I waited five minutes before calling Rob on his cell phone to explain my sudden lapse into patois. He picked up on the second ring.
“I’m glad you called. I thought maybe you had a thing with your next-door neighbor,” Rob said.
“What? What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, shocked at the mention of my next-door neighbor.
“Damn, calm down, I was just kidding. I should think you don’t mess with teenagers.” I wanted to strangle Rob through the phone. I felt like my heart was pounding into my throat.
“He does have a crush on you, though. He said I was lucky to have an island girl and asked what island you were from.”
My heart began double-pumping and I started to sweat.
“And what did you tell him?” I screamed, even though I knew I should have been whispering. If Gene was in his apartment, he could probably hear my whole conversation.
“Damn, what is wrong with you? I’m not telling you anything if you don’t stop yelling,” Rob said.
I agreed only because I needed to hear the rest of the story to know whether I needed to pack my shit and go right away.
“I told him you were from a part of Jamaica called Southwest Philly,” Rob said, and chuckled. Oh, so Rob’s a comedian now? I should have known he thought he was funny when he touched my suede skirt before dinner and asked, “Is this felt? Well, it is now.” Who does he think he is, making jokes to Gene about me?
Rob was probably afraid of Gene’s thug act, the way he leaned against the wall outside like he built it and spat on the ground like he was marking his turf via saliva, so he said something to try to make him laugh. I know all about using humor to shield yourself from people you think can kill you. That’s partially how I got myself through junior high. But Rob had no right to tell Gene where I was from.
“Well, Robert. Congratulations. You just killed your date.” I said this slowly and calmly, enunciating each letter, and slammed down the phone. My mind was racing. Should I call the police? Should I go outside and try to make some truce with Gene? Should I tell him my upstairs neighbor was the snitch and I’d beat her up for him if he wanted me to?
The next night when I left work, I got in my car and prayed for ten straight minutes. I haven’t prayed that long since Catholic school. I promised God I wouldn’t ask for anything else if he’d protect me from Gene.
When I rounded the corner to my street, Gene stared at me from the moment I hit the block. I looked up at him as I approached and nodded. As I put my key in the door, he said, “Let me ask you something. Did you call the SPCA on me?” As if on cue, the little pit bull ran out of the house and scampered up to me, his tail wagging. I shrank back from the pit bull like I was afraid of it, with just the tiniest hope that my badly acted fear of the dog would make Gene think I hated dogs and was the last person who would call the SPCA. It took everything I had to act disgusted by that puppy. I coo audibly whenever I see cute small things; dogs, babies, penises, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a natural reaction. The dog couldn’t sense my fake fear and started licking my leg.
Gene walked over toward me and the puppy. I kept my eye on Gene in an “If you try anything dumb, I will kill you” fashion, knowing the only weapon I had on me was a rusted can of pepper spray I’d never tested. Shit, I wish I knew where Gene bought his gun. Oh, I can’t get one anyway because of my mental health record. Damn the law.
Gene stood right in my face, his puppy nipping at my skirt. I held my keys in between my fingers, ready to puncture his eyeballs if he made one sudden move. We held each other’s gaze for a second, then Gene reached down and scooped up his puppy. As he walked away, he called out to me. “My sister wants to have some words with you when she gets home.”
I relaxed my grip on my keys and let myself in the front door. I got out of being shot by Gene, but dammit, I’m not fighting a thirteen-year-old girl. This is no way to live, I decided. I don’t believe in what my ex’s mother, the DC socialite said, but I know I’m not ready yet. I can’t throw myself into the hood and change everything.
But I couldn’t tell my mother all that. I just told her I needed a change. She didn’t need to know I’d been a prisoner in my own home, never going out when I knew Gene’s sister was outside. She didn’t need to know that I moved to the hood and the only thing I (possibly) helped was a puppy.
“Well, if you’re sure, I support you,” my mother said. “Promise me you won’t wear red or blue. Ever,” she said, throwing my blue jeans into the Goodwill bin.
My Impossible Self
In American English, mulatto traces the distance from a contaminant. In eighteenth-century Latin America, mulatto was only one pinion on a carnival wheel. In the United States of the eighteenth century, the condition of mulatto was an offense when it was thought to issue from black male desire. When mulatto was the issue of white male desire, mulatto was unspoken, invisible, impossible.
—Richard Rodriguez, Brown: The Last Discovery of America
Two years to the day after I graduated from college, I became a stripper and had to forget I was black.
First things first. Why would I strip? I just wanted to. It’s one item on my long list of things I wanted to do before I die. Get my degree no matter how much debt I accumulate—done! Take my outdoors-loving cat to the park on a leash and walk him like a dog and not care how anyone stares at me—done! See if I had the courage to strip in front of strangers—not done! I still had about a month left before I moved to Los Angeles, so I would have to do it someplace far, far away from Philly. Like Jersey. Or Delaware. I didn’t want some customer guy recognizing my curls while I was at a goodbye dinner with my mother and thanking me for the lap dance.
My stripper friend-of-a-friend, Morgan, suspected me of playing a prank on her when I called to inquire about an out-of-state place where I could dance.
Morgan shrieked. “Girl, when I started stripping you said it was because I have father issues! I know you’re not stripping!”
“Morgan, that was back when I was young and judgmental. Okay, and I was jealous because I was two hundred pounds and couldn’t strip. Not for money, anyway,” I explained. “You know I live and let live now.”
“Whew, then you having this desire to strip is some kinda serious karma for you, isn’t it? Isn’t it amazing how the universe presents lessons on being nonjudgmental? Anyway, we gotta get you some booty shorts and shit,” Morgan said, in the same tone of voice one would use to mention they had to get some milk. “You can come with me and apply during my shift tonight. I’m in Delaware now. Tax laws are better down here and it’s illegal to show full tit.”
A couple of hours later, I was shopping on South Street with Morgan. It’s a street best known for tattoo shops and hemp bracelet stores, where twentysomethings with blue hair walk next to teenage girls who look like they’ve just stepped out of a rap video. I’d been on this street numerous times; I’d been sneaking here since I was fifteen and told my mother I was going to the library. I thought I’d seen every square foot of every touristy trinket shop on the street, but with Morgan as my co-shopper, clerks led us into secret back rooms and upstairs areas away from the Philly Cheesesteak T-shirts and Liberty Bell alarm clocks. I felt like I was in one of those mansions I used to see on TV where rich people would press a button and an entire wall of books swiveled to reveal a safe.
These hidden rooms had stripper clothes with cutouts anyplace you wanted. There were also handmade originals for the more seasoned dancer. Is your favorite client too discriminating for your standard schoolgirl or nurse fantasy? He’s always had a crush on Glenda the Good Witch? You’re in luck, because her outfit is back here in thong style, complete with magic wand, which I assumed could be used to hit low-tipping patrons on the head.
After we visited three stores, Morgan took me to her favorite one. It had a pole in each dressing room so you could see if your outfit stretched enough for your routine. I could never play poker— my face gives away every thought going through my min
d—so it didn’t surprise me when a tired-looking blond girl with a mouth outlined in a lipliner three shades darker than her lipstick asked me if I was overwhelmed.
“First time? Well, if I could suggest something, I’d play up your exoticness.”
If she was still reading my face, she’d know I was a little thrown off by her comment. I didn’t think anyone would call me exotic in a clothing store for exotic dancers. White people love to say I look exotic. Black people like to dig around in my hair for answers to my ancestry (“I know you at least got a white grandmother hidden in those curls!”), but they will never come straight out and ask “What are you?” without the hair segue, and they damn sure don’t call me exotic. Iman looks exotic. I look light-skinned and, perhaps, mixed.
White people, when in places where it’s somewhat acceptable to comment on people’s appearances (makeup counters, men buying you drinks in bars) usually go straight to “What are you?” or the aforementioned less-intrusive-sounding “You’re so exotic!” followed by “Where are you from?” Sometimes I can’t help but laugh out loud at how funny calling me exotic is. I grew up with dogs and took ballet lessons at the local YMCA. I had a crush on Ricky Schroder from Silver Spoons and, later, Cockroach from The Cosby Show. I got excited over spelling bees until I discovered boys. How much more American and unexotic can you get?
Whatever the race of the person asking questions about my background, I’m always embarrassed because it takes a normal situation (like shopping in exotic-dancer stores) and throws a spotlight on me. I like to choose when I make a spectacle of myself, thank you very much. Plus, though I try to hide it, it hurts especially when a black woman asks if I’m mixed. I always take it to mean that she doesn’t see me as she sees herself, that I’m still not black enough, no matter how comfortable I feel checking off that box.
I feel an overwhelming need to prove myself to black women who question me, to tell them that no one on the white side of my family has called me since I was in the ninth grade. To explain that I love my mother and use her as the barometer of what I should be as I grow older: beautiful, strong, and black. “Girl, I don’t even remember how to be half white!” I want to say. Occasionally, I want to give a smart-ass reply. “This is America, what color do you think I am?” Instead, I lie. To protect my feelings, I usually reply with a curt “I’m all black” in a tone that says, This conversation is over.
The blond shopgirl really wanted her sale and was convinced that commenting on my looks was the way to accomplish her goal. “Really,” she continued. “You should play up that cultural thing. Where are you from?”
I had to answer the question in a way that would make her shut up and get on with the sale. I didn’t need her telling me how her dad once had a Mexican mistress or have her feeling safe enough with my white side to whisper that she’s always wanted to sleep with a black man (that’s happened before—in a supermarket). I also wasn’t sure if Morgan knew my dad is white, and I didn’t want her to treat me differently right before escorting me into a house of dubious repute for the first time.
I took the safe route and responded as if I was dumb.
“I’m from here. Philly.”
“No, originally. Where are your parents from?”
“Philly, too. I’m black. Where’s your sales rack?”
After getting a bit mad at myself for letting her intrusion throw me off so much I rhymed that last sentence, I headed for the bargain booty-shorts section. Hell, I was a start-up stripper. I wasn’t spending more than I had to.
I was digging through the discount bin and I started getting pissed that I couldn’t buy a stripper outfit without potentially having to justify my self-identification and get into a discussion of how black is a set of shared experiences, not a complexion.
I wanted to get out of the store, so I grabbed the first matching sales things in my size. For $47.97, I scored pink Lucite platform heels, hot-pink boy shorts with matching bikini top, and a sheer white wrap skirt.
We were almost at Morgan’s car when we walked by a wig store, and I realized I’d forgotten to buy a wig. We rushed in and I saw a long straight auburn wig. I interrupted two salesgirls comparing the airbrush designs on their nails to ask if they had the same wig in brown and, if so, could they just slap it tight on my head because I was going to wear it out.
The two young deep-brown-skinned black women looked up and twisted their faces into an incredible mix of disgust, surprise, and disbelief. They looked at me as if I’d just bounced into their wig store buck naked and yelled, “Pack your bags, girlies, you’ve won a trip to Fiji!”
The taller girl, with green lightning bolts on all her fingernails, asked, “Who is it for, you?”
Morgan and I were running a bit late, so there was no time to let these salesgirls try to convince me not to cover up all my good hair. No time for me to make my usual self-deprecating jokes about my hair not being as good as it looks. And no way to make them understand in a short amount of time that calling my hair good hurts me deeply. If they thought my hair was good, they thought my mother’s hair was bad, and it had been that same pain of bad features that had caused her to think her mixed daughter would have it easier.
With Morgan looking at her watch, I put a little inflection in my voice that let the women know I was serious about the damn wig and they needed to get it now.
“Yes, it’s for me. Can I try it on?”
“She’s black,” Morgan chimed in for no apparent reason. I’d have to tell her later that I usually only had to say that to nonblack people.
After learning that the Gwyneth was available only in auburn, paying the mandatory dollar wig-cap try-on fee, and having the salesgirl break into a sweat trying to stuff all my hair under the wig, Morgan told me it looked great and we had to go. With my auburn hair on, we headed to Delaware and a blinding neon Tattletales sign. Morgan damn near yanked my arm off as she rushed me through the strip club door, past the cavernous main club area, and into the dressing room. It looked like the typical backstage area of any fashion show, a couple of girls getting out of street clothes, wall-to-wall mirrors, lockers, a wide array of drugstore makeup scattered all over the vanity areas. The only visible difference was the handwritten sign that said ANYONE CAUGHT GIVING EXTRAS WILL BE FIRED! Then again, we had that sign when I worked at Roy Rogers.
Morgan instructed me to stay put while she talked to Alice the House Mom, a sixty-something chubby white woman with gray hair pulled into a schoolteacher bun. I had learned from my online research that the house mom takes care of all of the dancers’ needs, from making a depressed girl smile to painstakingly applying layers of concealer to a ten-inch tattoo of an ex-flame’s name before a stripper hits the stage lights. Alice the House Mom looked like she should be judging the apple pie contest at the county fair instead of mothering strippers.
As Morgan talked to her, the dressing room door slammed open. A cute dark-haired girl rushed through the door, pissed. “Why do I sign up to work on Tuesday nights?” she whined. She snatched about twelve dollar bills from her G-string and stuffed them into her locker. I stared at her because she was about a size 14 with cellulite. I thought all the girls here would be perfect and would laugh when I auditioned. Seeing her curves gave me some relief, but I still couldn’t believe I was going to have to audition almost naked in front of Alice the House Mom. I feel weird if my cats watch me undress. How would Alice judge me? I tried to breathe through my nervousness by doing an affirmation: I’m a badass. I can be in a spotlight and feel comfortable. I deserve better than hanging out on the edge and observing. I have a great butt.
Suddenly, Morgan pointed to me, and Alice the House Mom turned her head to check out the virgin stripper.
When we made eye contact, Alice’s face relaxed a bit. Morgan started laughing.
“I was trying to tell you! She’s not black! She’s Puerto Rican, Asian, and . . . Irish,” Morgan exclaimed, laughing.
Alice relaxed her shoulders and walked over to me. “W
ell, aren’t you an exotic bitch,” she said, smiling.
This was the first time I agreed with a white person about how exotic I am. The combination Morgan threw out there was exotic. I guessed, because my wig was almost red, that Morgan threw the Irish in there at the last second. Nice touch. I knew Alice the House Mom wasn’t buying that mix, though. Was she that dumb?
“Is that your natural hair color?” Alice asked, in admiration of my synthetic locks.
Morgan, who was standing behind Alice, bugged her eyes out at me. I told Alice that it was a rinse. Wasn’t that what white girls got? I didn’t know.
“It’s nice, bitch. You can audition tonight. Use locker four. Get changed.”
Morgan grabbed me before I could unload my things into the locker. “I’m going to show her where the bathroom is.”
As Morgan pulled me out the door, Alice yelled, “What size are her nipples? About a large?”
“Probably,” Morgan yelled back.
I’d been in a strip club for five minutes, and so far I’d been stripped of my race and people were exchanging information about my nipples. This was too much! I noticed that I was sweating like a pig out of nervousness. I wanted to back out. I couldn’t get up onstage in front of these men. What was I thinking? I hated my thighs!
I was thoroughly confused. Now that we were in the bathroom, out of Alice’s earshot, I needed to ask Morgan what was going on and let her know I might bail out of this whole thing. “Morgan—”
“Shhhhh! You can’t call me that in here. It’s Coco. Coco Diamond. You gotta think of a name, too. You do not want these crazy guys knowing your damn real name. They’ll be stalking you. They are all crazy. Take it from Coco Diamond.”
Do all dancers name themselves according to their skin color? I had already heard the deejay announce a dancer named Butter Pecan. Dancers’ names are kind of like porn stars’ names, right? I remembered in high school your porn name was your pet’s name followed by the street you grew up on. I was not too sure the guys would be turned on by the deejay announcing, “Welcome to the stage the beautiful, exotic Fatty Dicks!”
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