[Disclaimer: This post contains repeated use of the word Nigga. Not the "N" word. Nigga. If you're squeamish about this sorta thing, click here. Otherwise, I shall, proceed, and continue...]Folks who know me personally know I'm a pretty even keeled dude.
I don't have a jail record. I've never owned a gun. I can't say I've ever technically called a woman a bitch (not to her face at least, and dammit, if she ain't come to the club to dance, then what the hell she come here for?). I have only one AverageBaby, whom I had after marrying AverageSis. There is no AverageBabyMoms. I live in the burbs. I grew up in the burbs. I tried weed once, but didn't inhale. I have white neighbors. Not only do I talk to them, I actually like them. They read this blog. They're down assed folks. I rarely drink. My idea of a great weekend in chilltime with the family. I rarely curse, except on this blog of course. I vote. AverageSis usually knows my whereabouts. I listen to talk radio and actually use my library card. I'd have trouble finding a street corner in my neighborhood, so it's fair to say that I don't frequent them often. I spend 4 nights a week at church on average. I work for The Man, and personally, I like the size of the checks he provides. There is no Grand Hustle. There are no secrets in the closet. I am definitely not a P.I.M.P. It is 2007, and I still can't quite figure out
The Harlem Shake or The Chicken Noodle Soup.
To the uninitiated, this educated black man is a square.
Personally, I don't really have a problem being labeled that. I prefer terms like "responsible", "God-fearing", and "husband/father", but call me what you wanna. No biggie.
One thing you'd probably
NOT classify me as is a "nigga".
Most of my general behavior is decidedly anti-Niggerish. As Carter G. Woodson would say "my education makes this necessary". As my Daddy used to say "you ain't ruinin' my good name". I wasn't raised by wolves, I was raised by two sensible parents who gave me just enough rope to explore the world without quite hanging myself. Even though AverageDad is no longer with us, I try and uphold what he told me in my everyday life.
So, if you're using Chris Rock's brilliant
Black Folks vs Niggas routine to categorize me, I would inevitably be described as the former.
Sometimes though, situations dictate that you summon that Nigga inside you. My boy C back in college used to refer to this as "callin' Nigga". My Pastor (seriously, my church is a little different) the other day said sometimes you have to "bring your nigga side out". The more I think about this, "channelling your inner nigga" is an essential survival skill for a black man in America, just as crucial as
code switching, functional literacy, and a
wicked crossover dribble. Real Talk.
Yesterday was a classic example of when "Going Nigga" was necessary. I've been nursing an allergy related cold all week, and my voice was damn near non-existent. I had a huge presentation at the Day Job today, and needed some meds to get me back on track. So, I stop at the local Giant grocery to grab some lemons, ginger, and other stuff that AverageSis uses to brew up an extra gully home remedy.
I copped my items in less than a minute and headed to checkout. But wouldn't you know, it's 4pm, the store is crowded, all of the self-check registers are out of commission,
and there are TWO REGISTERS OPEN. The lines are like 12-15 deep each, even the '10 Items or Less' Express lane.
Of course, a cursory glance at the customer service desk shows 4-5 cashiers huddled around a copy of Vibe magazine, looking at who knows what. Even the cat who wears the Manager smock was just standing around. I'm standing at position 13 of 15 in a line full of Senior citizens. A quick 3 and Out trip to the store is beginning to look like a 20 minutes of my life I will nevar, evar get back. I get agitated.
Ruh Roh.
It's time to Channel my Inner Nigga!!!!
"Would one of ya'll get off your asses and open a GD Register!!!!"Yes, I said these exact words. And nothing happened. Then it suddenly hit me.
I have laryngitis.
Magically, even though my words weren't audible to anyone other than the elderly woman in front of me, three of the cashiers managed to pry themselves away from the magazine long enough to open their registers. Within 2 minutes, I was checked out, in my car, and on my way to a rejuvenated voice and solid footing with The Day Job.
Channelling your Inner Nigga works. Try it in controlled doses sometime.
Just don't live it.
There is a such thing as too much.
