Monologue #12 (2015)

I’m your friend. The “COOL” black girl. We will dance on Friday and Saturday but it won’t ever really go further. You will say “hay gurl” on mwf and give the universal head nod on a Tuesday Thursday but that’s really the extent of our daytime interactions.

You try to keep up with me at f when it’s clear I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly

In return I will shuffle and slide around when there’s a live band hoping we’re both too drunk to notice I don’t know a goddamn thing about swing dancing.

You like me because I’m not one of the neck rolling loud talking too activisty ones, right? I don’t wear any sorority colors but instead I’m one of the few in an eating house, so its good, right?

Never been invited to a formal

Never been invited to sit with your friends at lunch

Never taken home

Never had to wallow in the awkwardness of seeing you in commons the next day

But, we cool. Nothing more nothing less. Maybe I’m lucky because I have never had a drunken hookup or been talked about on yik yak. Maybe my automatic friendzone – never a forerunner for the big things like cooler paintings or handcuff parties – is really just a blessing.

I’m still the “COOL” black girl. Too dark to be used sexually, considered romantically or publicly, yet too distinct to be mistaken for that other straight haired brunette or blond. I stand on my own. Which means I go home alone. We are truly living in year of our lord 2015 where basic white chicks stay winning. It’s almost like they automatically are considered hot and available.

The irony is I’m not really wanted in either space- too wild and outgoing for the few black guys but too different for the majority of white dudes. I do everything they do and probably look 10 times better doing it but I’m still your average 21 year old virgin after four years of dancing on tables, ripping shots and knowing most of the Taylor swift lyrics.

As spring approaches, I’ll scramble to find a boy that is a friend for formal and maybe reactivate my tinder if things get too desperate. I’ve spent too many springs waiting for an invite, waiting for a text back, waiting for anything more than a head nod.


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