Black Party Rules

Some steps to follow when you’re the only black person at the party.

One.

Don’t panic.

Two.

Find the alcohol.

Have a drink.

Three.

Be cool.

They’re just like you.

They’re just people.

This is probably just a coincidence.

Four.

Don’t say cliche things,

Like,

“Ya’ll heard that new J. Cole?”

Or.

“The plight of African Americans in this country can be boiled down to discrimination, designed in a system to keep them uneducated, unemployed, and undervalued.”

Five.

Have a drink.

Six.

Be funny.

People feel comfortable around you if you can make them laugh.

Make jokes at your expense.

Laugh

When they say borderline racist things,

Like,

“We have some watermelon vodka!”

Seven.

Have a drink.

Eight.

Mention your degree before you tell them where you got it.

This will usually,

Though not always,

Keep them from asking

“What sport you played?”

Nine.

When they ask you

“What sport you played?”

Tell them something obscure.

Like chess.

Because fuck them.

Ten.

Have a drink.

Eleven.

Don’t join the group of people comparing stories

Of times they got pulled over

And didn't receive a penalty.

Even though his car smelled like weed.

Even though she was doing 75 in a 40.

How "The police can be so…

Inconvenient."

Twelve.

Drink just enough.

Tonight may be the most time some of these patrons

Spend with a person of color this month.

Don’t fuck it up.

Thirteen.

Question

Why you are there in the first place?

If these ‘friends’

Understand the predicament

Of being a drowning island.

That no one man is meant to be a ‘stand-in’ for their race.

That this place

Is an internment camp in civilian clothing.

Where the numbers never quite add up to equality.

Showing a welcome sign that reads

"You're lucky,

To have been invited at all.”

It is the irony,

Of people saying the party is in the back,

After years of fighting to get to the front.

It is a sleeping pill prescription,

When you came in with a sore throat

From shouting

To be heard.

This party

Hears your music,

But not your police brutality.

Wears your culture,

But thinks it looks best on them.

That raising property taxes is the new pumpkin spice latte,

And we love our artificial food coloring.

Love our minorities easy to digest.

This is a party.

Snacks should be able to be devoured in one slur.

And I’ve heard

That I am token enough to fill that diversity slot.

‘Ethnic enough,’

To cash in all my stereotypes

For the ‘acceptance prize.’

So remember me.

When you start feeling a little guilty watching clippings of black bodies falling.

Tell yourself

That I am your ‘get out of racist free card.’

That all lives matter

Just some more than most.

That racism ended

When you started sharing your PBR with other skin tones.

But just a few of them.

The ones who were black,

But not like “them.”

“They” are a bunch of criminals.

“They” don’t have an education.

“They” are the kind of humans that give black people a bad rap.

Fourteen.

Get fucking drunk.

Laugh out loud when you overhear a girl saying

“She doesn’t see color,”

Then comments that someone’s dress “doesn’t go with her concealer.”

When the number of times you’re asked if you have any weed

Exceeds the amount of people present currently, 


Laugh.

That it’s the one thing they all feel comfortable talking to you about.

When the whole party

Starts chanting

“Nigga we gon’ be aight!”

Laugh.

At the irony.

That yeah,

They are.

Fifteen.

Have fun.

That’s why we’re all here isn’t it?

To forget the world around us

By creating a new one that looks just like it.

Don’t panic.

Have a drink.

It’s just a party.