Little White Lies (8 page)

Note from Coretta:
To Karl’s credit, I, too, will use his abbreviations for the sake of expediency
.

K:
Yellow.

C:
Okay, sorry ’bout that.

K:
No problem. Now what else?

C:
Well, if you could help me with the “Dear Coretta” letters … I mean, I wish I could answer all of them, but there’s so many coming in that I barely have time to read them.

K:
I could give that a shot. Let’s hear one.

C:
Right now? On the phone?

K:
Yeah. Right now. On the phone.

C:
I thought you hated the phone.

K:
I do. But this isn’t so bad. And it’s relevant to how I work.

C:
Okay. Here’s one that just came in today.

Dear Coretta
,

I’m a white boy, aged sixteen, and I live in New Jersey. I recently changed schools from a mostly-white
school to one that’s more mixed. For some reason most of my friends at my new school happen to be black. I honestly don’t know why. It just kind of happened. I don’t try to act black. I like rap music and stuff, but everyone does. Well, some of my new friends have started saying I’m a quote-unquote “honorary N-i-asterisk-asterisk-a.” Sometimes they even call me that, as in, quote, “What up, N-i-asterisk-asterisk-a?” end quote, or quote, “What up, N-word!” end quote
.

My question: does my new honorary N-word status give me the right to start using that word when I’m hanging out with my black friends?

Yours truly
,

Honored

K:
Really? That’s a real letter you got from a reader?

C:
Yes, an email.

K:
Is he saying that his black friends are calling him “nigga,” or are they calling him “N-word”?

C:
Um, I think, both?

K:
Like, the actual N-word, or are they literally calling out, “Hey, N-word!”?

C:
I’m not sure?

K:
Okay, here we go.

Dear Honored
,

In a word: no
.

Now that’s an n-word we can all feel comfortable using. And “N-word”—as stupid as that sounds—is exactly how you should refer to the word in question, even when using quotation marks. No asterisks, no alternative spellings
.

I am sorry, esteemed white people (honorary N-words included), but you are not allowed to use the N-word under any circumstances. It’s really not up for discussion
.

Furthermore, you have no jurisdiction over usage of the N-word by We the Black People, so please refrain from any discussions regarding when it is and is not appropriate for the N-word to be used by us
.

With compassion
,

Coretta White

P.S. Please remove the word “wigger” from your colloquial vocabulary as well. Thank you
.

C:
Hey, that’s not bad. I like the “We the Black People” part.

K:
It’s yours. If you forward me the kid’s letter, I can type it in for you. What else you got?

C
. Wow. You are good.

K:
Thanks. It’s fun. How many of these letters do you get a day, anyway?

C:
Usually between seventy-five and a hundred. That’s
after they go through this automated trash and authentication filter.

K:
Every day? And you read them all?

C:
I try to, yes.

K:
Well, that has to stop.

C:
What?

K:
Coretta, you can’t be required to read about the individual problems of a hundred troubled teens every single day. Not to mention feeling compelled to give them advice.

C:
I know. It
has
gotten out of hand. I don’t know what I was thinking when I started answering them. I guess I just wanted to help. You wanna try another?

K:
Really? Sure.

Dear Coretta
,

I’m a freshman girl, and I just got asked out by a really hot senior guy. When I told my mom about the date, she said I wasn’t allowed to go out with a senior. I told her she was being a hypocrite, since she is ten years younger than my dad, and that I’m old enough to make my own decisions, so I’m going out with him anyway. Am I right?

—Fourteen and Fierce

K:
Fourteen and Fierce, huh?

C:
That’s her name.

K:
Okay.

Dear F & F
,

No, you are not right. You’re fourteen years old. You should be old enough to make many of your own decisions, maybe even most of them. But not all of them—especially as long as you’re living under your parents’ roof. I’m not able to make all of my own decisions without consulting my parents first, and I’ve got three years on you. And I’m the one you’re writing for advice
.

First of all, the older you get, the more entitled you are to being a hypocrite. And having kids basically grants you a lifetime license to practice hypocrisy. So forget about playing the hypocrite card
.

Now if you really thought you were entitled to date any guy you please no matter his age, then you probably wouldn’t have told your mom about the date in the first place. Unless you thought she would approve, given your parents’ vast age difference? Hmmmm …

Time is relative, F & F. My father is ten years older than my mother, too, but they met when he was thirty-eight and she was twenty-eight—she was twice your age and had ten-plus years of dating experience. Senior guys who date freshman girls are at worst predators and at best losers. And it’s not always easy for a freshman girl to recognize that
.

So, F & F, if I were you, I would try to think of your mom’s rule as good advice and stick to dating guys your own age, at least until your second year of college. Then anything goes, right, Mom?

With love
,

Coretta

C:
Hey, that wasn’t bad. Very earnest. And you even knew my parents’ exact age difference …

K:
I’m just riffing. But yes, I’m diligent. And that’s how I write—fast. I can tell that’s how you write, too. Which is good. And like I said, everything I write will go through you first before it gets posted.

C:
Okay. So how will that work?

K:
I’ll send everything to you, you make whatever changes you want, and you post it yourself.

C:
Sounds simple enough.

K:
And if for any reason you want me to post something, I’ll send it to you for approval first. You can tell me whatever changes you want, and then I’ll put it up.

C:
Great.

K:
Anything else?

C:
I barely have time to read other people’s tweets, let alone retweet them.

K:
Perfect. I can keep my eye on Twitter for you, and when I see something you should like or retweet, I’ll send you the link. I’d also like to see you more involved with Black Twitter.

C:
Black Twitter?

K:
You don’t know Black Twitter?

C:
Is that a hashtag or a community?

K:
Oh, it’s both. And girl, you need to get yourself to Black Twitter
right now
!

C:
I’ll definitely check it out. By the way, you kinda sounded a little bit black just then. Oh, and slightly gay.

K:
So you’re a racist and a homophobe.

C:
Impossible. My best friend is white.

K:
All right, then. It was nice talking with you. Call me anytime, day or night. But I much prefer text or email.

C:
Got it! Anything else?

K:
One more thing: the level of secrecy you mentioned? It’s absolutely essential for our arrangement to succeed. Now I’m sure that AllYou™ had you sign a nondisclosure agreement. That shit is for real. You cannot tell anyone that I or anyone else is helping you with
Little White Lies
. ANYONE. Understand?

C:
Yes, sir!

K:
I’m sorry to get all heavy at the end here. If you do ever feel the need to reveal anything about our arrangement, just make sure you consult with AllYou™ before you do. Same if you want to terminate our arrangement. As long as you’re professional about it, I’m not going to take it personally. The most important thing is for you to stay true to yourself. I’m here to help, that’s all.

C:
Thank you.

K:
Thank you, Coretta. See you in the cloud.

C:
Bye, Karl.

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.
LITTLE WHITE LIES

December 13, 2013

THE BEYONCÉ CONSPIRACY has nothing to do with the Illuminati, a Dutch Giant, Jay Z, or baby Blue Ivy (although Jay and Blue are definitely involved).

While you were sleeping, Beyoncé—under the cover of darkness, like a beautiful brown bootylicious Banksy—unleashed her latest creation upon the world. No press, no promo, no leaks. Just 14 new songs and 17 new videos, all part of her new “visual album” simply titled
Beyoncé
.

While I do possess an open mind and a healthy dose of skepticism, I have not yet fallen prey to any of the leading conspiracy theories of our time. But if the most popular entertainer alive can make an entire album (including 17 videos!) without
anyone
spilling the beans, well then, for all I know, 9/11
may have been an inside job after all. I’m kidding about 9/11; please don’t write me about it.

Mom and Dad claim that my first words were “mama” and “dada”—in that order—but that’s not something I remember. However, I do recall that the first pop song I ever sang along to was “Say My Name” by Destiny’s Child. The associated image of my mother rolling her eyes and wearily shaking her head will be forever etched in my memory. She didn’t get Beyoncé then, and she still doesn’t get her now. Which may be one reason I’ve stayed so loyal to Bey. Of course I love my mother dearly; I respect her; hell, I even
like
her. But I was never the sort of kid to suffer the humiliation of being chaperoned to see my favorite singer in concert. Some things just aren’t meant to be shared with one’s parents.

Mom, to her credit, parlayed Beyoncé into teachable moments. I learned about the wonders of hair extensions at a remarkably young age. My mother also enlisted Beyoncé to educate me about the appropriate times to wear clothes and when it was okay to just walk around in your underwear. And before I even started school, Beyoncé helped me comprehend the nuances of the word “naughty.”

My mother never tried to steer me away from Bey, either. She accepted the Beyoncé phenomenon the same way she did boy bands, the color pink, and princesses—as an immutable force of influence on her daughter from which there was no way to shield or protect her, but which would surely diminish. (In recent years, I’ve tried to keep my continued Beyoncé worship from her. I’ve indulged alone or with my best friend, Rachel. I also recently invented the statistic that Americans between the ages of 12 and 48 are exposed to images of Beyoncé an average of 3.4 times per day.)

The first CD I ever owned was her solo debut
Dangerously
in Love
. Mom bought it for me. I remember, because it got released the day before my seventh birthday. Even though my official birthday was still a day away, she took me to Target after school—no doubt to shut me up about it.

At least I’ve outgrown princesses, boy bands, and the color pink.

But Bey is still my boo. I don’t own any of her other CDs, but I’ve purchased all her other albums on iTunes, and with my own hard-earned money. I know she doesn’t need my money. But she has given me and the rest of the world so much over the years—not just as an entertainer but as a paradigm of power, confidence, beauty, and strength for black women to emulate—that I believe paying for her music is the least I can do to show my respect and support. Perhaps I’m an unwitting victim of the Beyoncé conspiracy, after all.

So when I got the “SURPRISE” Instagram message just after midnight, I had no choice but to dive in headfirst. Geopolitics paper be damned. My amateur analysis of the Syrian civil war can wait. As of right now, this night belongs to Beyoncé. And because of my newly standardized Blog Before Homework policy (jk, teachers!
) I have no choice but to devote these remaining hours of darkness to exploring the 14 songs and 17 videos of Beyoncé’s “secret” album. Of course I’ll be sharing my thoughts about the songs and videos with you, dear reader, in my first all-Beyoncé installment of
LWL
.

Please bear with me, as I am very much a novice at writing about music. I may have written a few clever lines about Kanye, but I’ve never even attempted to write a proper music review. And that’s not what I’m about to do here. Rather, I will share my immediate impressions of the work at hand. I may not even write in complete sentences. But hey, it’s the Internet. And it’s very late and getting later.

Btw, since
BEYONCÉ
is being touted as a “visual album,” I’ll focus on the videos and leave writing about the songs to the millions of music critics out here in the blogosphere. Now without further ado, let’s do this!

Note from Karl:
Dear reader, if you wish to see more of the Beyoncé post—and trust me, it’s worth it—please consult
Appendix 2
.