Admittedly, I disappoint myself sometimes. It’s one of my many rationales for writing as I tread along some of these unchartered territories of finding out about myself.
The first time I saw Ivanka, I didn’t so much think of her as beautiful or otherwise. Nor did I have a passing thought of wanting to sleep with her, as her father alluded to. She was, or is, white, rich, tall, blond, mysterious and well, has the neck of a swan. A beautiful one if you’re a swan but well…those were my thoughts in that order.
It then occurred for me to ask myself, “What is it like to be her?” This burning curiosity hovered like a smoke-filled cloud every time she appeared on my television screen and it was disturbing, to say the least. After all, I’m a college graduated African American female, with 2 degrees. I’m an educator of children in one of the most impoverished districts in the nation. I’m also well-traveled, and sometimes I even wear braids or afro puffs. So, you can imagine my dismay…right?
At one point, well, after she defined the word complicit, I almost couldn’t look at her straight on anymore. Granted, at 30, I do have a particular set of challenges but looking someone in the eye through a TV screen had never been one of them. I was so confounded by this, I almost reverted to my irreverent southern mother’s voice in the mirror to tell myself, ‘Chile, if you don’t pull your damn self together and clip them wild hairs outta your…” You get where I was headed.
Swiftly, the voice of Whitney Houston belting One Moment in Time pulsated me back to strength. Swinging my hair into place, literally in slow motion, I recoiled at the unnerving fascination of this woman. Kneeling on one knee with a fist raised toward the ceiling and head bowed, I came back to my powerful and black self again. And then…
“What the hell’s going on with you now, Sophie?” said The Boyfriend of 3 years, whom I’d provided an apartment key to just over a month ago. “I thought you had dinner cooked or is it pizza again?”