Every Country Needs a Nigga

I cannot write today. At the same cafe, the same light, perfect cappuccino. Another failed date on my dome that needs to be released onto my dusty ass keyboard.

The waitresses, all curly and wide, various shades of honey, Mexican before Mexico. The patrons, long and with hints of olive undertones.

Every country needs a nigga.

Wispy, barely sun-kissed women will order double espressos without ever looking honey in the eyes.

Honey serves, honey cooks, honey cleans. Honey is happy.

In an attempt to illustrate something, what exactly, I will never know. My date explains his mother was blonde and his father is brown, just like me. In my limited experience with Mexico, blonde means many things. It means slim, beautiful, guapa, possibly brunette but without the evident swirl of a brown abuelita, yet somehow safely mestizo.

“Isn’t that the formula, the goal, blonde wife, brown husband, the entire world over”?

“ We all secretly want a Disney princess and we all know the princess is blonde.”

The memory of the friend of a friend I had drinks with one week ago, becomes the placeholder in my mind for this Disney princess. I remember how we laughed over her love of dating in Mexico city, how plentiful and luxurious the months had been. She didn’t notice my silence. She wondered aloud if Mexicans asked me about “the N word” as much as they asked her. They had not. Neither of us would connect (aloud) how these curiosities would inform our stories.

I will be damned if I let my skin or Disney be the reason my vagina goes untouched by another human being. I evacuated the Bay Area for a reason.

What I am sure of is my need for recuperating and self-soothing through the magical medicine that is Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

I’m not sure I ever really wanted to be anyone’s princess, anyway.