White Privilege at Black Poetry Night

Warning! This post contains:

• the whitest rap ever recorded

• a trombone played suggestively

• one (1) biscuit, nearly fatal, and

• booty-on-booty diplomacy

Reader discretion is advised. Easy on the nutmeg.

Yesterday, I took my dad to what we thought was a songwriter night, but after we signed up at the front desk, we walked in to find ourselves in the middle of a Black poetry night. The open mic was open to all, but there was only one white chick who showed up after us. She was a regular who ended up reading a silly piece about hockey, one of the whitest sports in the world behind ice curling.

This place was black. DJ was spinning. Nails were glowing under the black lights. There wasn’t a menu. The smell of fish frying and potatoes stewing was all you needed to know.

The place was poppin’. And then there was me and my old man, dressed like cowboys with acoustic guitars, like a Hallmark movie that got lost and wandered into a twerk circle that needed baptism.

I found out about this so-called songwriter night through Meetup.com’s Raleigh Songwriter club. I assumed that the one and only event they advertised would be for, you know, songwriters. But whatever. We were there, the place was chill, people were cool. We rolled with it. Plus, the MC said we could do whatever the fuck we wanted. Dangerous words for men raised on tractor fumes and mild concussions.

“Whatever the fuck” must have been the theme. It was raw, ugly, beautiful. It was bad and wrong done right. One guy shouted, “The only period that’s ever stopped me was at the end of a sentence.” The crowd shouted “Rewind!” which meant Dude had to repeat himself while everyone snapped their fingers and laughed their asses off.

Despite the animated laughter, everyone had mad respect. Nobody talked over the poet. It reminded me of the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, where you literally get shushed out the door for being too loud. This place was an anomaly. Most open mics are awful. You’re lucky to have a handful of friends listen while the rest of the bar yaks over your art.

Last night, there must have been 80 people glued to the stage, hanging on every word. If it hadn’t rained so hard that evening, the place would have been packed.

“Alright, we’ve got some fresh meat tonight. Coming all the way from Tennessee, my Nashville brother, give it up for Mr. Darby.”

Everyone was super warm — cheers were welcoming.

“Thank you! So when my son was itty-bitty, about 1 year old, he woke up one day with some seepage around his eye, like this crud had dried up and completely glued his eyelids shut. It was gross. So being the weirdo that I am, it inspired me to write my first rap … which goes:

Boogies in ya nose, crust in ya eye
Working on a poo makes you cry.
Cry for ya suppah. Cry for ya sleep
You don’t know numbers so ya can’t count sheep!!!”

I got a few laughs, some snappy fingers. I was sooooo white.

“I know we’re only supposed to do one piece, but that was just an introduction to my second rap song that I wrote a few weeks back.

The crowd shouted “New shit!” which is a little call and response they do. The MC told me you have to tell the crowd if it’s new shit or old shit.

“Yeah, this one is brand new. I wrote it on the road, hopped up on Adderall, driving 10 hours to Cincinnati to pick up my dad and move him here to Raleigh. So this is our home now!”

Everyone cheered.

“And this is the whitest rap you’ll ever hear … called ‘Fat Baby Legs.’

Chunky chunky chunk ... fat baby legs
Chicka chicka boom ... chicka lay that egg
Pretty pretty please ... don’t make me beg
A little Darb’ll do, but easy on the nutmeg

Talkin’ talkin’ talkin’ stop talkin’ just dance
Party party party gotta gimme romance
Shake-a shake-a shake ... ice in the glass
Billy Goat outta nowhere chewing on my pants

Her love gotta beat like a bongo drum
Boom baby boom baby ... apple bottom bum
Chop choppa chop ... Hellacoppa chopping
Watchin’ through the window ... I’m naked in an apron

Slather peanut butter … peanut butter jelly
Lick-a lick-a lick ... lick it off a’ her belly
But she didn’t shave her hair ... got real scruffy
Fuzzy wuz a bear, but Fuzzy wasn’t fuzzy

So I gave her the slip ... got an upgrade
Gotta new girl ... she my mama marmalade
Shot shot shot shot ... spike the lemonade
I lay-a lay-a lay ... lay her down in the shade

Dip-a dip-a dip, I dip her in some fondue
Trick-a trick-a treat ... I’ll take a trick or two
Yippity skippity whoopty fuckin’ do
What the fox say? I don’t care. Cow go moo!

Love-a love-a love ... I love her warts and all
One time she let it rip ... killed a fly on da wall
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 ... Ride a bull
I’m a Stallion she donkey ... we be makin mule

Rock it rock it rock it ... shake ya head bang bang
Stomp stomp stomp ... freakin’ out the dog mang
Change in ya pocket, shake it like a piggy bank
Back ‘at ass up and come back — boomerang!

She a strong-willed woman, like Wilma Flintstone
She ride a motorcycle, gotta mind of her own
My baby like to blow, you know she blow a trombone
And she boogie when the Bengals run it in the end zone

Rub a dub dub in my tub bubble bath
My baby so hot, she broke a thermostat
We be gettin’ biblical, kids we begat
Fat baby legs. They feet go pitter pat

Chunky chunky chunk ... fat baby legs
Chicka chicka boom ... chicka lay that egg
Pretty pretty please ... don’t make me beg
A little Darb’ll do ya, easy on da nutmeg

I said a little Darb’ll do, but easy on da nutmeg

Thank you.”

The whole joint lit up as the DJ started spinning to keep the energy going. Everyone thought Cowboy was gonna sing a little ditty, which is what I thought I’d do too, but you know … when in Rome — drop a nursery rhyme and call it hip-hop. Who cares. Black. White. Whatever.

Later on, I went outside to shoot the shit with everyone hanging out by the fish fry. We were all laughing and carrying on when this lady, out of nowhere, had to go and make it weird.

She was like, “Hahaha … so what do you think about your privilege?”

“Jesus. What do I think? Damn.”

“Yeah, what do you think?”

It was a trap. I knew I should run, but …

“I don’t know. I guess it feels pretty good.”

The dude next to her choked on a biscuit, then coughed it up so he could probably breathe, before laughing.

The lady looked pissed.

“It feels pretty good, does it?”

“Well, yeah. I didn’t say I earned it, but ...”

“He said it feels pretty good!”

“A lot of it’s luck of the draw.”

“Luck of the draw my ass. I work my ass off and you’re gonna say it’s luck of the draw?”

Dude’s still laughing through a mouthful of biscuit and manages to mumble, “Chill the fuck out. He’s just telling the truth hahahaha.”

I nodded in agreement. “You don’t choose the hand you’re dealt. You choose how to play it. That’s like you working your ass off.”

She needed to cool off, so I skedaddled. Inside, the DJ was spinning, music was bangin’. My dad and I were talking to these two fine young ladies on the couch next to us. The MC was trying to get everyone up, so his sister started pulling people out of their seats. Now everyone was dancing except these two stiff looking cowboys. One lady noticed and was like, “aww hell nah!” So she danced over and tried to get my dad up.

The MC started chanting, “Go Steeeeve. Go Steeeeve.” But his knees have been so bad lately that I knew he’d hurt himself. I jumped up and saved his ass by getting right up behind hers, facing away of course.

I’m a married man, so I figured a little booty on booty action was an acceptable diversion to avoid a hospital visit.

As soon as our piggy banks touched, she began to shake ‘em both. It about broke my bank. She was all up in my business. It was the first time somebody else’s ass butt dialed my friends. I was no match — twerking like a history teacher at prom.

Everyone in the club quickly surrounded us while the DJ cranked it up. Then one of the most beautiful girls in the bar broke through the circle and decided it would be funny if she made a Darby sammich. There I was, squished up between two lovely ladies, doing the airplane because the rest of me couldn’t move. They had me completely pinned in between their thunder thighs. Phones were out capturing what’ll never happen again — not like that.

After the song ended, I leaned into the lady who I had just pissed the fuck off moments earlier, and said, “It was my great privilege to have danced with you.” She squinted her eyes, which betrayed the smile that was forming.

She didn’t wanna admit I was right. I was privileged. And she did feel good. It feels good when people do nice things to you that you don’t deserve. She didn’t have to apologize. She just kissed me on the cheek and walked away.

True story.