Alexander Hardy, wordsmith for hire, is the dance captain of Saint Damita Jo Jackson’s Royal Army. He writes on life, race and chicken at thecoloredboy.com and elsewhere. He does not believe in snow.
"I've had a great fatherly example. My dad is the coolest, most chill motherfucker ever. He is and has always been attentive, honest, level-headed, patient and gracious. He has been the rock, keeping it and us together throughout my mother’s decades-long lupus fight, my year-long lupus fight and my sister’s recent health issues. He’s surprisingly open minded and supportive of my wanderlust and endless curiosity. That dude is the ultra chill Uncle Snoop in a room of frantic, fart-faced Mileys. He and my mom are the best pair of motherfuckers a Black boy could ever have as parents. I long for the day I get to be brilliant and strong and supportive for a nappy headed strong and brilliant chile of my own."
"And so, hours after my final therapy appointment, I leapt for my life and landed in New York this summer. This time: less planning, more uncertainties, more urgency. And more anxiety. My prior moves to New York, Los Angeles and Panama each followed about six months of strategizing and vivid dreaming. This time? I didn’t know what the fuck I was going to do, but New York struggle tops Virginia misery any day."
This is the If Only I Had Correctly Wrapped My Charger Cord phase. A feeling of simply wanting life “as it was before” is common.
“I should have surrendered that $300 for Applecare instead of spending rent money on Beyoncé tickets,” you will say. You will tell yourself this as you teach your toddler a great new game called Hold This Cord Riiiiight Here And Don’t Fucking Move."
"8. Ne-Yo’s accent fucked my head up. What year is this? Is we free? Is this the same painful accent from Red Tails, that makes him sound like a Jim Crow-era shrimp boater and part-time runaway slave from Whoville, Louisiana who lives on Marlboro Reds and old fish grease and can’t function without that invisible ounce of tobacco in his jaw that makes him sound juicy-mouthed, culturally conflicted and foolish? How did we get here and why did his have to happen to me?"
"I ordered the ribs and catfish platter with fries, assuming that that kitchen full of big Black dudes couldn’t possibly let me down. The ribs? Muy succulent. Not enough sauce, but that was fixable. That catfish though? Gentrified and woefully under-seasoned.
“She quit working about a month before I ever fired her. She would just stay in her room,” said Marcella Bracamonte, non-African-Americanly.
When I encounter someone old enough to understand the case against colored contacts who doesn’t know about Miss Celie’s Folkspants, I make a mental note of the exits. This is not a motherfucker I need to be in an elevator with. He or she will never meet my children. What series of unfortunate events led to them reaching Grown and Sexy Party age without being exposed to this body of Black excellence?
“The fuck has your life been about until now?” ponder I.
How serious is he about this departure? He told Gossip Viv, Hynaken, and DJ Thoro of Thisis50 Radio to expect a lot of autotune. And that T-Pain is his peer now. This is like when my Jovial Uncle met crack and lost it all. Where’s a praying grandmother when you need one?
You see, Mr. Harvey’s He Man/Woman-Guiding steelo doesn’t exactly jibe with my non-medieval view of the world. I will never grasp why wives, girlfriends, and a metric fucktonne of other answer-seeking ladies flock to this delightfully antiquated, twice-divorced dealer of cavemanly marriage mores for life and love advice. Does bullshit sound better when delivered with a smile? Are Fuckboy Philopsophers more believable when they look, dress, and act like the hookin’ and crookin’ preachers we you grew up with?
The world will never know.
It’s a debate as old as time. It’s a topic as divisive as Vanessa Huxtable’s uselessness or blue contacts in post-pubescent Negroidian eyes. Like pop versus soda. OG Chocolatey Aunt Viv versus Creole Lady Flustered McHumorless Aunt Viv, and so on.
In an attempt to put a band-aid on an axe wound, Sir Convenient WhiteBlackness has dedicated his next project to the mending of his shattered relationship with his high school sweetheart, out in the open, in front of company. It’s like an integrated Tyler Perry stage play based on a Maury episode, scored by Pharrell and other indiscriminate lenders of soul.