Mr. Messed Up

This morning I reduced myself to this…

I saw you the moment I walked down the stairs leading to the subway platform on my way to work this morning. The other day when you tried to holla at me, I sized you up real quick. I guess because I said no when you asked for my number and told you to have a nice day when you pressed me, today you decided to get me back. So as I recognized you, walked past you and failed to acknowledge you, you thought it hip to call me out my name. It probably made your lame ass feel better to say “the Bronx is full of dusty, fat bitches who ain’t shit”. When I kept on walking despite the stares I received along the crowded platform, you kept on talking, elevating your voice just so I could hear you.

I guess I surprised the shit out of you when I doubled back with a face of stone to ask you, “Who you were talking about?”. I could have been scared of the tall lanky negro who stood way past 6 feet but I ain’t. See when I said that I sized you up the other day, I knew you were a punk, probably homeless living off of your baby mama who was dumb enough to let a lowlife knock her up. I knew you weren’t worth my time and you had to be out your mind to think you could get my number. You were audacious enough to call me a dusty bitch who ain’t shit? One of my earrings cost more than you whole get up and you’d probably have enough money left over to feed the family you are not likely supporting. Everyday I manage to get up and go to a great job where I serve in a great profession, hold down my own apartment and survive while not living paycheck to paycheck and if you were lucky enough to have a glimpse in my apartment you’d be floored because everything I own is quality and out of your league. No, to you I am a bitch who ain’t shit because I love a caliber of man who does not “go to his wife’s house” first thing in the morning, doubtlessly eating up all her food, sleeping on her furniture and leaving a gallon of dirt behind and an empty life. A 9 to 5 is no doubt ridiculous to you. Sure I could have let your tasteless opinions of me slide and rode the train in peace, listening to Lalah Hathaway and reading Crystelle Mourning and normally I would have. But all I had to do was sit my bougie self aside and get real Bronx on you as I asked “Who are you talking about?”. I could have died laughing when all that yapping you were doing immediately stopped, when you quickly moved from the spot you stood on the platform and walked to the back of the platform and to your back, again I said, “Now have a good day”. Serves your gutter ass right to regress to the back of anything because you haven’t even evolved from Negro to decent Black man. Nigga please.

I love my Black Brothers. I am so down for y’all, from the porters who empty garbage and clean toilets to the corporate comrade. I don’t care what your occupation is as long as you’re respectful and upstanding. Just Monday morning as I was heading to the station, I heard 2 negroes outside my building talking about how hoes on this block ain’t shit and I had to filter that out and not take it personally but today, nah buddy, it was so personal.

Now there was one part of his comment that I neglected. Fat. It’s no secret that I’m tipping the scale. It’s quite obvious that I am far from skinny. That is one part of his comment that I let slide because it is fact. While I’m not completely happy with my size, I am definitely proud of my shape, a perfectly juicy, ripe pear shape. That part didn’t even upset me. His blatant disdain of women (because I sure I am not the only woman he disrespects), his lack of self-respect and his smear on good Black men, that’s what disgusts me.