I’ve always known I was different. I always knew there was something…something ethnic about me.
My parents tried to downplay suspicions, pointing out that what I was sensing was my quarter Mexicanness (real word) and assuaging my feelings of intense soul by cramming tacos into my little boca and telling me “¡Callate! ¡Ay Dios mio! ¡Este niño! ¡Que estupido!”
But still, I knew. I knew that something about me was black.
By heritage, I am Polish, Russian, Spanish and Mexican. Spiritually, however, I am part black.
I think that’s why I have always liked rap.
When I was an active alcoholic, I drank 40s of malt liquor. Colt 45, MUTHAFUCKA’! Oh, and the Japanese beer Asahi when I could afford it and was feeling particularly Asian. That’s a whole other story though.
Anyway. I felt super African American.
Tucson, AZ doesn’t have too many black people. Seriously. So freakin’ weird. I mean, it’s all hot and Africanny-feeling. Maybe there are too many old white people and La-ay-ay-ay-aytinos! Whatever. When I was in elementary school in Tucson, we totally got a black kid in our class one year. His name was Tyrone or Jamal or Jefferson or Steve. Not sure. Either way, he was way black, and we totally hung out.
Until he got expelled. Racist-ass motherfuckin’ principal.
But I’ll never forget the months he and I spent at recess staring at all the white girls. It ruled.
Fast-forward like 20 years to…umm…around present time. I’m 29 and still totally feeling black. Jamming to the hippity hop and rap music and watching re-runs of The Cosby Show and The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Feelin’ my spiritual black roots, you know? Before These Stories Are True became ridiculous, Rev. Brandon J. Carr and I even authored an essay about my quest for a black friend:
I’ve still got that feeling, and the other day, my identity became fully realized.
It was last Friday. It was after my AA meeting. I was standing outside talking with one of the black dudes. I mentioned something about Michael Jackson being a really good dancer for a child molester and then pondered aloud whether Jeffrey Dahmer was equally good at dancing. My black co-alcoholic burst into a hefty belly laugh and then told me, “That’s my nigga!”
Here’s proof:
It was at that very moment that I knew. I may be a pasty, poloc/rusky/spic, but I am also now an honorary black dude. Represent, bitches!
Now that I am an honorary black dude, I need to give up my stupid slave name, “David,” and get a badass African name like “Dr. Dre.”
Also, if I hear any of you white boys drop the “n-word,” I will pimp slap the shit out of you. That’s our word.
- David C. Garcia,
Honorary Black Guy
Holla
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I think I used to be black once. It was never officially revoked, though. It was more like the toy you HAD to have only to get bored with it/outgrow it and forget about it, even though you still have it somewhere. I decided to embrace my Polishness (real word) but found I spent so much time being black I forgot everything about my true ethnicity.
I’m sure you can relate. Us black people (former, current, and honorary) gotsta stick together.