Poem I wrote:
The Black Out
I ruin movies for my husband
Because I do the black count
I count the number of minutes until a character of color appears on the screen
Sometimes I wait a long time
And until one of my brothers or sister makes their appearance
I bitch, mutter and complain.
Shhh! he says, but it doesn’t quell my indignation
It’s a by-product of marriage to
A recovering black person
(who’s also half-filipino, even if she doesn’t acknowledge it)
And he has to get used to it.
The Contender, starring Jeff Bridges as a democratic president with a (gasp!) female running mate (Joan Allen) infuriated me when I saw it.
The only black person with a speaking role in that entire movie was
The president’s butler
And I think he said,
“Yo sandwich, suh.”
It feels good to count blacks, to keep a tally
I like the self-righteousness of it
And it makes me feel more Black
(capital B)
When I complain about racism
Do I count Pinoy’s? No. I’m not that healthy yet.
But I feel kinship with other black people
(I called them brothers and sisters a few lines back!
I can do that! I should have written “Brothas and Sistahs!
That’s Black!)
Yes, I feel kinship with them
When I ferret out bias in Hollywood.
Solidarity! Blackness! Free Huey!
(I didn’t know who Huey was until this year.
How black is that?)
I have my husband doing the count now
If you can’t beat ‘em and so forth.
Making jokes with white people as the punchline
Also made me feel black
But at whose expense?
Racism in any form is still prejudice.
“Reverse Racism” they call it.
What’s the “reverse?”
Does that mean the “minority,” the underclass can’t be racist
If they are discriminated against by the overlords?
I can’t speak for everyone.
But for me, I can’t afford it any more.
Would I repeat a joke about white people to my husband?
If not, I don’t think I should hear it.
The Black Count enrages me
Encourages me to change it
Get my face up there
Put a little coffee in their cream
A fly in their buttermilk
Some wood in their holly.
Maybe if I took some of the energy I use to count,
And used it to make movies of my own,
I would have less to complain about.
Hmm.
It’s easier to make them wrong than to do something about it.
Count me out.
Count me in.
Count on us to win.
First draft;
20 July 2004
The Koo Koo Roo on Santa Monica Boulevard and Sepulveda in West LA
Timed writing exercise with my dear Eleanor
I ruin movies for my husband
Because I do the black count
I count the number of minutes until a character of color appears on the screen
Sometimes I wait a long time
And until one of my brothers or sister makes their appearance
I bitch, mutter and complain.
Shhh! he says, but it doesn’t quell my indignation
It’s a by-product of marriage to
A recovering black person
(who’s also half-filipino, even if she doesn’t acknowledge it)
And he has to get used to it.
The Contender, starring Jeff Bridges as a democratic president with a (gasp!) female running mate (Joan Allen) infuriated me when I saw it.
The only black person with a speaking role in that entire movie was
The president’s butler
And I think he said,
“Yo sandwich, suh.”
It feels good to count blacks, to keep a tally
I like the self-righteousness of it
And it makes me feel more Black
(capital B)
When I complain about racism
Do I count Pinoy’s? No. I’m not that healthy yet.
But I feel kinship with other black people
(I called them brothers and sisters a few lines back!
I can do that! I should have written “Brothas and Sistahs!
That’s Black!)
Yes, I feel kinship with them
When I ferret out bias in Hollywood.
Solidarity! Blackness! Free Huey!
(I didn’t know who Huey was until this year.
How black is that?)
I have my husband doing the count now
If you can’t beat ‘em and so forth.
Making jokes with white people as the punchline
Also made me feel black
But at whose expense?
Racism in any form is still prejudice.
“Reverse Racism” they call it.
What’s the “reverse?”
Does that mean the “minority,” the underclass can’t be racist
If they are discriminated against by the overlords?
I can’t speak for everyone.
But for me, I can’t afford it any more.
Would I repeat a joke about white people to my husband?
If not, I don’t think I should hear it.
The Black Count enrages me
Encourages me to change it
Get my face up there
Put a little coffee in their cream
A fly in their buttermilk
Some wood in their holly.
Maybe if I took some of the energy I use to count,
And used it to make movies of my own,
I would have less to complain about.
Hmm.
It’s easier to make them wrong than to do something about it.
Count me out.
Count me in.
Count on us to win.
First draft;
20 July 2004
The Koo Koo Roo on Santa Monica Boulevard and Sepulveda in West LA
Timed writing exercise with my dear Eleanor
