Sheltered

To say that I am naïve would be a gross understatement. I have about as much street saavy as Jan Brady. I've always grown up in neighborhoods where you don't have to lock your car doors, where you can leave your windows open at night...and said windows have never had bars on them. I've left my purse in my car overnight, sitting on the front passenger seat on more than one occasion and returned to it still there with everything inside. At least once a month I accidentally leave my keys in the ignition in my car with the windows rolled down or the doors unlocked. If I lived in LA, my ass would be riding Big Blue because my well-maintained 1998 Cavalier's parts would have been sold all up and down the Pacific Coast Hwy. Luckily I'm not a California resident, so these are moot points. But it got me to thinking about illegal activity in general and how far removed I am and have always been from it.

Once when I was living in Whitey-White, PA, I had a classmate, one who had never met any colored people before (and I say colored because TRULY she hadn't met anyone with melanin), ask me why the palms of my hands and the bottoms of my feet were white and not the rest of me. How the hell should I know? How do you answer a question like that? It was just stupid. Well, I have similarly dumb questions. And while I know the questions I have will be stupid, I'm okay with that. I just have no clue on god's green earth where to find these things out...so I have decided to turn to the omniscient blogsphere for edification.

Okay, so I'm driving home, and keep in mind I do live in a black neighborhood, I pass a gas station that for at least 2 years did not sell gas. All they had was a message on the marquis that read "2 cans of soda for $1". Now, while this wasn't a terrible beverage sale, it certainly was nothing to write home about. Yet, the building always had cars out front and people inside. I don't get it. What kind of operation is this? Are they selling drugs? If so, how do the right people know that they are? Is "two cans of soda" a code for "Buy one get one free on joints?

When I was in college at FAMU, my brother was a student at a not so distant Albany State University (pronounced Al-bini, as opposed to All-bennie…for you northern folks out there). He would come to visit me only to have free lodging for Kappa Luau and Homecoming. But when he would come down, he would ask where he could get some green? What is green? And how would I know where to find it? Now obviously smokers don’t stand on corners with signs like…

I GOT FIVE ON IT

And dealers don’t advertise with T-shirts that say…

Hydro for the Low Low

But I’m saying, really, how do they know how to find each other? Because my brother would be high as a kite by the time he made it back to my house. Do smokers have an air? Kinda like gay men. Like there’s just something about them that other smokers recognize…? Do you find the shadiest looking rasta’ mofo and ask him, because SURELY he must know, right? And isn’t that stereotypical? But is there truth in the myth? (Maybe Humanity Critic can handle that question…) And why does it seem that I am the ONLY black intellectual who has never smoked weed. Do I give off a vibe that makes pot peddlers steer clear of me? Like, nah…don’t ask her; she might tell on us. LOL. I would say no, but I would definitely not tell. Hey, I don’t do it, but I don’t stop anyone else. Well, anyone else grown enough to make those decisions. I tell high school kids in a heartbeat that the shit causes brain rot. But I am offended that never in my life, not once, has anyone ever asked me if I wanted to buy some green.

I obviously have saved NO face on this topic as I see the bloggers who know me personally rolling on the floor dying laughing at me because they can actually picture these scenes…I was going to call you out but you know who you are. Shut up. It’s not funny. I seriously want to know these things.

I’ve just always been a goody-goody. Very few things about me can be considered edgy. Though, I do have some suspect music tastes and find myself turning down whatever profanity-ridden r&b cut I’m shaking my laffy-taffy to on the way to work way down when I pull into the block where my building is located. Because I rub elbows with a lot of older, very conservative black folk, I have to quickly turn to Smooth Jazz 107.5, lest I get caught in the glare of disappointment. (I have an interview with Ambassador Andrew Young in a couple hours and I’m not sure he could appreciate being asked to donate $25,000 to my organization by someone rocking Killer Mike. I know I wouldn’t. lol )

So my music tastes make me a little less white, right? I get a few points there, don’t I?

And since we’re on the topic of activities that will get you arrested, I have a question or two that I really need to get answered. I really REALLY want to know how logistically you have sex in a movie theatre without getting caught…wait, let me qualify that….quality sex. And, how you get to be a member of the Mile-High club without being detained by TSA when the plane lands. I’ve done my share of freaky, scandalous things. Nothing like having sex in phone booths or giving head on a dance floor at a club. No, nothing like that. (Wait…did I just call somebody out?) But my boss’s desk may have christened a time or two. There may have been a space in Tucker Hall, space or spaces, that may have seen me partially unclothed. I said MAY have. I will admit nothing.

Bottom line is I need to be less poodle skirt and more leather mini. Less Charlotte and more Samantha. Less Sandra Dee and more Rizzo. I need more edge. I want to discover the seedy side of the world. But I fear that I’ll never break in. So now, as I get dressed for my interview, with my knee-length pencil skirt, seafoam twin set, modestly-heeled mary-janes, cultured pearls and conservative Hillary Clinton hair, I don’t think that anyone will ever ask me if I want to dance with Mary Jane. I guess I’ll have to settle for marketing myself as a Senator’s wife.

But I still want to know about the movie theatre and mile high club. Even we goody-goodys need a little excitement.