Oh, Honey...

Have you ever had one of those conversations where you think is going great and then whoever you’re talking to says one thing that you just can’t get down with and you can’t hide your disdain/disbelief/disgust?

I can honestly say that’s only ever happened to me once. I was a freshman in college and I was at breakfast with this guy I sort of liked. Everything was great and he was nice and charming until he started talking about how when he went home he’d write what he wanted for breakfast on a piece of paper for his mother to find every night and how he liked George Bush and I never spoke to him again. There were other things that went wrong in that conversation—it was one God-awful thing after another—but those are the ones I remember.

Then last week happened.

Last week was grad school orientation (yes, last week as in “most of the days in the week”) and I somehow ended up sitting next to the same girl every day. We got along as well as you get along with people you meet in orientation until Wednesday.

On Wednesday, one of the advisors spoke about the portion of a seminar class that she’d be taking. This girl—let’s call her Honey—and I figured out that we were both taking said seminar this semester, so after all the, “Oh yay, I’ll know someone!” we actually paid attention.

Or at least we did until career goals got mentioned.

The advisor, Jamie, with whom I have since bonded because we both hate Paris, said that eventually in her class we’d be putting down our career goals. The general idea was, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?” only, you know, for jobs. Considering we’re spending tens of thousands of dollars on higher-higher education, it’d probably be a good idea to have some sort of a plan. I like to have plans—I need them, really, but while I was nodding appreciatively at Jamie’s 10 Year Plan assignment Honey was frowning.

“Ten years?” she said distastefully. “I hope to be a homemaker by then!”

That was when she lost me.

Let me get this straight. You’re here paying upwards of $40,000 a year for a two year degree that you plan on no longer using in a hypothetical 5 years. I figure that 5 years is a pretty good estimate because everyone seems to be at least 22 and ovaries have a shelf life. That’s five years including the two you’re going to spend in grad school, so you really have three years to be in the workforce utilizing this $80,000+ investment you’ve made. Three years. Three. Years.

Is that $80,000 investment going to pay off in three years?

No.

Are you wasting a lot of money?

Yes.

…oh, Honey.

That, boys and girls, is hands down one of the Top 5 Craziest Things I’ve Heard All Year. It’s not that fact that she wants to be a homemaker. At a school like Clemson you hear a lot about girls going to college just to get their Mrs. From what I heard in undergrad, it’s a pretty common practice (that I don’t understand). Besides, I actually think staying home to keep the house is becoming a lost art (that I will never help to revive). All y’all housewives and househusbands go out there and be the best little housepeople (is that politically correct?) you can possibly be.

But if you fully plan on leaving your career in a few years to stay home with Johnny and Susie, why oh why are you spending upwards of $80,000 on a master’s degree? I didn’t know what to say. And so I said what I always say when I don’t know what to say.

“Oh God.”

Looking back I probably should have just smiled and nodded. Oh well. Hindsight’s 20/20. What I did figure out is that, “Oh God,” was not the response Honey was looking for. We didn’t speak another word for the rest of orientation. We do smile and say hi in the bathroom, though.

Oh, Honey.

The Brilliant, the Black, and the Bourgie

Brilliant: adj., having or showing great intelligence, talent, quality, etc.; splendid or magnificent

Black: adj.; pertaining or belonging to any of the various populations characterized by dark skin pigmentation or belonging to any of the various populations characterized by dark skin pigmentation, specifically the dark-skinned peoples of Africa, Oceania, and Australia.

Bourgie: adj. (usually pejorative), to be pretentious in matters of taste or dismissive of other tastes, in a manner that follows a particular middle class mode of thinking. From the French “bourgeoisie.”

People who exemplify all three of these words are collectively known as “the Talented Tenth.” I’m just kidding. Or am I?

Depending on how you know me, my name is either Lyssa or Bre. If you don’t actually know me, go with the first one. I’m pretty smart, one of my cousins calls me Chocolat, and if your beer isn’t Belgian you can get it out of my face.

You've heard of The BBC? I'm The BBB. I am brilliant. I am Black. I am bourgie. In that order.

But as fabulous as we are, it’s hard on the yard for us brilliant, Black, and bourgie kids. We’re too weird, we like strange things; no one understands us. There usually aren’t enough of us in one place to be friends with one another so we’re usually forced to make friends with people who are 2 out of 3: either brilliant and Black, Black and bourgie, or, last and certainly worst in the eyes of our peers and family, those who are brilliant and bourgie—but not Black.

Or at least that’s what happened to me. I catch hell every time my extended family meets my non-Black but brilliant and bourgie friends. I know it’s all jokes and y’all don’t mean any harm, but for real? Do we really have to do this every time I have company? Is this really necessary? REALLY?

Things only get worse when you go to college—or at least they got worse for me when I went to college—especially if you, like me, attend a PWI. Here on the internet, PWI stands for “Predominately White Institution,” and I went to the PWI of PWIs: Clemson University. With a student body that’s roughly 82% Caucasian, Clemson is home to all things involving frat boys, wearing cowboy boots with short dresses in the summer time, and cornhole.

What even IS cornhole? Like, what is it? Please someone tell me. Please.

To make matters even worse, I graduated from that Gap Ad of a university in May and was all ecstatic at the prospect of never having to go back only to realize that it was really my only option for grad school. I may or may not have cried for a week after. Actually, I may or may not still be crying.

But maybe delving into this strange, strange world is my calling in life. Perhaps I’m meant to be the explorer observing the non-brilliant, non-Black, and/or non-bourgie (or any combination of the three) in their natural habitats because sweet minty Jesus there has got to be a reason why I keep ending up in these situations. Because I swear this is a plot designed by God to make me learn some lesson I obviously haven’t learned yet, I’m starting this blog.

I do not promise to always be nice. I never promise to be tactful. If you don’t want to read any speculations on any group you belong to or trait you identify with, get out now and maybe we can still be friends. If you’re going to tell me that I’m too sensitive, get out and we probably won’t stay friends. If you don’t want to hear unpleasant things about sexism, racism, or any other –ism I can come up with—if you especially don’t want to hear anything about sexism, racism, or any other –ism I can come up with from a little educated Black girl, you might not want to hang around.

Really, though, this should be about what fun adventures I have navigating Gap Ad Graduate School. There will be adventures. I can feel it. I am way too awkward/socially inept/strange for there to be no adventures. I fully expect y’all to laugh at me for the next 2 years. Hopefully, sometimes I’ll be laughing too. There’s no backing out now. I’ve already paid tuition.

Let’s do this.