbursts with you. Maybe I can drive you as crazy as she drove me.

In no particular order:

"I smell sausage."

"Do you smell that? Something smells like vomit."

"You stink."

"I wish I had some Febreze to spray you with."

"Stay away from me. I stink."

"You want a mint?"

"This hotel smells like cigarettes."

"You smell that? Something in here smells like the ocean."

"This car stinks."

"I smell onions."

"I smell like onions."

"I smell onions."

"Did you smell that skunk?"

"Let me smell your hands."

"I smell a car on fire."

"Please change your socks."

"Something smells like manure."

I was so relieved when we finally pulled up to My Lady's new apartment complex in California. After we picked up the keys from the leasing office, we headed to Apartment 207. The first thing that she said when we crossed the threshold was, "This place stinks." I turned around and went back to the car.

Road Trip Lesson Number Two: My Manhood Costs $197

2005-08-27T23:42:00.000-07:00

Before My Lady and I set out on our cross-country road trip, I expressed trepidation about the Texas police that I might encounter along the way. I wondered if we would make it out of Texas with all our limbs in tact. But as you might guess, the worries I expressed were my glib attempt at humor. I never figured that I would actually come face to face with the Texas State Patrol. Silly me.

On the final stretch of Interstate 10 before El Paso and the New Mexico border, I took my turn behind the wheel. We had been driving for more than 10 hours (Texas is a big state), so I was eager to stop for the night and find a hotel. I drove with the anticipation that marks the last leg of any journey. The day's end was in sight. Maybe that's why I was driving 95 miles per hour in a 70 mph zone. Or maybe not.

Speeding is a macho thing for me. It's about reaching my destination faster than any man ever has and then bragging about it. It's the satisfying feeling that comes with zooming past car after car on the highway. And then there's the purely phyical sensation in the pit of the stomach from going really, really fast. My manhood heightens with each white line, telephone pole, each highway exit that I whiz past -- until, of course, I whiz by the Texas State Patrol.

He came out of nowhere. I looked in my rear view mirror and he was just there, poof, like a white ghost in the night. I looked at My Lady. "He got me, baby."

"What?" She followed my gaze and looked over her shoulder out the back window. The sqaud car's lights weren't flashing and the siren hadn't sounded. "I don't think so. Relax"

"Nah, he got me." A man knows. Just then the lights flashed. I drove to the shoulder of the highway. There was a time when getting pulled over would have instantly replaced any feelings of machismo with deference, but, for whatever reason, I've grown more defiant over the past few months.

The cop approached the passenger window and asked for my license and registration. I quickly produced both documents.

"Why were you going so fast," he asked.

"Officer, I didn't realize. I was just enjoying the open road." He smiled. I smiled back.

"Where you guys going," he asked.

"California."

He walked back to his squad car, checked my information in the system and, I'm guessing, found that I am the most upstanding, law abiding black man there ever was. Still he came back with a citation.

"Here you go, sir. The judge's name is Ms. Jock. Call her to discuss your case."

"Okay. How much is the ticket?"

"It's $197."

My Lady offered to split the cost with me, and I quickly turned down her offer. "I was speeding. It's my ticket. You wouldn't have been driving that fast."

"Probably not."

"So I'll pay for it."

But she wouldn't let up. After a few minutes of back-and-forth, I relented. My manhood cost $197 and My Lady paid for half of it.

Road Trip Lesson Number One: Rednecks Need Lovin' Too

2005-08-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

As you know, before My Lady and I embarked on our cross-county road trip, I had a few preconceptions about the dangers we might encounter in the rural parts of Texas. Now that we've safely arrived in the San Francisco Bay Area and I've gained the knowledge that comes with experience, it's appropriate that I reconsider some of my earlier assertions. Allow me to pass on a few lessons from the road. Here is the first:

Rednecks are human. They bleed like we bleed. They breathe like we breathe. They eat and sleep and work and play like we do. They even love like we love. Look at Bubba and Mary Jo in their love nest -- the bed of this muddy pick-up truck. Are they so different? I think not.

To the West, My Brother, to the West

2005-08-18T12:43:00.000-07:00

My Lady and I are driving to California tomorrow. Pray for us. I am dark-skinned and she is light-skinned, so the Texas police and rednecks will be out to get us. I'm sure I'll have stories when we get to the other side, if we get to the other side.

Sorry Babatunde, Kunte and Mufasa. Keep Movin'.

2005-08-18T06:57:00.000-07:00

Last week, I went to lunch with My Lady, Kim, and her friend from work, Amber. The meal was a chance for the two ladies to say their goodbyes, since Kim had just quit her job to prepare for law school. The meal was also a chance for me to meet Amber, the subject of many of Kim's funny work stories.

We went to a restaurant called Cheddar's, a franchise that serves tasty comfort food. Over an all-American meal of slow-cooked green beans, broccoli casserole and, of course, fried chicken, conversation turned to international race relations.

"I don't mess with Africans," Amber said. Amber is a buxom, twenty-something black woman. She snaps her fingers and rolls her eyes when she talks. "I do not have sex with them."

I was alone in my surprise at this categorical choice in men; Kim had already heard the African avoidance story more than once. Eager to get to the bottom of her rationale, I pressed her to explain. "What you got against mother Africa, the giver of life, the cradle of civilization, the land from which our ancestors came?"

"Nothin'. But you can't give blood if you've slept with an African. If I can't give blood, I ain't messing with 'em." I looked at Kim. She smiled.

"Huh? What you talkin' bout?"

"The last time I went to give blood, they gave me a list of questions. One of them was, have you ever slept with an African? If you check the "yes" box, you can't give blood."

"They said it just like that? I don't believe you." I hate when people refer to others as African rather than the term that represents their national origin, like Moroccan or Tanzanian.

"Yep." Amber stared me down. "I'm not trying to have nothin' in my blood that I can't give to somebody else. Nothin'"

"So I guess you've never dated an African?"

"Oh, I have. And when he started hugging and kissing and touching on me, I told him to chill."

"You tell him why?"

"You know it!"

"What did he say?"

"I don't remember, but that was the last time we saw each other."

Of course it was. Unfortunately, that lunch was the last time that Kim and I would see Ms. Amber. I'll forever cherish the memory of her special taste in men. Sorry my brothers from the motherland. She's not interested.

Your Suspicions Confirmed

2005-08-17T00:08:00.000-07:00

Those who regularly read the blog know that I've had my share of run-ins with white folks, and vice-versa. Lest you think that my humorous accounts aren't reflective of reality, here is some scientific proof, courtesy of my homie, JC.

It's settled: white people are scared of me, and I am scared of them. Now what?

Quint's First Cartoon

2005-08-13T01:19:00.000-07:00

Returns, Exchanges and Other Peculiar Policies

2005-08-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

You probably know that a White Party is a huge bash where all the guests wear white clothes. This is different from a Whites Only Party where all the guests are white. Not long ago, a friend and I decided to check out a local White Party. (We're saving the Whites Only Party for a future weekend.) Because I didn't have any party-appropriate attire, I went to the mall and bought some loose-fitting white linen pants. Despite their appeal, I soon realized that I would probably never wear the pants again, so I decided to return them for a refund. I ironed out the wrinkles and sprayed them with Febreze. Then I put them in the original shopping bag along with the receipt and headed to the mall.

When I got to the department store, I looked for the cashier with the most forgiving demeanor. The nicer the cashier, the easier my return, I thought. I chose a twenty-something white guy with curly brown hair and an easy-going smile. I approached his counter when there weren't any shoppers in line; I pulled the pants from the shopping bag and placed them in front of him. The tags dangled from the waistband; I'd had the forsight to leave them attached.

"I want to return these white pants," I said. "Here's the receipt."

"Would you like to look around and find something else," he asked as he examined the pants.

"Nah man. I'm cool. I would like a refund."

"Was there anything wrong with the pants?"

"I would just like a refund."

"Okay, sir". He held up the pants in front of him. They were still a little wrinkled and smelled a bit too strongly of Febreze. He dropped the pants in a heap on the counter and picked up the receipt. He stared at the receipt, and then at the pants, and then at me. "We only accept items that are in their original condition. Have these pants been worn?"

"No. No. I just bought them yesterday. Look at the receipt."

Ignoring my request, he pulled the pants close to his face, closed his eyes and sniffed. "I can't take these pants."

"What are you talking about? They've never been worn! I promise you that."

Seemingly convinced, he neatly folded the pants on the counter. Then, in a final effort to check the pants for wear, he fished through the pockets and found a five dollar bill. "You sure you haven't worn these pants," he asked as he dangled the money in front of me. "Do you want this money back?"

He caught me. "Man, it's not like anything will happen to you if you take the pants back," I pleaded.

"Sir, if I take those pants back, I will get lynched," he said with a strange nonchalance.

Time stopped. I looked at him sideways, a bit baffled. "You will get lynched?" I didn't know that Macy's had a lethal return policy. "Gimme my five dollars, man. And gimme my damn white pants!" I walked off in a huff.

Next time I'm choosing a black cashier. He'll have a better concept of what is and isn't a lynchable offense.

NABJ 2005 Convention Coverage

2005-08-06T12:39:00.000-07:00

The National Association of Black Journalists Convention was at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Downtown Atlanta. More than 3,000 people from around the country came for the workshops, career fair and networking opportunities. I spent most of my time at the career fair getting turned away by editor after editor for my lack of daily deadline experience (as opposed to all my weekly and monthly deadline experience). The whole convention was pretty disheartening. Still, I managed to inject some levity into an otherwise joyless few days. I am Quint, after all.

There was a bank of laptop computers -- the "Cyber Cafe" -- in the lobby outside the career fair where conventioneers could check their email and surf the Web. The area was always crowded; on the whole, journalists are email addicts. Seeing the crowd as a group of untapped viewers for my blog, I hatched a little marketing scheme to direct those inquiring journalistic minds to this Web site.

Early, early one morning, before too many black journalists had come down the escalator to the career fair, I changed the home pages of a few of the laptops from the NABJ website to "The Quintessential Negro." Tickled pink by my own mischief, I hid behind a pillar and watched the comedy unfold. In the tradition of the most comical black journalists (Jayson Blair et al), here is my less than coherent report:

"What is this," asked the lady at the first laptop.

"What is this," asked the lady at the second.

What is this," asked the man at the third.

They must have been shocked to see the little cartoon renderings of themselves (courtesy of My Lady). I laughed. Luckily, they couldn't see me behind the pillar. Unfortunately, however, everyone on the opposite side of the room could. Maybe that's why no one wanted to hire me.

After a few minutes, a second group of black journalists approached the Cyber Cafe.

"Sspbpbpbpbpbh..." (That's the sound that black people's lips make when they laugh with their mouths closed. A little bit of spit usually sprays out.) Rainbow colored spit specks dotted the laptop screens. Satisfied with this impact on state of black journalism, I headed to the career fair to get rejected anew.

When I returned to the Cyber Cafe a little later, a couple of security guards in cheap black suits stood beside the computers. They ambled about and slyly peered over the shoulders of unsuspecting computer users. When my turn at the computer came, I opened Microsoft Explorer and found that, to my utter chagrin, Quint's fifteen minutes of fame had passed. Suddenly the National Association of Black Journalists Convention was a little less funny.

Out of Office Auto Illustration

2005-08-05T08:58:00.000-07:00

I'll be away from my computer for the next few days attending the National Association of Black Journalists Convention. Hilarious blog posts will resume upon my return. Should you need to laugh immediately, please browse through my archives or contact My Lady, Kim Plaintive, or one of my colleagues, the Kang or the Prince of Zamunda.

Sincerely,
Quint

Come Hell or High Water

2005-07-30T00:44:00.000-07:00

"Negro Dies After Choking on Rainwater While Driving with Mouth Open." That would have been the headline in the Chronicle had fate not spared my life. I've only just gotten to the point where I'm comfortable talking about what happened two weeks ago. Almost drowning inside my car was more traumatic than I guessed.

I was driving the '94 Honda in a thunderstorm that spun off from Hurricane Emily (or Hurricane Ebony, as I prefer to call her). Tropical storms blast Houston almost every summer, but with hardly enough street drains, the city remains ill-equipped to absorb the downpour. When storms like Ebony (and Daekwon and Keondre and Ayesha) blow through town, they blanket most of downtown in knee-deep water. The streets become rivers; the citizens become boat people.

As I drove home that day, a steady stream of brown water flowed downhill toward the front of my car. Initially, the flow was light and navigable, but as I sat there, trapped by traffic on all sides, the water level grew higher and higher and eventually submerged my tires, my bumper and then my car hood.

Despite what you may have heard to the contrary, we darkies are not afraid of water. I braved that flood in the tradition of my ancestors. I turned down the Mike Jones CD and hummed slave spirituals. I became a runaway slave splashing through the water to lose massa's bloodhounds. (Really, I just needed to get to my apartment ASAP so that I could pack some luggage and rush to catch a flight to California. But California is kinda like freedom.)

I should have pulled over to let the car dry and the flood subside, but I would have missed my flight. So when I came to the intersection where the water was deepest (almost up to the windows), I drove on through like a damn fool. Water seeped in through the floor boards. The engine started to skip. White smoke rose from the hood. But I kept going. If a slave could walk a thousand miles, I could drive a few feet.

The car dipped completely below the water. Water leaked in through the windows. In a moment of panic, I forgot the words to all the spirituals. Out of nowhere, I heard a deep voice: "Now's your tiiiiiime, Negro. Now's your tiiiiiiime to goooo." But I wasn't ready. I mashed the gas one last time. The engine gurgled, then sputtered and then revved. The car resurfaced. I saw a guy in a Starbucks drive-through flailing his arms in an attempt to direct me to dry land. I pulled up on the curb, shut off the engine and took a moment to catch my breath.

I made it. I beat the storm. My car, on the other hand, did not. It hasn't run since.

Black People Rejoice

2005-07-29T22:55:00.000-07:00

Burger King now offers "Chicken Fries."

Monkey Business as Usual

2005-07-26T15:25:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, there are moments in my life when I temporarily lose my mind. I'll forget my best friend's name or throw my underwear in the toilet or walk outside with no clothes on. "Boy, you done lost your mind," someone invariably says. "Nah, I'm cool. But I don't know what I was thinking." I've grown used to my lapses and learned to regard them with a sense of humor -- they definitely make for good stories -- but the people around me aren't always so forgiving. Lil haters.

One evening not long ago, I was leaving a temporary job and heading home. I worked in a tall office building with several elevator banks and a big lobby. Each day after work a security guard ushered employees and visitors through the lobby toward some velvet ropes that led to three revolving doors, which led out to the twilit street.

The chambers within revolving doors, like public bathroom stalls and phone booths, are not social places. They are places of solitude -- little private fortresses with close walls. When someone joins you in such intimate quarters, it's an egregious invasion of space -- a violation of social code. Just think about the last time someone barged in the bathroom stall when you were taking care of business. Not cool.

As I walked from the elevator that night, a white lady wearing a knee length skirt and high heels walked a few paces ahead of me. She was one of countless others leaving the office after a long day at work. We both waved goodbye to the guard and headed towards the revolving doors. She entered first. In a temporary lapse that I still don't comprehend, I followed into her...personal chamber.

Inches apart, we walked the mini-arc toward the street. My size thirteen shoes nipped at her heels as the revolving doors hummed. "Sorrrrry," I whispered. My apology echoed off the glass walls. "I don't know what I was I thinking." She huffed, pushed her way outside and ended what must have been an eternal one and a half seconds of a black man being a little too close for comfort.

When we reached the street she glared at me. "Stop with all the monkey business, okay?"

"What you say?"

"Enough with all the monkey business."

"You callin me a monkey?"

"I didn't call you a monkey. I said no more monkey business."

"So you saying I conduct business like a monkey?"

"No, I'm not saying that you regularly conduct business in a monkey-like manner. I'm saying that you were just conducting the business of a monkey."

"What? You callin' me a monkey 'cause I'm black? Get one thing straight lady. I ain't no damn monkey. And I sure as hell don't conduct no monkey business!" She walked off into a sea of pedestrians. I turned around, temporarily unaware of my surroundings, and walked back into the revolving door toward the lobby.

"Everything alright," the guard asked as I re-entered the building.

"Yeah man. Business as usual with these white folks."

"I heard that brother. Business as usual."

Cheese and Crackers

2005-07-14T09:05:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I received the second best compliment I've ever received (and you know I've gotten my fair share). But before I bask in the glory of that Great Moment in Negro History, allow me to explain my admittedly superficial philosophy on flattery. A compliment isn't a compliment unless the complimenter possesses the qualities which he or she admires in the complimentee. In other words, it counts more when the person that praises your intelligence is intelligent herself, just as it counts less when she is a little bit retarded. Makes sense, right? Of course it does.

Last weekend, I got a great compliment when I went to see the Negro comedian Paul Mooney perform his stand-up routine at the Houston Improv. The Improv is one of the nicer comedy clubs in the city, with a decent amount of space and a well-decorated interior. When the big name comedians come through Houston, this is where they play.

As you might guess, Mooney's set was mostly about race relations in America. His delivery consisted of long rants on one injustice or another punctuated by quick punch lines. More often than not, his routine was more about the message than the joke. (That message, simply stated, was to kill whitey.) Mooney did his best to make the white folks in the audience uncomfortable in their skin, which a Sometimes Funny Negro like myself found inspiring. He did things his way.

"I wish this nigger would stop being mean, and start dancing and singing," Mooney said in the nasal voice that Negro comedians use when they're mocking white folks. Of course, there would be no dancing and singing. Or shuckin' and jivin'. "I do whatever the hell I want to do," Mooney said. "That's why I scare y'all." If the white folks weren't scared, they were probably offended.

After the show, Mooney went to the lobby bar just outside of the club's main hall. From a tall bar table, he sold (or attempted to sell) his CDs and DVDs to whomever was interested. A handful of Negroes from the audience crowded around him as they exited the hall. As a Fellow Negro, I joined them. (I'm usually not one for celebrity worship, or in this case, minor-celebrity worship, but I was excited to be in the presence of a Real Negro Comedian.) For about an hour, we listened to Mooney and a Negro from St. Croix discuss the definitive Negro origins of world civilization. It was the kind of conversation that, depending on your political persuasion, sounded like conspiracy theory or revelation. Or maybe something in between.

After talking for a while, it became clear to me that we Negroes risked overstaying our welcome -- Mooney looked like he was ready to leave. Coincidentally, his cell phone, which he wore on his wrist, rang at that moment and gave him the chance to slip away. His conversation was brief, however, and when I noticed that he was free and away from the other Negroes, I asked to take a picture with him. My Lady, who never leaves the apartment without her camera, jumped into position to take the shot.

And now we come to the aforementioned Great Moment in Negro History: my second best compliment in life. I put my arm around Mooney and smiled for the camera. Just as My Lady was about to take the picture, I exclaimed loudly enough for Mooney and a few others to hear, "Cracker Ass cracker," (which, if you think about it, makes about as much sense as saying, "Cheese"). Paul Mooney looked at me. "Ha. You're funny."

Me? Funny? Ha.

Mooney's Jokes are My Jokes

2005-07-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

Genie in a Bottle

A white man was walking along the beach when he stumbled on a genie in a lamp. He rubbed the lamp and summoned the genie.

"You have three wishes," the genie said, "but you must never say them aloud. "Think them to yourself, and I will grant them."

The next thing the white man knew, he was in a giant mansion with marble floors, twisting staircases and a sprawling kitchen. You see, all white men want mansions.

Then suddenly, gorgeous blue-eyed, big-tittied women appeared out of nowhere. They frolicked in the great mansion. All they wanted to do was give head. All white men love women, you see.

Then there was a knock at the door. Wham wham wham! When the white man opened the door, he saw several klansmen in their gruesome regalia. They grabbed the white man, strung him up and lynched him from a great oak tree. You know why? All white men want to be hung like a nigger.

A black woman comes across the genie on the beach. "Tell me your two wishes," the genie said.

"I want you to build a great bridge from here to Africa so that when these white folks get on my nerves, I can walk on home," the black woman said.

"You must be crazy," the genie said. "I can't do that. What's your next wish?"

"I wish that one day in the United States there would be equality among black people and white people," the black woman said. "Maybe for my children. Or my children's children."

"Hmmph," the genie said. "So should I make that bridge out of steel or concrete?"

Wesley Snipes is so black...

When black folks finally get reparations, Wesley Snipes is gonna be a rich muthafucka. Ain't nobody black as that nigga. Sorry, Halle Berry. You only get a dollar.

Indian Democracy

During election season, a commercial played in some parts of the country, which lobbied against Indian casinos. A white stentorian voice proclaimed, "The Indians have their own casinos. They don't have to pay taxes on the millions of dollars in casino revenue that they earn each year. I didn't vote for that."

The Indians should make their own commercial. "You came here and stole our land. You gave us blankets riddled with disease. You destroyed our people and our way of life. I didn't vote for that."

Michael Jackson, You Went Too Far

Michael Jackson had it coming. He offended too many white people. Sooner or later, they were going to try to take him down.

First Michael married Elvis Presley's daughter. White folks knew that if Elvis didn't come back after that, he must really be dead.

Then he went and bought the Beatles catalog. And you know that pissed white folks off.

But his greatest crime was when he dangled his precious, defenseless white baby from that balcony in Germany. "How could he do such a thing! He should be arrested and the baby should be taken from him," the world demanded.

But it would have been different had that baby been black. "Oh, don't worry if Michael drops that nigger. The black monkey will climb right back up to daddy."

At the Studio

2005-07-12T11:13:00.000-07:00

Based on A Qualified Negro's own independent research, nine out of 10 Negro males between the ages of zero and 49 have rapped or beatboxed in the last 24 hours. Of those, approximately 80% are pursuing rap careers in their spare time. These percentages, based on a randomly selected Negro sample, are obviously higher at historically black colleges, housing projects, street corners, basketball courts, black barber shops, county jails, check cashing locations, Kentucky Fried Chicken locations, black churches and hip-hop clubs. In those places, Almost Every Single Negro wants to be a rapper.

A few weeks ago, while conducting research for this study (which will be published in the journal Quintessential), I visited the local public radio station's underground rap show. In a bathroom-sized studio, host Matt Sonzala interviews local rappers and wannabes and plays their new music on the air. Anyone who wants to rap can stop by. Matt's policy is not to discriminate among his guests; every aspiring rapper will get on the air if he waits his turn. This means that the show, which is called Damage Control and airs on KPFT, is usually the first to play the hottest hip-hop coming out of Houston. It also means that a fair share of Talentless Negroes get their chance to clutch the mic.

Most remarkable is the sheer volume and variety of Negroes who patiently wait to rap. On Wednesday nights when the show airs, Negroes line up around the block to get into the show. It's like Six Flags on Negro night. It's quite the spectacle given the station's location in a white residential neighborhood. Among the hopeful, you'll find an Old, Cross-Eyed Negro who has clearly been to prison and had that booty licked more than once. Or a set of Giant Nigerian Negro twins that rap in Ibo. Or a College Negro wearing his Jansport backpack full of books he hasn't read. There are Little Negroes and Big Negroes, and Smart Negroes and Dumb Negroes and Rich Negroes and Poor Negroes. They all rap. You'd be surprised to discover which Negroes are talented and which aren't.

What's it all for? Superficially, it's about bitches and bank. (That's why I rap.) But it's also about fulfilling the Negro Dream -- making it out of the hood, buying your mama a new house and telling the whole world about it over a tight beat. White folks have Horatio Alger; Negroes have Mike Jones. When he performed at the BET Awards, Every Rapping Negro in Houston shed a tear.

Back then, hoes didn't want me
Now I'm hot, hoes all on me
I'm Mike Jones!

He bared his gold and diamond capped teeth. He brought 50 of His Closest Negroes on stage, some carrying pimp cups, others still wearing their backstage passes. He threw wads of cash to wealthy audience members. It was a Negro's Dream fulfilled. That is why Negroes line up every Wednesday at the radio station. That's why nine out of 10 male Negroes raps at least once a day.

Jermajesty...

2005-07-09T23:15:00.000-07:00

Is the name of Jermaine Jackson's child. Please take a moment to pray for that Greasy Negro. And his poor little girl.

Ask a Negro (All I's on Me)

2005-07-08T21:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Quintessental Negro:
I try my best to stay on top of the latest slang, but every once in a while I hear a word or phrase that I don't know how to use properly. Please define and use the contraction "I's" in a sentence. I would like to start using it right away.

Sincerely,
Language Lover

Dear Language Lover:
Who the hell have you been hanging out with? The contraction "I's" is an old, old Negro idiom that dates back to the 19th century. Negro slaves used the contraction in the same way that one would use the contraction "I'm", which of course means "I am". Possible usages include:

"I's goin' to da sto'."

"I's sorry for snatchin' dem taters massa."

"By golly, I's free!"

This usage fell from fashion many decades ago, and it certainly never qualified as slang. I advise that you refrain from such language, except for the occasional Kunta Kinte imitation, which is okay if you are a Negro. I's happy to help.
-The Quintessential Negro

The Quintessential Negro loves giving advice. Send questions about Negro Life and Culture to quintessentialnegro@gmail.com. Negroes and non-Negroes alike are encouraged to ask away. The Quintessential Negro reserves the right to edit questions for length, clarity and, of course, humor.

The French Negro Part Deux

2005-07-08T13:13:00.000-07:00

Wednesday in Singapore, the International Olympic Committee awarded the 2012 Games to the city of London, nixing gay Paris, which was the presumed front-runner among bidding cities. Like most bidders, Paris sent a delegation of dignitaries to court the voting members of the Committee. French President Jaques Chirac and Paris Mayor Bertrand Delanoë joined a group of French athletes, most of them Negroes. Of course, Tony Parker, The French Negro, was among the athletes.

When the Paris delegation approached the stage to present to the Committe, The French Negro took the mic and busted a muthafuckin' flow. It was broadcast to the world on CNN. An American Negro has no idea what he was rapping about, but the venerable Olympic Committee members were aghast. No wonder they chose London. British Negroes know when and when not to rap.

Jouvert (that's JOO-vay) the Great

2005-07-06T13:40:00.000-07:00

Your Average American Negro enjoys holidays like anyone else. On Thanksgiving he eats turkey and falls asleep. At the stroke of midnight each New Year, he shoots a pistol into the sky. On Labor Day he stops wearing white. And on the Fourth of July, just last Monday, he barbecued lots and lots (and lots) of chicken.

Despite it all, he lacks a special occassion on which to revel in his American Negritude. Martin Luther King Day is a celebration of history, which is important, but different. And Kwanzaa, an American Negro's only cultural celebration, is a joke. Have you ever met a Negro that celebrates Kwanzaa? I know some white folks that celebrate Kwanzaa, but nary a Negro.

Maybe you can understand why I sometimes envy those Caribbean Negroes with all their parades and multicolored costumes and carnivals and dances. Like them, sometimes a Regular Old American Negro wants to offically celebrate his Negritude with a bunch of other Regular Old American Negroes, all in full costume. I guess that's too much to ask.

Last weekend in Houston, Caribbeans celebrated Jouvert, a late night bash which precedes Carnival. The party was at a large parking lot on the Southwest edge of the city. On one side of the lot was a little Caribbean night club, where, some Negroes say, a man was shot and killed at last year's celebration. On the other side of the lot was the Blue Flame, a nice little Negro strip club where, I'm guessing, the strippers are either really, really skinny or really, really fat and have keloidal bullet and/or stabs wounds in their midsections. (A celebration is nothing without ambience.) The parking lot was fenced off and had a police patrol. The celebration started at midnight.

There's a reason that Jouvert is held outside. The defining characterstic of the celebration is that at some point in the night, people start to sling mud, paint and powder at each other, almost like a giant food fight, only with more dancing and singing and less mashed potatoes, Jell-O and glazed ham. It is quite the primal pleasure.

This Jouvert started off slowly. There were several large box speakers stacked one on top of the other that blasted soca music across the parking lot and out to the adjacent highway junction, but no one danced. The big space in the middle of the parking lot reminded Your Average Negro of his first middle school social. But as the night wore on, excitement and anticipation grew.

If A Regular Old American Negro knew more about soca music, he would tell you the exact song at which the crowd went bananas. From his uninformed persective, it appeared as if the DJ flicked a switch. First it was Off: Caribbean Negroes sauntering about in the nighttime heat. Then it was On: Every Caribbean elatedly jumping up and down and frantically waving his or her country's flag. Drummers and flame throwers came out of nowhere.

The Trini, Jamaican, Guyanese, Bajan, St. Lucian, Granadan and Bahamian flags blended into a flurry of colors. A Regular Old American Negro could have waved the Red, White and Blue, but that would have been somehow out of place. I opted instead to take my shirt off and wave it around my head just like a helicopter. I happened to be wearing my black American Apparel T-shirt, which, in the end, represented Regular Old American Negroes just fine.

The jubilation climaxed when two half-naked men worked their way to the middle of the crowd carrying a porcelain bathtub full of mud. Before long there was mud all over A Regular Old American Negro -- in his mouth, his ears, his pants, all over his clothes. It was enough for A Regular Old American Negro to yearn for his own day to wallow in the mud. Your Average American Negro deserves as much.

Ask a Negro - 6/28/05

2005-06-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Quintessential Negro:
I'm an Intellectual Negro. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa from a Historically Negro College in Atlanta, and I'm currently a Ph.D. candidate at the most prestigious English Literature program in the country. Without a doubt, I'm a Cultured, Extremely Well Educated, Upstanding Negro. My question is this: Is it okay for one such as myself to dance to the Ying Yang Twins summer smash hit "Wait (the Whisper Song)." I find the lyrics objectionable, and it's important that I keep up appearances.

Sincerely,
Intellectual Negro

Dear Intellectual Negro:
Hells yeah you can dance to that shit! Pardon a Negro. I meant to say that there's nothing wrong with enjoying a good dance to the Whisper Song. Yes, it rather explicitly discusses the pleasures of the flesh and the size of one's male member, but at bottom it speaks to one of the most essential aspects of human nature--the sexual drive--and it does so quite creatively. Celebrate your sexual drive, Intellectual Negro. Grab your member and dance a thrusty dance. We all know that song is tiiiight. Just remember that there's a time and place for everything. It would be most improper for you to approach your female Shakespeare professor and whisper the lyrics in her ear. Most improper.

A brief note: Many Negroes have expressed concern about supporting the music of Michael Jackson (Molester Negro) and R. Kelly (The Other Molester Negro). These are valid concerns. Witholding support is respectable and even commendable. Celebrity Negroes too often escape justified criticism. At the same time, Those Two Molester Negroes are musical geniuses. Ain't nothin' wrong with hummin' the tune to "Beat It" every once in a while.
-The Quintessential Negro

The Quintessential Negro loves giving advice. Send questions about Negro Life and Culture to quintessentialnegro@gmail.com. Negroes and non-Negroes alike are encouraged to ask away. The Quintessential Negro reserves the right to edit questions for length, clarity and, of course, humor.

The Smell of Success

2005-06-27T14:14:00.000-07:00

I've been an Unemployed Negro for almost a month now. I spend most days sitting in front of the computer in my red upholstered swivel chair. The chair--a relic from some 80s office that I bought at a used furniture store--looks modern in a retro kind of way, but the upholstery is like a heat magnet. It's this coarse yarn, almost like burlap, that absorbs all the heat from the 150 watt track lights above my desk. When I job search or surf the Web for more than a few minutes, I break into a light sweat and eventually a medium-light sweat, which grows into a peculiar funk that, fortunately or unfortunately, is concentrated between my legs. Unemployment really stinks.

So does my apartment. Lately this weird smell has been emanating from the pipes. The air is stale because I never go outside. And because I can't afford to set the thermostat too low, the Texas heat creeps in through the crevices around the windows and doors. The funk bakes, and in case you didn't know, hot funk smells much worse that room-temperature funk. It would drive Any Negro toward complacency.

Last Friday, I mustered up the conviction to cross the threshold to the outside world. Unemployed Negro had to make a Post Office run. I needed to mail a couple of job applications that I'd completed, and I wanted to send copies of my first ever cover story to my folks in Atlanta.

It was a journey of smells. I stepped outside my apartment, and for an instant I could smell the Houston outdoors. On my second breath, however, the Houston heat seized my olfactory senses--the air was too hot to breathe or smell. All my nose hairs fell into my hand. I almost died of asphyxiation walking to my car, but as I drew what could have been my last breath, I fumbled with my keys, got in the car, turned on the engine and blasted the A/C. Ahhh, the smell of rank air coming off the old filters.

I don't rememder what the Post Office smelled like. It was probably the nondescript odor of the federal government. I moved through the line quickly and was called to the counter. I gave my underarms a quick, surreptitious sniff before approaching.

An Older Negro Woman whose name tag read "Sharon" was working at the desk. She wore so much make-up and foundation that her face was a strikingly different color than her arms, which her Post Office-issue short sleeve shirt left exposed. She also wore a deep nutty brown wig, cut just above her ears. (It shone the way synthetic hair does.) Despite it all, she was an Attractive Negro Woman with a classy demeanor. I smelled just a hint of perfume.

Ms. Sharon had wisdom in her voice, if you can imagine that. She helped me select an envelope large enough to fit four copies of my story, and then, in a friendly way, asked me why I was mailing so many newspapers.

"That's my name on the cover," I told her. I held up one of the papers for her to see. "I'm sending the issues home to my parents in Atlanta." She suddenly beamed with pride. She asked me how long I'd been a writer, where I was from, if I had siblings. When I expressed dismay over my unemployment, she encouraged me to stick with it.

She was proud in the way that Old Negroes are proud of the accomplishments of their grandchildren--the way that So Many Old Negroes are proud of the accomplishments of All Young Negroes, kin or not. It's Negro Pride. It's something that, sitting at home in my hot funk, I'd certainly lost touch with.

Toward the end of our conversation, Ms. Sharon asked if I'd like to take a look at some commemorative stamps. I'm usually resistant to all forms of salesmanship (especially now that I'm a Broke Negro), but I offered to take a quick look. She opened the binder to the Negro section and showed me a sheet of Paul Robeson stamps. Robeson was indeed a Great Negro. I bought the stamps without thinking twice and thanked her for the conversation. She offered her hand, and I shook it. Then she promised to look for my name in print.

When I got back to my car, I smelled my crotch and my underarms. Maybe unemployment doesn't smell so bad after all. I smelled the Paul Robeson stamps hoping to somehow connect with that Great Negro. The stamps smelled like paper.

Tout le Monde est Nègre

2005-06-25T22:02:00.000-07:00

Thursday night, Your Average Negro watched the San Antonio Spurs strangle the life from the Detroit Pistons in game seven of the NBA Finals. Crowned the new champions, the Spurs players danced around the court in a confetti rain and a throng of sports reporters and cameras. Spurs starting point guard and Paris-native Tony Parker (The French Negro), interviewed with sideline reporter Michele Tafoya.

She opened the interview with a probing question. "Tony, how do you say 'NBA Champion' in French?"

It was the type of question that left more than a few wondering just how intelligent one has to be to work in television. But The French Negro was too caught up in the moment to notice. "Le Champion NBA," he summarily replied, smiling for the camera.

Tafoya went on to ask more of the questions that sports reporters ask--How does it feel, How did you do it, What were you thinking? When she could no longer hold Parker's attention, she relinquished The French Negro to revel in the frenzied celebration. But just before he darted off, he looked dead into the camera, smiled and yelled, "Nous avons gagné, Nigga!"

Did he just say what I think he said? Can an American Negro get a translation?

Man Dingo

2005-06-22T09:57:00.000-07:00

I'm an amateur comedian, or, as I like to call myself, One Funny Ass Negro. I don't actually write jokes or perform in clubs. That's for professionals. Instead, I recite the jokes of other professional Negro comedians at opportune times. (There are moments in everyone's life that call for a good Chris Rock joke.) My timing may be a little off or my punch line a little delayed, but I'll make you chuckle, if only out of pity. And that definitely counts for something.

Last night, as I was brushing my teeth, I watched a syndicated episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. The show is a classic example of what my father and Spike Lee would call buffoonery--a stain on the reputation of upstanding Negroes such as myself--but it nonetheless served as my comedic inspiration for the night.

In the episode, Will boasted about his sexual prowess, as he often did: "I'm the Man [comedic pause] Dingo!," he said. "Nah meeean?" I laughed at the cleverness of his pun. There was a small eruption of toothpaste from my mouth, which left little minty blue specks on my yellow couch and my favorite threadbare T-shirt. Mandingo. Good one, Will! Think I'll use that myself.

When My Lady entered from the the bedroom, O.F.A (pronounced o-FAY) Negro jumped on the ever-so-fleeting opportunity to recycle a corny joke. With my head tilted back to prevent drippage of the Colgate Total (Plus Whitening) froth, I gargled, "I'm the Man. Dingo." She looked at me quizzically. I repeated, "I'm the Man,"--drip drip slurp--"Dingo!" No response. My Lady retreated to the bedroom. Either O.F.A Negro was having an off night (which seldom, seldom occurs), or he needed to spit out the four fluid ounces of blue liquid from his mouth in order to better e-nun-ci-ate the punch line.

After a good rinse with tasty Houston tap water, I joined My Lady in the bedroom and said, with perfect diction, "I'm the Man. Dingo. Mandingo! Get it? Will said he was the Man and the Mandingo."

"Huh," she said. "What's a Mandingo?"

Dictionary.com defines Mandingo as a member of the peoples inhabiting the area of the upper Niger River valley of Western Africa. Your Average Negro, on the other hand, defines Mandingo as an African spear-chucker with a dick so long it drags in the sand, or perhaps more aptly, the Quintessential African (whose blog is coming soon).

Our miscommunication was due to the fact that My Lady was not raised by Negroes. She and I are what was once commonly referred to as an "interracial couple." I'm a Negro. She is of an ambiguous background--appearing Puerto Rican, Dominican, Asian or Octoroon depending on the light. In many ways she is more Negro than I, but every once in a while I have to break down the Negro lingo. In those rare instances, Etymologist Negro explains the socio-cultural roots of language so that, should she hear the joke again, she'll be ready to laugh until she makes that crackling sound at the back of her throat. O.F.A Negro is convinced that that's what love is all about. If he's wrong, at least My Lady can call him Mandingo when he comes to bed at night.

Birth of a Negro

2005-06-21T12:12:00.000-07:00

I live in a luxury apartment complex in Houston, which, most of the time, affords me a considerable amount privacy. Last night around ten there was a knock at my door, an unusual occurence, especially at the late hour. At the time, I was relaxing in my boxer briefs and a wife beater, my evening attire of choice. My Lady was wearing one of her countless night gowns, this one pink with lighter pink stripes. It was baggy, and sometimes her boobs popped out. Neither of us were dressed for company.

Because I was on the phone with a friend discussing my reluctance to apply to law school despite mounting pressure, My Lady went to answer the door in my stead. Through the peep hole, she saw a young, probably harmless white guy who wore a beard and a baseball cap. He was most likely a college student. He mumbled on and on about something or another. After a few of My Lady's attempts to figure out what he wanted, I went to the door to see what was going on.

Just a little bit of background before I continue. I'm an easy going, laid back Negro. I hardly ever raise my voice. Only when I'm on roller coasters, driving my Honda or watching the game do I scream. (One time a white lady accused me of stealing my own car, but I kept my cool. I'm no coon. It just takes a whole lot for me to get angry. Call me Patient Negro.) I might holler when I'm home in Atlanta with my folks, but that's reflective of the strange way that we communicate, not anger or sadness or any other causes/effects of family dysfunction.

But last night, I approached the door a new man: Scary Negro. I yelled through the door, asking the kid who he was looking for. (Never open the door for strangers, especially when wearing your drawers.) He continued to mumble, so I yelled louder. Eventually he managed to communicate that he was a paper boy looking to sell subscriptions to the Houston Chronicle, a terrible paper. I told that fool to keep on moving. I turned around to see My Lady, who was then chopping her veggies on the cutting board.

"That was mean," she said. "That's the new me," I promptly replied. And I meant it. I resumed my telephone conversation about the woes of the legal profession.

My personality transition (from Patient to Scary Negro) was inspired by months and months of public humiliation at my last job at the hands of my former editor. (I'm a journalist.) She would scream at me in front of the other staff writers. She cussed me out. She made me feel as if I didn't belong in the newsroom, which I had only recently joined. I accepted her affronts without challenge, and with the bite of my lip, went on my way. I wanted so badly to gain acceptance, to fit in, to take the next step in my career. But what did it get me? Not a damn thing. I'm unemployed now, a temp worker looking for the next gig. Call me Broke, Unemployed and a Little Bit Depressed Negro.

The newspaper man didn't deserve what he got. Scary Negro flexed his muscles against a powerless kid. What kind of show of fortitude was that? But maybe it was a start. Maybe the next time a supervisor gives me bullshit, Scary Negro will be that much more ready. Back the fuck up and get out of my way. Please.

Quint Chillin' like a Villain

2005-06-14T21:01:00.000-07:00

Quint in Zimbabwe

2005-06-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

Self Portrait

2005-06-14T20:56:00.000-07:00