Chap. 11: Ode to the Black Woman, Queen Mother of Civilization
Of all the imaginary, dilapidated juke joints in the world, why’d she have to walk into mine?
Author’s note: this is the 11th chapter in the satirical memoir “Dungeons ’n’ Durags: One Black Nerd’s Epic Quest of Self-discovery, Racial Identity, and Crisis of Faith in Trump’s America.” Although many of the chapters work perfectly fine autonomously, some are best experienced with context. This is one such chapter.
If you’re all caught up, you can skip the “Previously on” intro. If you want to catch up before reading, start here.
Previously, on Dungeons ’n’ Durags…
My name is Ron. I’m a black man who has lived my entire adult life in a white world.
Up until November 2016, that was fine. Then the 2016 presidential election threw me for a loop. Up was down and down was up. Friends I thought I knew were saying shit I never dreamed they believed. Like zombies in “The Walking Dead,” Trump supporters were attracted to political posts and memes like walkers to a car horn, and I was mortified to see so many friends “bitten” and turned into Trump-supporting zombies. I had to speak out.
The once nice, apolitical, Christian, “white safe” Ron with the white wife (now ex) and beautiful biracial children, had become the proverbial “angry black man,” calling white people on their privilege and causing a ruckus.
In the process of writing this memoir, I was visited by what you can only call a freak of supernatural nature. Somehow I conjured Sam Jackson as his character Jules from Pulp Fiction.
He’s actually some kind of angel in disguise. Or devil. (The jury is still out on that.) He claims he was sent to help me with my “blaxistential crisis” of becoming a real, down-home, hard brutha, ready to fight oppression and racism and reconnect with my people.
Like Jacob Marley warning Scrooge, Sam said that I would have to confess my “black sins.” Like having crushes on a plethora of TV characters growing up, all white. And now, after sharing what I shared in the last chapter, how all of my romantic significant “firsts” were with white girls and women, it would appear I’m about to have my first confessional.
Lord have mercy on my soul.
So, without further ado, here’s Chapter 11.
What you are about to read is another supernatural encounter I had in the writing of this book. One of many I had on this journey.
It was time for me to confess. And Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this is a hard one.
One of the aspects of the Protestant division of the Christian faith is the idea that we don’t have to confess to anyone but God. We don’t have to go into a confessional and tell some priest all the sins we’ve committed. My sins are just between me and God (and maybe my counselor).
Apparently, that is not the case in the Church of Blackness. Just as Sam said, I have come to a “Black Confessional” to confess my “sins.” I don’t know how I got here. Maybe a dream. Maybe a wormhole. However impossible, it happened.
It’s a modest little confessional in the middle of what looks like an old abandoned juke joint in the swamps of Louisiana.
I step in. The smells of old leather and sweat fill my nostrils. I close the confessional door behind me and wait.
The wooden grate divider is damaged and you can pretty much see right through it. The idea of any kind of privacy is out the window with this place. Whomever I will be confessing to will see me perfectly well. And vice versa.
In a few minutes’ time, the front door opens and I hear footsteps coming towards the confessional. The unmistakable sound of high heels draws closer and I take a deep breath and close my eyes, wondering who I am about to meet.
The other side of the confessional opens and closes. I open my eyes. There, seated before me, makeup perfectly intact and not a hair out of place, is none other than Miss Viola Davis.
Me: Forgive me Viola, for I have sinned.
Viola: How long has it been since your last confession?
Me: Actually, this is my first time. I guess.
Viola: What? You’re not sure?
Me: Oh, yes. Yes. I’m sure. This is the first time.
Viola: So. What did you do?
Me: Well. You see. I gotta admit. It’s a little unnerving, cuz I’m not sure how you’re gonna take it.
Viola: It’s like taking medicine. Just down it and get it over with.I sit there and look into Miss Davis’s eyes and I think about all the pain and heartache I and black men like me have caused black women. Whether intentional or not. How would I tell her this thing? How could I let myself do to her what so many other bruthas have done?
I must be strong and resolved. So I proceed.
Me: OKAY. Here goes. Man. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. Anyway…I’ve never had a long-term relationship, or even been with, a black woman. You know, a sista.There. I said it. I pray that I have not too terribly crushed her spirit. I know you Viola. I know what you have endured. Please, please forgive me. You and your sisters have not deserved what black men have wrought upon you.
She looks at me for what seems like an eternity. Staring back at me with those piercing eyes. What a life they must have seen.
She speaks.
Viola: Excuse me. I’ll be right back.
Me: Yes. Of course. Please. Take all the time you need. I understand.Viola steps out of the confessional to take a moment. What happened next wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.
From out of nowhere she starts laughing hysterically. I’m talking one of those keel-over-cuz-your-side-aches-from-laughing-so-hard kind of laughs.
After about a minute or so, she steps back in, composes herself, and catches her breath. Then, the smile evaporates from her face completely.
Viola: Sorry about that. So tell me, why is this my problem?
Me: Well, it’s not really YOUR problem per se. It’s more like, you know, the plight of the black woman.Viola looks at me. Pauses. And just like that, she starts cracking up again. I’m not really sure how I feel about this.
Me: Excuse me. But is this really protocol? I mean. I don’t get what’s so funny.
Viola: You really think YOU not dating a black woman is our plight? Or some kind of sin to the African-American community?Only a little taken aback by the question (and wondering if she just insulted me) I regroup my thoughts.
Me: Didn’t you see "Jungle Fever?"
Viola: Sure. What about it?
Me: Well, do you remember that scene where all the sistas are gathered in a living room complaining about how all the good black men end up with white women?Viola: Oh, so are you saying you’re one of the “good” ones?
Me: No! I’m not saying that. Look, you’re twisting my words around.
Viola: No, I’m not. What I’m doing is asking for clarification about what is a clear implication you gave based on words you ACTUALLY said.I fidget in my seat, adjust my collar, and try to get more comfortable.
Me: Is it warm in here to you? It’s feeling a little bit warm.
Viola: I’m quite comfortable. Thank you.
Me: Look. Let me start over.
Viola: Please do.
Me: Let’s see. What I said when I meant the plight of the black woman… I mean, what I MEANT when I SAID, the plight of black woman was…
Viola: Yes.
Me: Okay. You see. Statistics show that… Wait. If you take a look at the historical…You know that look that a mother gives a child who she knows is trying to squirm out of something he said that he shouldn’t have said? Yeah, that’s the look I was getting.
Me: I mean. C’mon Viola. I mean Miss Davis. Vi? Surely YOU know what I’m talking about?
Viola: Oh, really? And why is that pray tell?
Foot, meet mouth.
Me: I don’t know. This isn’t really what… Are you SURE there isn’t a thermostat or something around here we can adjust?
Viola: Like a lot of bruthas, seems to me your sin isn’t NOT dating a sista, but rather an over-inflated sense of self-importance.
Me: Now. Wait just a minute. I don’t think I’m self-important.
Viola: Really? So what makes you think I care who you have or haven’t dated?
Me: You don’t. I mean you shouldn’t. Look, I’m just trying to come clean on things that I have done or even haven’t done that may have, you know, damaged the African-American community.Viola starts laughing again.
Me: I’m failing to find the humor in this situation. Why do you keep laughing?
Viola: Again, you think you’re THAT important? Do you really think there are any black women out here worth their weight in salt worried about whether or not Ron Dawson has dated any of them or not?
Me: No, not exactly.
Viola: So again, why are you here?
Me: I was told that this was something I had to do.
Viola: Oh, you were told?
Me: Yes, that’s what I said.
Viola: Oh, yeah. Who gave you this information?
Me: You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
Viola: Is it any less believable than you sitting in a dilapidated juke joint in the antebellum south talking to me?
Me: That’s an excellent point. Okay. Samuel L. Jackson. But dressed as his character Jules from Pulp Fiction.Viola lets out a few more guffaws.
Viola: So let me get this right. Sam Jackson from Pulp Fiction told you that you need to come and confess to me that you never dated a black woman?
Me: Well, when you put it that way, it sounds a little silly.
Viola: Is there a way to put it where it wouldn’t?
Me: Wait. I’m getting all confused.
Viola: Yes. That’s apparent.
Me: You see… it’s just…I can’t quite find the words. I put my head in my hands and close my eyes as I try to come up with a sane explanation for what’s happening. Viola leans forward and knocks on the divider to get my attention. I respond.
Me: Yes?
Viola: Do you want to know what I think? I think this is just a way for you to get a lot of crap off your chest so you can relieve some guilt complex you must have?
Me: Wait. No it’s not. That’s not it at all.
Viola: Oh, no?
Me: No.
Viola: Why? Because the truth is Sam Jackson told you to confess to me?
Me: No! He didn’t say I had to confess to you specifically. He just said that I would have to confess my sins. I had no idea who I would be confessing to. And to be quite frank, you are not being very priestly or pastoral, if I may be so bold.
Viola: What, you think just because we’re in a confessional that this is supposed to be some kind of allegory for the Catholic Church?
Me: I actually think this is probably more like a metaphorical device to explore issues of racial identity than an allegorical one that…Viola gives me a look of daggers as if to say, “Shut the fuck up!”
Me: Or, it could be an allegory. Allegories are good. I mean, they’re both so similar, it’s really hard to…
Viola: Shut up!
Me: Okay. Shutting up.
Viola: Look. You seem like a nice guy. And if you need me to absolve you of your guilt for never having been with or dated a black woman, sure. You’re absolved.
Me: I really don’t think that’s what I need or what I’m looking for. I can honestly tell you that I don’t have any guilt about it.
Viola: Oh. So you’re PROUD of the fact that you’ve discounted and disregarded your own kind. Wow. That’s pretty messed up.
Me: Hey! Wait. I didn’t say that either. Damn! It’s complicated I guess. I…I… I don’t really know what to say.
Viola: Let me ask you something.
Me: Okay.
Viola: Why?
Me: Why what?
Viola: Why have you never dated a sista?
Me: I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve never liked black women are anything. And I've gone out with them. Just never anything long term. I just like who I like, and there never seems to be any black women in my circle of friends I guess.
Viola: Well, that’s bullshit.
Me: Excuse me. I think I know my life a little bit better than you.
Viola: Actually, Ronald, you don’t.She leans down by her feet and pulls out a very lawyerly satchel. Hmm? I didn’t notice that there before. Anyway, from within the satchel, she starts taking out reams of paper and starts flicking through them.
Me: Wow. That’s a lot of paper. Is that like my dossier or something?
Viola: Yeah. Sure. It’s your dossier.I’m not certain, but I think I’m picking up just a wee tinge of Viola Davis-infused sarcasm.
As she continues to flick through the papers, she finds what she’s looking for.
Viola: Tell me, do you like coffee?
Me: Sure. Of course. Doesn't everyone?
Viola: I don’t.
Me: Really? You don’t like coffee?
Viola: No. What makes you assume everyone does?
Me: I don’t know. Just seems like kinda an obvious thing I guess.
Viola: You like to make a lot of assumptions about people, don’t you?
Me: No more than anyone else. I mean, doesn’t everyone to some extent make assumptions about people?She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, chuckles a bit, and looks down at the paperwork.
Viola: You are indeed a piece of work Mr. Dawson. Anyway, it says here that on long drives when you lived in the south, you and your family would often drive miles and miles off the main highway to find a Starbucks. Is that correct?
Me: Excuse me, but what does any of this have to do with dating black women? I’m not following your logic.
Viola: Just answer the question.
Me: Yes. We would on occasion take lengthy detours in more rural areas to find the closest Starbucks.
Viola: Seems like a lot of energy to take to get a cup o’ Joe that any rest stop or McDonald’s would have.
Me: Well, I would get the Frappuccino’s, not the traditional coffees.
Viola: Really? What was so special about those?
Me: Well, at the time, I wasn’t yet drinking coffee. I didn’t really get into drinking coffee until we moved to Seattle. Ha! It sort of becomes mandatory to be a coffee drinker when you live there.She wasn’t amused.
Viola: Oh, so for a considerable amount of time in your life, you didn’t like coffee?
Me: I guess not.
Viola: Huh? Interesting.She chuckles and shakes her head again.
Viola: A piece of work indeed. <sigh> So, Mr. Dawson, have you ever gone out of your way to get a Five Guys hamburger?
Me: Uh, yeah. Have you tasted them?
Viola: Again, didn’t find McDonald’s, Burger King, or Wendy’s to your liking?
Me: Well, apparently you’ve never had a Five Guys burger if you have to ask that question.
Viola: And Mr. Dawson, is it not true that when you lived in Atlanta, you’d drive your family as far as 45 minutes to go to your church?
Me: I’m really not getting where you’re going with all of this.
Viola: Yes, I can see that you are slow on the uptake here. But humor me.
Me: Yes. We would drive that far to go to church.
Viola: You’d drive 45 minutes on the godforsaken freeways of Atlanta, GA just to go to church when there is literally a church on every other block in the south? That must have been some church.
Me: It was one of Andy Stanley’s churches. I really dig his theological views on life.
Viola: Yes, I’m sure he’s a very nice white pastor.
Me: Again. Where are you going with this?She puts the paperwork away, sets the satchel back to her side, then leans back in her chair and gives me a stern look.
Viola: My point is this: you’ll add up to a half-hour or more to an already long drive between Atlanta and N'awlins, wasting more gas, to spend $5 on blended ice mixed with chocolate syrup and coffee. You’ll drive an extra 3–5 miles, passing up Golden Arches and Red-headed little girls in pigtails selling 99 cent burgers so you can pay $5.95 for a cheeseburger, and that’s WITHOUT the fries. And you’ll suffer in the insane traffic inside of Atlanta’s Perimeter to go to a church, where parking is ridiculous, passing literally dozens of other perfectly fine churches, all praying to and preaching about the same Jesus. And I want to know…Why?
Me: Because, well, you know. I guess it was worth the effort.Viola Davis sits up from her reclining position then leans in close to me.
Viola: That’s right. It was worth the effort. When there is something you WANT, you Mr. Dawson, will go out of your way to get it. And THAT’S my problem with your never having dated a sista. We were not worth the effort to you. When you found yourself in a situation where there were little to no black people in general, it was not worth the effort to you to find them. Despite the fact you lived in one of the blackest metropolitan areas in this country for nearly six years. Despite the fact you went to UC Berkeley, a hop skip and a double-jump from Oakland.Me and women who look like me were not worth it to you. And that’s sad. 
Me and women who look like me were not worth it to you. And that’s sad.
Viola: It’s sad because I meant it when I said you really are a nice guy. You’re not one of these tired bruthas purposefully knocking black women as being “too much work” to deal with. We don’t want a man like that anyway.But what do we do when the good ones, even the ones who would otherwise be with us, don’t see it worth their effort to seek us out when they find themselves stranded in mainly white enclaves of corporate and collegiate America?I gulp.
Viola: Listen close to what I’m about to tell you. And make sure it sinks in real deep.
Me: O…kaaay.I lean in close.
Viola: The black woman is the mother of the human race. We were queens of nations when Europeans were still walking on all fours. We’ve conquered kingdoms. We’ve wooed men pale and dark. White women secretly want to be us. Black men fear us. White men used rape and fear to keep us down, yet, in the beautiful and immortal words of our dear mother Maya, “STILL WE RISE!” We’re the glue for communities. We’re the force that empowers and emboldens political parties. We are the fathers when our children are fatherless. We are the mothers to others. We breastfed, cared for, and rose generations of little black AND white babies. Our blood runs through the veins of every man, woman, and child on this planet. We are the Yin and the Yang of human existence. We are the greatest women in the bible, and we are the face of the new sexy. There is nothing you can say, nothing you can do, and nothing you can keep from us that will prevent us from always being what we have always been from the dawn of woman. STRENGTH PERSONIFIED.
Viola: And while it’s sad and hurts my heart that so many good men of any color don’t see us as being “worth the effort”, frankly, in a lot of ways, it’s more sad for you. Because at the end of the day, I say you’re the one who missed out.She leans back in her seat again to deliver the final “blow.”
Viola: And with regard to your confession, while I admire your concern over the well-being of the African, African-American, African-European, Afro-hispanic, and Afro-Asian woman, rest your little heart and put your small mind to rest, in spite of the bruthas too stupid, too ignorant, or too LAZY to seek us out, we still gonna be right as rain.With that, she folds her arms, and looks me dead in the eyes.
Me: Allll-righty then. Um. I guess that just about wraps it up.
Viola: I guess it does.
Me: Okay. I guess I’ll be leaving now?
Viola: Are you asking for my permission?
Me: Oh. No. Just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything else you needed to say.
Viola: Nope. I’m good. You have yourself a fine day.With that, I tip my head in a nod to say goodbye, open the door, and walk out. Just before leaving, I look back one more time. Viola Davis — dark, bold, and beautiful Viola Davis — sits there with her legs crossed, and waves goodbye. I wave back, then walk out the door.
As I turn around and walk out the door, right there in front of me is Sam. Smiling ear to ear.
Sam: Man. Now THAT was some muthafuckin’ shit! You still got your balls intact? I think you may have left them inside. Want me to go get them for you?
Me: Is THIS what I’m going to have to go through? You never said I would have to be confessing to like huge movie stars or anything.
Sam: Look Ronald. I don’t control how this shit works. I’m just a messenger. But in answer to your query. Yes. This is what you have to go through. So just man up and take it muthafucka.And with that. He was gone.
I stand there alone with only two things on my mind.
First, was Viola right about me? Did I not do enough? Did I not make a big enough effort?
Second, how the hell do I get out of this swamp?
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