Ch. 18: My George Costanza Moment

Oh the things I would’ve said in college had I been a hard-ass brutha instead of a sensitive black man

Remember that episode of Seinfeld (“The Comeback”) when one of George Costanza’s workmates zinged him with a funny one-liner, and only later did George come up with a perfect retort (that he obsessed over wanting to use with the guy in another meeting?) I’m sure at some point you’ve had the same experience.

In the process of writing this memoir, I’ve had a few. One, in particular, is directly tied to my personal racial identity crisis. It dates back to my days at U.C. Berkeley when I was part of the professional co-ed business fraternity Delta Sigm Pi, Rho Chapter.

My reputation as a consummate dancer followed me to college. My fellow fraternity brothers (yes, even the women were called “brothers”) all knew that I could cut it up, and could always be relied upon to provide my group of white and Asian friends copious amounts of dancing entertainment.

So, with that information as context, let me tell you about this traumatizing experience.

Non-rapper’s delight

We were all discussing the activities and schedule for that semester’s initiation party, including the fact that the DJ would be playing music during dinner. Now, when I heard this, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “I hope they don’t play all the fun dance songs during dinner.”

I think this is a reasonable concern, don’t you? I mean come on, no one wants to be sitting in their seat stuffing their face when the DJ puts on the cool dance jams like “Blue Monday” or “Bizarre Love Triangle” by New Order; or “People are People” by Depeche Mode; and I sure as hell didn’t want to be sitting in my seat if the B-52s “Love Shack” came on (am I right?)

So, I raised my hand and asked the question.

“Excuse me. But will the DJ be playing the same songs during dinner as during the actual dance time?”

And that’s when the social chair, Loretta LuLu (not her real name), responded…

“Not everyone wants to listen to rap music Ron!”

What the actual fuck! Did this… this… person… just make the racially ignorant and stupid-ass assumption that just because I was the only black person in the chapter, that I wanted to listen to rap music!? What made her comment even more frustrating (and ignorant) was the fact that she was woefully ignorant of the kind of music I actually liked to dance to (Hello? Bizarre Love Triangle?)

Now, had I evolved into the hardened, Shaft-like, angry-black-man persona I am today, I would have most definitely had some very choice words to say to Miss Looney Lucy and her f-ed up remark. Something like…

WHAT THE F**K DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME!! WHO THE HELL DO YOU F**KIN’ THINK YOU ARE? YOU DON’T KNOW ME! YOU BETTER STEP OFF WITH YOUR IGNORANT, FAKE EYE-LASH WEARING, CHIPPED FINGERNAIL WEARING, COULDN’T PASS ACCOUNTING 101 WITH AN HP CALCULATOR HAVING ASS! JUST ANSWER THE MUTHERFUCKIN’ QUESTION AND DON’T WORRY ABOUT WHAT KIND OF MUSIC I’M CONCERNED ABOUT HEARING YOU STUPID-ASS B****”*

(*Note: I tried to refrain from using the b-word in this, but if I’m being intellectually honest, if I was a hardened brutha back then, I almost certainly would have used that word. Please don’t let it reflect what you think of me today.)

As it turns out, I was a little more, um, sensitive during this time of my life. I was the guy who used to write poems to girls I liked, despite the fact I was constantly relegated to the “friendzone.” (But that’s a deleted chapter or a whole other memoir.) This particular week I was especially sullen because I was feeling caught between two worlds—not black enough for black people; and feeling like it was being black that kept the white and Asian girls I liked from liking me back (in “that way”).

So, in lieu of the hard-ass brutha response, what I actually said was…

“Just because I’m black you think I want to listen to rap music?”

I then started to tear up, and I ran out of the room. (Yes, yes, I know.)

SAM: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK INDEED!

What a surprise. Sam is back.

ME: I had a feeling you’d show up.

SAM: Man. I don’t even have the time nor the patience to deal with THIS! You go back to telling your little story. I…JUST…CAN’T. NOT TODAY.

And as soon as he appeared, he was gone in an indo-clouded poof of smoke.

Wow. That was easy. I gotta remember that strategy next time he shows up.

Okay, where was I? Oh yes.

So I went out into the corridor of Barrows Hall, sobbing and feeling more lost than ever. Now, I know what you’re thinking. But believe me when I say, I really wouldn’t normally have been this emotional and dramatic. But for weeks I had been in this terrible slump. Heartbroken over some girl. Discouraged. Feeling like I didn’t belong. Not to mention that I was on the verge of flunking Calculus 1B.** So don’t you go judgin’ a sensitive black man.

(** I just had to go and enroll in the hard calculus class designed for f-ing engineers! It would eventually take two semesters of getting an “incomplete” and two additional semesters breaking up the 4-unit semester class into two 2-unit classes over fall and spring before I got through the damn thing. And I’m so glad I took it, because I probably use differential calculus and conversions every day in my job as a managing editor and content marketer! WTF!)

I sat on the floor in the hall outside, wiping the tears from my face and asking “God, why me?” like a David in the hills and desert of biblical Jerusalem. My friend Jenny came out to try and console me. A few other of my white and Asian friends came out too.

Through sobs, I tried to explain to them what I was going through. I knew they cared. I knew they really wanted to help. But it was really difficult trying to express to them the depth of my pain. (I guess the gap between races understanding one another still hasn’t closed now 30+ years later.)

Eventually, it all worked out. The rest of the brothers in the chapter gave Looney Loretta a good talking to, the party was a smashing success, I cut up the dance floor, and just like the Voice of Morgan Freeman will tell me later, those times also passed, and my identity crisis issues at Berkeley eventually faded. I would go on to have all the various romantic firsts I alluded to earlier during my college years. My world was white, right, and my self-esteem and character became that much stronger.

But, if my love life in college was like a bastardized, Frankenstein combo of a John Hughes/Hudlin Brothers rom-com, not even that compares to the Coen Brothers-esque roadtrip romp that was my drive cross country from Berkeley to Miami, FL the summer of ‘87.

Because, you know, racism was over by the 80s. Right?

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