There I am. Friday night. Looking forward to the Cherry Soaking In Rye at the bottom of my Manhattan, trying not to spill My First Cocktail in a crowded bar.
I didn’t even have a chance to nod a toast to the BFF accompanying me before a stranger shouts, “Nice hair.” In My Face.
Okay, so, I should probably explain something.
According to the Women’s Magazines I That Helped Navigate The Early Puberty, there are three types of hair that Caucasian Cis Hetero-Females fashion in for themselves in various modes to catch the eye of a potential vaguely Caucasian Cis Hetero-Males Looking at the Glossies, you have your Stick Straight, your Long Thick to Thin Mostly Wavy With A Touch of Frizz (and usually dry due to the amount of Straight Ironing it withstood), and your Hinting At Kink But Ambiguously Curlier Than That.
My hair grows beyond That Thunderdome.
Strangers frequently reach to boing my curls without being invited, or find it's a Good Way to Start a Conversation on Race/Ethnicity.
I deliver a curt “Thank you.” It is the end of a particularly long day.
BFF and I shuffle through the loud crowd to an "Open Spot." I am in the middle of an anecdote with the BFF when Stranger is In My Face once more. “Your hair makesh it look like you’re Mixshed Race.” He slurs a bit.
“Everyone always thinks that,” I chuckle for those two uncomfortable beats between G.T.F.O and A/S/L.
“Where are you from?” Uh oh.
Begin Liz Lemon Epic Eye Roll.
Alas, I am a bait-taker. “Where do you think I’m from?”
“What're you, like Quadroon?”
Not Quadroon, I am speechless.
Still breathing, “It’s cool if you are, I have a nephew who is quadroon? Or are you octoroon?” He makes no statement, has no purpose, everything ticks up to the question.
As an English Major, I am unaware people still employ such terms.
The last time I read such terms, I was agonizing throughAbsalom, Absalom, and it was William Faulkner who was using them, to taste.
More recently, I discovered The Landlord by Hal "Harold & Maude" Ashby, the main character Elgar inciting racial sensibilities while referring to his dark heritage.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the artistic value of fighting words. In works of literature--or more recently, Quentin Tarantino movies, the N-word and its ilk-diluted can provide important context clues.
What I should have said, “Actually, I prefer the term mulatto,”
But my dismissals aren't firming. “How many drinks have you had?”
Due to the crowd, his presence didn't dissipate.
“I haven’t even enjoyed my first!”
Rebuffed. Insulted. Unsatisfied. “What did I ever do to you?” Huffing away, “I’m done.”
At. Last.
