An appreciation, tongue-in-cheek response to Trey Ellis' marvelous essay, "The New Black Aesthetic."
(Thanks Trey)
Hear ye, Hear ye, As Trey Ellis descends upon the masses within his ivory tower and bellows black blued blood buppie bruhaha. Hark the coming of the cultural mulatto! I stare at the blank white screen of my lap- determine to unleash an acid tongue rebuttal at Harvard, Oxford or wherever this preppy frat boy hails from will have to wait. Class has ended and my hostile jab has to be placed on hold.
It is time go. Catching up with my African American literature professor, I want to continue our discussion of publishing avenues for the unpublished college student. Several students are waiting outside his office so we promise to speak further on the subject- perhaps we can have brunch over the summer, I don’t know but I’ll pose the option to him.
Annoyed with Mr. Ellis and processing his essay I know I most respond somehow. But in my current state I know I would only produce further rage at the uppity negro from upper east coast.
Normally I’d go home and vent to my domestic partner but he’s in Saigon for the next 6 months no doubt trying to flip a commitment ceremony into a wedding. I try explaining to him that I commit ceremony in front of family and friends don’t constitute a gay. Somehow my execution of this point is lost in translation cause hasn’t been trying to hear this for the past 10 months- damn, we have an anniversary coming up. I don’t maybe in his country they’ll co-sign wedding where I come from, it’s a commitment ceremony.
A Work out. Good idea. But where. I could cool off by hitting the Jacuzzi at 24hrs sports club in Rancho Cucamonga. Nah I wanna lift, not chill. Bally total fitness is next door in upland. Its nearly noon and that place is sure to be packed by lunch time crowd of yuppies and mall workers. Fontana. I’ll work out in Fontana.
In the car and turning on the ignition I’m immediately met by Mary J, no offense baby girl I need to be without you. I have words for Trey Ellis and I need to gather them.
Still steamed over the idea of an upper middle class ivy league frat boy’s nerve at sweeping social commentary of the “black” experience. As if he has a class what me and boys face living in an urban ghetto. In an effort to solidify my contempt with all of my quasi-intellectual might, I summon the spirits of bell hooks, Amiri Baraka, and Michael Foucault to help shape my fight plan against Ellis and I’m met with silence. And in futile moment of desperation I even drag out the royal corpse of Richard Wright and in the presence of sir Richard I’m once again met with silence. Finally I reach for Zora Neale Hurston in an effort to express my true and only indifference to the silver spooned upstart- “Homeboy ain’t from ma hood, though!”
Ten minutes later and I’m at my home gym in Fontana. As I enter the reception area I’m met with the image of Enrique dropping it like its hot to the new Shikira and Wyclef rap, hip-hop, salsa, skaish remix hybrid thing. I’m greeted with a broad smile by Lupe. Lupe and I are very familiar with our ritual and she gets a kick out of it. “hi. How are you? She offers in her mother tongue. Followed by an eager smirk as she awaits my reply… “muy bien bien,” I offer in my pathetic Americanized attempt at her language. Enrique laughs and chimes matching lupe’s bemused enthusiastic, replies “bien bien- you speak Spanish?” “Muy pacito.” I reply. They laugh and I deadpan, Why you clowning me, though? Tossing her back with laughter, Lupe offers a mock sympathetic “Poor Rosito!“ and Within seconds and covered hip to toe in the petite Latina. Giving me a peck on the cheek, she tells me that, Jose, my personal trainer, wants to reschedule my monyana secession.
I meet with Jose, we reschedule the appointment and he lectures me about my food intake- “I know, I know- energy in/energy out. Yadda, yadda, yadda.” On my way to the locker room I’m greeted by Zaire who compliments me on how trim and cut I’m getting. He asks if I’ve gotten the 6pack that I’m determined to get before the summer, “not yet” I inform him “I’m at a 4 pack though and working on it. When I suggest he gets some sessions, he scuffs at the idea. He replies keep up the good work, the training seems to be paying off but “do ya thing dawg, some of us ain’t able.”
Changed and ready to get started, I set my ipod soon as I place the earphone Steve Tyler and his boys are extolling the virtues and hazards of living on the edge. No I’m not in an Areosmith mood. I fast forward quickly over the metal- I mean I’m annoyed not piss. I release the button and the sweet voice of Leann Womack’s I hope you dance plays- nah, way to sweet. An hour later DMX, Digiable Planets and Ja rule- early Ja not the Hip Pop Jlo crap, has gotten me through a vigorous workout and I’m ready for round two with Ellis.
I need to deal with Tre and his cultural mulatto crap but where? Have lap top will travel- Starbucks! Of course, which one? Rialto, nah way too ghetto, kids, trash, and hip-hop blurring, I need a more sooth my simmering roar against Ellis. Claremont- the village. Way too clean, sedate and sanitized. Rancho! Why not a happy middle. Back into the car I’m greeted with greeted with Ice cube- I love his new track. However my rinky dink system can’t handle the bass so all I’m really hearing is static- hmmp, Mr Tre bougize Ellis didn’t put that in his essay did he, “what he know ‘bout that!?”
10 minutes later I’m entering Starbucks, I’m met with James Blunt’s familiar falsetto screetch/croak in the background and Skyler Blue Eyes eager to take my order. Flashing the pearly whites that would make Paul Wall’s platinum coated grill appear dull in comparison, Skyler expresses how happy he is to once again see me and ask what am I working on this time- what else? African American lit as usually. He points out my regular table and I position myself to wait for a venti- triple shot vanilla cappuccino, with an extra shot of caramel, made with low fat soy.
As I wait, I ponder what exactly annoys me about the new Blunt CD that Skyler blue eyes gushes over. Not that I’m trying to hate on blunt after all he simply another chain in a long line of middle of the road, bland, elevator music pop singers to follow in the line of Norah Jones and Diana Krawl. I mean these neuvo pop purest couldn’t hold a candle to Rick Lee Jones, Kate Bush in her prime and Tori Amos at her best or even Tracy Chapman at her worse. I won’t punk the earnest pop prince and princesses by harkening back to Billie Holiday, Joan Armastrading, or Nina Simone in terms of grit and depth. An Earnest elocution and bleeding heart lyrics doesn’t necessarily add-up to style and individuality. But who am I to piss on their 15 minutes of fame, afterall its an alternative to Britney.
These thoughts are broken by Skyler’s singsong announcement of my 6 dollar buzz. Skyler bounces to the counter flashing his American Idol smile and present my buzz as blonde highlight dance before his eyes. As usually he cups and hand and softly taps my wrists as I grab hold of the pipping hot legal crack. And I think, “is he flirting with me?” gazing into the blue eyes I remember the rainbow flag key chain hanging from his back pocket and I think, maybe he is. How cute. I think wait till my boys here about this, nah, they ain’t trying to hear this- as homophobic as they are. They only put up with me ‘cause I don’t act like it.
I don’t have time for this child. I have pressing issues to take up with Mr. Tre Ellis and cultural mulatto bullshit and how this ivy leagued, elitest frat boy has the unmitigated unabashed gall to reference me, my boys, and my hood in his propaganda. Alright Tre what is this multi-cultural mulatto bullshit me and my boys are suppose to live in?
It is time go. Catching up with my African American literature professor, I want to continue our discussion of publishing avenues for the unpublished college student. Several students are waiting outside his office so we promise to speak further on the subject- perhaps we can have brunch over the summer, I don’t know but I’ll pose the option to him.
Annoyed with Mr. Ellis and processing his essay I know I most respond somehow. But in my current state I know I would only produce further rage at the uppity negro from upper east coast.
Normally I’d go home and vent to my domestic partner but he’s in Saigon for the next 6 months no doubt trying to flip a commitment ceremony into a wedding. I try explaining to him that I commit ceremony in front of family and friends don’t constitute a gay. Somehow my execution of this point is lost in translation cause hasn’t been trying to hear this for the past 10 months- damn, we have an anniversary coming up. I don’t maybe in his country they’ll co-sign wedding where I come from, it’s a commitment ceremony.
A Work out. Good idea. But where. I could cool off by hitting the Jacuzzi at 24hrs sports club in Rancho Cucamonga. Nah I wanna lift, not chill. Bally total fitness is next door in upland. Its nearly noon and that place is sure to be packed by lunch time crowd of yuppies and mall workers. Fontana. I’ll work out in Fontana.
In the car and turning on the ignition I’m immediately met by Mary J, no offense baby girl I need to be without you. I have words for Trey Ellis and I need to gather them.
Still steamed over the idea of an upper middle class ivy league frat boy’s nerve at sweeping social commentary of the “black” experience. As if he has a class what me and boys face living in an urban ghetto. In an effort to solidify my contempt with all of my quasi-intellectual might, I summon the spirits of bell hooks, Amiri Baraka, and Michael Foucault to help shape my fight plan against Ellis and I’m met with silence. And in futile moment of desperation I even drag out the royal corpse of Richard Wright and in the presence of sir Richard I’m once again met with silence. Finally I reach for Zora Neale Hurston in an effort to express my true and only indifference to the silver spooned upstart- “Homeboy ain’t from ma hood, though!”
Ten minutes later and I’m at my home gym in Fontana. As I enter the reception area I’m met with the image of Enrique dropping it like its hot to the new Shikira and Wyclef rap, hip-hop, salsa, skaish remix hybrid thing. I’m greeted with a broad smile by Lupe. Lupe and I are very familiar with our ritual and she gets a kick out of it. “hi. How are you? She offers in her mother tongue. Followed by an eager smirk as she awaits my reply… “muy bien bien,” I offer in my pathetic Americanized attempt at her language. Enrique laughs and chimes matching lupe’s bemused enthusiastic, replies “bien bien- you speak Spanish?” “Muy pacito.” I reply. They laugh and I deadpan, Why you clowning me, though? Tossing her back with laughter, Lupe offers a mock sympathetic “Poor Rosito!“ and Within seconds and covered hip to toe in the petite Latina. Giving me a peck on the cheek, she tells me that, Jose, my personal trainer, wants to reschedule my monyana secession.
I meet with Jose, we reschedule the appointment and he lectures me about my food intake- “I know, I know- energy in/energy out. Yadda, yadda, yadda.” On my way to the locker room I’m greeted by Zaire who compliments me on how trim and cut I’m getting. He asks if I’ve gotten the 6pack that I’m determined to get before the summer, “not yet” I inform him “I’m at a 4 pack though and working on it. When I suggest he gets some sessions, he scuffs at the idea. He replies keep up the good work, the training seems to be paying off but “do ya thing dawg, some of us ain’t able.”
Changed and ready to get started, I set my ipod soon as I place the earphone Steve Tyler and his boys are extolling the virtues and hazards of living on the edge. No I’m not in an Areosmith mood. I fast forward quickly over the metal- I mean I’m annoyed not piss. I release the button and the sweet voice of Leann Womack’s I hope you dance plays- nah, way to sweet. An hour later DMX, Digiable Planets and Ja rule- early Ja not the Hip Pop Jlo crap, has gotten me through a vigorous workout and I’m ready for round two with Ellis.
I need to deal with Tre and his cultural mulatto crap but where? Have lap top will travel- Starbucks! Of course, which one? Rialto, nah way too ghetto, kids, trash, and hip-hop blurring, I need a more sooth my simmering roar against Ellis. Claremont- the village. Way too clean, sedate and sanitized. Rancho! Why not a happy middle. Back into the car I’m greeted with greeted with Ice cube- I love his new track. However my rinky dink system can’t handle the bass so all I’m really hearing is static- hmmp, Mr Tre bougize Ellis didn’t put that in his essay did he, “what he know ‘bout that!?”
10 minutes later I’m entering Starbucks, I’m met with James Blunt’s familiar falsetto screetch/croak in the background and Skyler Blue Eyes eager to take my order. Flashing the pearly whites that would make Paul Wall’s platinum coated grill appear dull in comparison, Skyler expresses how happy he is to once again see me and ask what am I working on this time- what else? African American lit as usually. He points out my regular table and I position myself to wait for a venti- triple shot vanilla cappuccino, with an extra shot of caramel, made with low fat soy.
As I wait, I ponder what exactly annoys me about the new Blunt CD that Skyler blue eyes gushes over. Not that I’m trying to hate on blunt after all he simply another chain in a long line of middle of the road, bland, elevator music pop singers to follow in the line of Norah Jones and Diana Krawl. I mean these neuvo pop purest couldn’t hold a candle to Rick Lee Jones, Kate Bush in her prime and Tori Amos at her best or even Tracy Chapman at her worse. I won’t punk the earnest pop prince and princesses by harkening back to Billie Holiday, Joan Armastrading, or Nina Simone in terms of grit and depth. An Earnest elocution and bleeding heart lyrics doesn’t necessarily add-up to style and individuality. But who am I to piss on their 15 minutes of fame, afterall its an alternative to Britney.
These thoughts are broken by Skyler’s singsong announcement of my 6 dollar buzz. Skyler bounces to the counter flashing his American Idol smile and present my buzz as blonde highlight dance before his eyes. As usually he cups and hand and softly taps my wrists as I grab hold of the pipping hot legal crack. And I think, “is he flirting with me?” gazing into the blue eyes I remember the rainbow flag key chain hanging from his back pocket and I think, maybe he is. How cute. I think wait till my boys here about this, nah, they ain’t trying to hear this- as homophobic as they are. They only put up with me ‘cause I don’t act like it.
I don’t have time for this child. I have pressing issues to take up with Mr. Tre Ellis and cultural mulatto bullshit and how this ivy leagued, elitest frat boy has the unmitigated unabashed gall to reference me, my boys, and my hood in his propaganda. Alright Tre what is this multi-cultural mulatto bullshit me and my boys are suppose to live in?
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