I’m Colored? Oh, Word?

Sometimes I forget that I’m colored. This may be a shock my tens of thousands* of readers, but it’s true. It may seem like I rag on white people in every other post, at least. Like here. And here. Or here. You get the idea.

* Only suckers trust site statistics provided by The Man. Independent audits place readership somewhere between 6 and 78,342.

It is truer to say that I usually don’t think about my ethnicity and skin tone until: 1) I see the police, 2) I see a colored baby and want to make one of my own, or 3) black or white people remind me that I’m neither.

(#3 most often occurs in a sci-fi nightmare I have about a raging post-apocalyptic race war, in which brown people are forced to choose sides. Oddly enough, this is a scenario I also imagine playing out when I get married.)

On a good day, I don’t have to ethnically or racially frame every last one of my day-to-day activities. I don’t wake up each morning and think, “Mmmm, I can’t wait to have my Indalian breakfast,” and then tuck into a plate of cold dal sopped up with a biscotti, washed down with espresso and a tall glass of mango lassi. No; I just drink coffee and eat breakfast. Whether I bust out one of my ethnic tunics or select one of a number of almost identical v-neck sweaters, most days I get out of the shower, catch myself in the mirror and think, “Oh dear Lord she’s naked! CLOTHING! IMMEDIATELY!” Much to my mother’s dismay, I don’t wear makeup to work. This means I don’t start my day thinking about the fact that I’m a TruBlend foundation shade “Honey Beige,” as opposed to the Bollywood beautiful “Porcelain.”

(“V-neck sweaters and no make up,” you’re thinking. “Wowza!” It’s true. My agent is always telling me to get into the entertainment television business. I have to say, “No Perry, my imaginary agent, think of how many more people I can reach through my humor blog.”)

With my un-ethnically-qualified breakfast in my tummy, naked form covered in what I deem to be normal clothing, and anguished complexion crisis avoided, I head out to work! On my way to the subway I pass black, white, and Latino homeless men. I’m overcome with a sense of across-the-board racially inclusive guilt. I feel discouraged and angry on behalf of everyone, which is productive.

I can sometimes make it all the way to 3 or 4 PM before first thinking, “Oh right, I’m colored. Fucking white people.”

It’s during these stretches of ethnic amnesia, my mind adrift in post-racial La-La Land, that I sometimes get myself into mini-identity-conundrums. For example, when I insist that a friend watch the movie Something New, because it’s one of my favorite romantic comedies of all time. And then she sees the film. Though she thinks it was “okay” (NOT TRUE, you know-nothing dilettante!), she’s confused as to why I failed to mention the it was a . . . Black romantic comedy. (Awkward. I forgot that not every romantic comedy features interracial love interests arguing about “weaves versus real hair” and the “the black tax.” My bad. Something New is indeed a Black romantic comedy.)

At least I’m usually not sitting on the couch between my friend and her unsuspecting Caucasian significant other when, fifteen minutes into the movie, they have to pause to ask each other, “Is this a—”

“Yeah, I think it is,” my friend concedes. “Sorry; I didn’t realize.”

“No,” the significant jumps in, “it’s fine.”

“Jana’s really into this kind of stuff,” the friend offers. “But she didn’t tell me it was a . . . Black movie.”

“ . . . Weird,” the significant other offers.

“Yeah; she is.”

Then they turn the movie back on, because neither wants the other to think that he or she is a racist.

Unfortunately sometimes, like last Sunday, I am sitting right next to my unwitting white companion as it slowly, but surely, dawns upon us that I racially blacked-out for just a second [Pun. Ha.], and have taken us to an almost exclusively non-white event.

I wanted to spend some quality time with a dear friend before he left to do some super-useful microfinance work in Uganda. (Jews; they are so smart.) I immediately suggested we see a play together. There are few people I know who appreciate the art of non-talking quality time like Mr. Microfinance. I force him to remain my friend so we can keep talking and not talking . . . forever.

It was not until we were on our way to the theater that Mr. Microfinance inquired as to the subject matter of the play. At which point it struck me, for the first time, that I was taking him to see a piece of “urban” theater.

Translation: I knew the play was about a Black family. I wasn’t sure just how Black the play was going to be. Would it be “A Raisin in the Sun” Black? “The Tempest” with an all-black-cast Black? Or was it modern multicultural Black—with a white prostitute and Spanish-speaking priest thrown in for good measure?

In an off-Broadway theater with 100 seats, would there be any other white people in the audience? In an off-Broadway theater, for a Sunday matinee, would there be any other colored people in the audience?

Damn you, ethnic amnesia!

It was a fine play. It was a lovely theatrical experience. The predominantly non-white audience wasn’t required to take part in an audience participation portion where we stood up and testified to the injustices suffered under The White Man.

There was a disturbing sub-plot that involved explorations of the black body in relation to the suspect medical establishment, à la the Tuskegee Syphilis Study. Obviously, my friend understood these to be strictly “No Laughing” sections of the play.

Knowing that Mr. Microfinance would have zero interest in talking about just how Black the play was provided me with a great sense relief. I unknit my brown brow and laughed heartily at all the colored-community humor that was thrown around.

Only once, when I cackled particularly loud after an, “Mmmmm chile’, you ain’t kiddin’,” line (eye-roll included), did I steal a glance at my companion. Mr. Microfinance was mid-yawn—though he was covering his mouth, which I appreciated.

“Oh right,” I thought, as I sat back and recovered from my unbecoming guffaw, “I’m colored.”

In the dark, I’d almost forgotten.