Bougie* by Design

Once upon a time (read: four years ago) when I was waiting tables at a spot in Dupont I happened to serve an older African-American man who worked for the DC school system. I asked him for his order, told him the specials, and was perplexed by his ever widening smile.

“You speak so well,” he beamed, and I inwardly cringed. “What school did you go to?”

I explained that I went to school in Montgomery County, but he continued to smile.

“You,” he proudly pronounced, ” are a credit to the race!”

I smiled weakly, hoping that the other tables around him did not hear.

OMG Please tell me he didn’t just say that around white people!

My mind whipped around for a few frantic moments trying to purge some of the memories this man had involuntarily called forth.

Stop it. Stop it! I don’t want to be a credit to the race. I don’t want to be part of the Talented Tenth! I don’t want to be different! I don’t want to stand out! Because if I stand out, and I am the credit to the race, what does that make my cousins? What does that make my friends? Are they blight? Why do we have to be marked as better or worse? What do you want from me?

My mind swirled, but the rational part of me realized that I was on the clock. I smiled and moved on. He left me a 40% tip.

*****

The fact that I am now different has never been a factor to my family. It is just seen as being part of Latoya’s overall eccentricities, just like me listening to alternative music and dying my hair funny colors. When my mother comes over, she makes a point to look into my refrigerator to ask about the random things I eat.

“What’s that?”

“Dried papaya.”

“What kind of wine is that?”

“Muscato wine – I forget the name, but it’s really sweet. You’d like it. Do you want some?”

“No – what’s that?”

“Edamame.”

“See, that’s why you’re always broke – buying crap like this at the bougie stores.”

She shuts the door to my fridge and sits on my bed. She, like my father, often finds herself amused at the person I have become. My parents consider me worldly, though I have never been off the continent. Mom looks around the room and sees art house movie posters and large canvases created by my friends. I operate in a different, interesting kind of world.

When I began to reflect on this piece, I came to an interesting realization. I have never been called bougie by anyone in my family. I have never been called bougie by anyone who was lower or lower middle class. Most of the accusations of bougie came from others in a similar situation – either born to the black middle and upper middle class, or people insecure about their transition. This is why I think the word bougie tends to be a grab for power more than anything else – to shame someone into being “properly black.”

But how am I supposed to take that notion? People who come from a privileged background are telling me to “be more authentic” and people who did not come from privilege encourage me to be smarter, to speak up more, to work harder, to learn more cool things about the world – and then bring these things back for them to enjoy.

Maybe the word bougie is intended to invoke shame at a perceived separation, a way to yoke people back into your fold. If you are bougie, the implication is that you have forgotten where you came from. Maybe, by invoking the word bougie, the speakers hope they can bring someone back into their idea of “blackness.” Or maybe by using the word bougie, they are drawing a line in the sand. If you are “bougie,” it means that I am authentic.

But again, what does it mean to be authentically black?

If black is what I am, how could anything I do be inauthentic?

****

Thanksgiving is coming.

My younger cousin is on MySpace, playing around. She emails me to say hi. I email her back and ask why she isn’t in school. Deftly avoiding my question, she parries with one of her own.

Are you coming to Thanksgiving?

I split last Thanksgiving between my mother’s house and my father’s house. My mother, adept at Thanksgiving made a full feast. My father, attempting his first Thanksgiving ever, needed a bit more help. I found myself pitching in around the kitchen helping to erect the second feast of the day. The table was awash in gray, brown, and beige food, so I ran to the store to make something quick and green.

“What the hell is that?”

My grandfather looked into the pan I pulled out from the oven.

“Asparagus.”

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