Thanks to Jay’s comment on my last post, I spent my extra two minutes this morning tearing through the cardboard box in the playroom/future featured room on Hoarders that contains all of our old cd’s. I dug out a pile of mixed cd’s I had made back when Napster was around, before you went straight to maximum security prison for downloading a song or two without paying for them.
Jay said that when he’s in his car, he’s a hardcore 1990’s gangster rapper. Guess what! Me too! Or at least I used to be, before I sold out and went mainstream. Now I just rap for the money; sacrificing my street cred for whatever’ll get me paid.
But I got nostalgic for my roots, so I grabbed a few of my old cd’s from the late 90’s and early 00’s, practically giggling with anticipation. I had random beats and lyrics bouncing through my head – the base line from ODB’s Got Yo Money, the chorus from DMX’s Ruff Ryder Anthem, the dance my friend’s and I had made up to go along with Coolio’s 1 2 3 4.
Then I kind of realized something. By God, am I white. I mean, I am white white. I’m wearing a cardigan and ballet flats, for Pete’s sake. The last concert I went to was Josh Groban, for Pete’s sake. I say “for Pete’s sake”, for Pete’s sake. I am an old, white, suburban mom of 2.3 children (including Bosco) , who works 9 to 5(ish), and vacations in Disney World. For Pete’s sake.
This shouldn’t really surprise me because I’ve been white my whole life. It’s never been something I’ve identified myself as being; sure, that’s the colour of my skin, but I’ve always been a “people are all just various shades of brown” kind of person. And maybe I’m using the term “white” in a derogatory manner here, and that’s not really what I mean. I should add a suffix.
I am so very white bread.
And not that that is such a bad thing. It’s really just sort of a neutral thing, by definition. So what if I’m not a hardcore 1990’s gangster rapper, or a spikey haired punk, or a swoopy banged emo kid, or even a granola crunching hippie. The edgiest thing about me right now is my smokey eye makeup (and I do a mean smokey eye; remind me to show you sometime). So what? I’m wearing a cardigan and ballet flats and I’d probably look weird if I wasn’t.
But while I’m in my car, in my invisibility cloak, I’m not so white bread. I’ve got Ice Cube waiting for me. And I’m going to rap the crap out of You Can Do It as I drive home for my lunch of white meat and white cheese on white bread.