The Switch Up

My alarm clock went off, but the vibe was all wrong. Instead of Randy Travis’s comforting twang, the room was vibrating to Carl Anderson’s "Maiden Voyage." I also heard a sound that was new to me. It was my smoke detector going off. I stumbled toward the bathroom, rubbing my face, only to find that my whiskers had traded their usual sandpaper grit for something kinky, soft, and distinctly... textured.

I lifted the toilet seat, prepared for the morning routine, and did a double-take. The "equipment" had undergone a significant structural renovation. It was darker—rich, like 70% cacao—and the length and girth had definitely seen a boost in the overnight polls.

"What the heck?" I muttered, scrubbing my hands. I looked up at the mirror and nearly jumped out of my skin—literally. The man looking back at me was me, but better. I was tripping, but there was no denying it: I was a Black man. I whipped off my pajama shirt to find a chest as smooth as a marble statue and twice as dark. I dropped the pants just to confirm the downstairs data. Well, I thought, admiring the view, that certainly explains the new dimensions.

I got dressed, but my first priority wasn't the gym—it was the bank. I logged into my accounts with bated breath. Thank God, I exhaled, the credit score didn't drop with the melanin. Suddenly, the thought of oatmeal with skim milk felt like a hate crime against my taste buds. I reached for the butter, brown sugar, and a can of Pet milk, throwing some maple sausage on the side for good measure. Then came the closet crisis. I looked at my sea of plaid shirts and Wrangler jeans and felt a wave of stylistic nausea. Those cowboy boots? Ugly. Within minutes, I had curated a look: sharp Chinos, crisp white tennis shoes, and a sports jacket that screamed "Executive on a Saturday."

I walked into the garage, and the old Chevy truck was gone. In its place sat a late-model Cadillac CTS, gleaming like a polished onyx. I didn't even call into work; how do you explain a "presto-chango" race swap to HR? Besides with all this DEI BS, I might have lost my job. I headed to the mall instead.

The social shift was instant. I watched an older white woman spot me and perform a gold-medal "purse swing," clutching her bag to the wall side like I was a human magnet for leather goods. Lady, I’m the same guy who held the door for you last week, I thought. What’s your problem?

In the men’s department, a clerk shadowed me so closely I could smell his peppermint gum. "Do you need something?" I asked. "No," he replied, eyeing my sleeve. "Just wanted you to know that jacket costs a lot of money." "Back off, buddy," I snapped. My "Black voice" hadn't fully downloaded yet. What I wanted to say was, "Man, get the hell out of my face before you find out how much a hospital bill costs." Had me feeling like I played a part in Boomerang!

I spent the rest of the afternoon admiring the scenery—specifically the Black women with curves that clearly hadn't been built on salads, but on a steady diet of red beans and rice. Curves that didn't come from a gym membership or a surgeon, but from cornbread, sweet potato pie, and the collected prayers of grandmothers.

I ditched my usual Apple Pan burger (I finally realized why that place is overrated) and headed for Hawkins House of Burgers. It was the most satisfying meal of my life. One bite of that Hawkins burger and I put it down, looked out around and quietly mourned every meal I'd eaten before this moment. Fifty years of culinary colonialism, and the sad part, it was self-imposed.

The ride downtown was going great until the red and blue lights appeared in the rearview. I wasn't worried; I had my papers. But the officer wasn't interested in registration. "Is this your car? Have you been drinking? You fit the description of a suspect." I sat with my hands visible, speaking slowly and clearly, channeling every ounce of patience I didn't know I had, while two officers who definitely hadn't solved a single crime today used me as their afternoon's entertainment.

Then it hit me, late and stupid, like it always does:

Oh. They think I'm Black.

I AM Black.

I kept my mouth shut and let them have their little performance. They eventually ran out of script and let me go. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just the quiet, institutional shrug of men who know nothing will happen to them.

I sat in the Cadillac for a moment after they drove off.

People live like this every day. Every. Single. Day. And still show up. Still build. Still laugh and cook and dance and love and create the most beautiful culture this country has ever tried to take credit for.Damn,

Sinners was playing downtown. I'd been skeptical — could it really be better than Buffy the Vampire Slayer? I asked this in complete sincerity and I'm not proud of it.

Brother. Brother. I sat in that theater with my mouth open for two hours. When it was over I didn't move. The credits rolled and I was still processing. I had been out here thinking Buffy was the pinnacle of vampire cinema like some kind of beige fundamentalist.

What else had I been missing? I started making a mental list and it got long and embarrassing fast. What had I been doing in that "un-melanated" skin all these years? No seasoning, no style, and a tragic preference for flat un-melenated backsides.

The dance club was the final baptism.

Last week I'd been at a club where everyone was thrashing around like they'd grabbed an electric fence. This was different. The bass and drums hit different. The rhythm wasn't something you followed — it was something that found you. For the first time in my life I was landing on the 2 and the 4, not stomping around on the 1 and 3 like a man trying to kill a spider.

I danced until 2am. My body knew things my mind hadn't caught up to yet.

eventually making it back to the Westside. I was almost home free when a neighbor—let’s call her Karen—approached me asking “Do you live here?"

By now, the transformation was complete. The "voice" arrived. "Bitch, get the hell out of my face," I said, my tone as deep and smooth as the Cadillac.

I slept hard.

Morning came and I looked in the mirror.

The white guy was back. Pale. Patchy stubble. The Wranglers were calling from the closet like a bad habit.

Gone was the smooth skin. Gone was the soft coil of my facial hair. Gone was that smoke sector sound was gone, and gone — sadly, tragically, poetically — was the generous endowment I had briefly been entrusted with, like a library book I hadn't finished.

I stood there in the bathroom, a white man again, staring at my reflection.

Then I went to the kitchen, made my oatmeal, and added the butter, the pet milk, and the brown sugar.

That much, at least, I was keeping.