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Eat the cake, Anime: On White Cluelessness (and Beyoncé)

Dear Kitty Pryde,

Hey there, White Writerperson. How goes it? Good, I assume.

I have just been introduced to your work via your liveblogging of the new album, BEYONCÉ for VICE. You, like me, were hyped and extremely eager to dig into this surprise album that appeared out of nowhere like a new face on the proudest sidepiece in Hip Hop, Lady Potato Head herself, Lil Kim. Do you know her? Of course you do. Anyhow, your enthusiasm shined through in your writing and it was a generally readable unterrible stream of consciousness. Congrats.

Let me back up.

You probably don't know me. I'm sure you don't, actually. I'm a regular ol', though brilliant, Coloured person with nothing going on worth co-opting in that predictable and shameless White way you may be used to, so why would you know me? Silly me. But you certainly know my family, The Keepers of the Cool. Your VICE bio lists you as a rapper, so I'm sure you're more than familiar (and enamored) with various aspe…

Bitch, Have Some Decorum: On Justin Timberlake

Okay. First:
"Can Justin Timberlake just put out an album of Jacksons covers? We mean all the Jackson songs — Michael, Janet, Jackson 5, all of them. It would be outstanding, and he (and his band!) already know all the appropriate moves." -Lindsey Weber, VultureFor the record, a Black person would never need, want, say, or think such a thing.

And second, watch:

For the unsure, this was powerfully terrible. Dreadful. Justin may get my vote from a dance and choreography perspective while Usher is chasing Chris Brown through the Land of ElectroTrashy Relevancy to be crowned King of Able-To-Sing-OR-Dance-But-Never-The-Two-Shall-Meet, but to even fix your white ass fingers to even hint or joke that you've pondered the imponderable, that Justin ought to cover "all the Jackson songs," is the type of terroristic, entitled bullshit that keeps the NAACP's fax machine busy all day.

Sigh.

So far, we have refrained from burning his career down.

You are welcome, sir.…

How to Be Blackety Black in Panama, Part One.

I moved to Panamá sight unseen two years ago with a huge box of condoms and what can be described as a body bag for king-sized murder victims. Open-minded, fearless, and not getting any younger, I was ready for a change, ready for excitement, especially since it didn’t look like I was going to become famous for anything I could tell my mama about in Los Angeles any time soon. Ahem.

I figured that learning perfect Spanish in a classroom in Los Angeles, a textbook Spanish that I would encounter exactly nowhere on this earth, was not the way to master the language. So, armed with a four-point plan of action, a heap of determination, and a bottle of lube, I copped that one-way ticket to freedom and took to the sky.
Being half Panamanian, I'd heard stories about life down here. I had seen pictures of my happy, well-dressed beautiful Black relatives from their days in the Canal Zone, seen molas and polleras. I had eaten enough empanadas and arroz con pollo to fill Yankees Stadium, but…

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