Is it real? Can I touch it? Some strangers are bold enough to ask. Most of them however, say something like, “Wow! And it’s real too!” Sometimes though, that proclamation smells more like a question even if it doesn’t sound like one. The answer is something I decided to monetize or at least alchemize, by letting it drive traffic to my blog. So, you want to know if my ass is real? “Okay,” I say. “You can find the answer on my website.” Then I take their phone and open TenderloinTribe.com before handing it back to them and walking away.
Some probably thought I was putting in my exclusively ceiling fans address.
I mean I don’t have one. But who knows? If I stay on this facing my fears kick, I may end up with one yet. Speaking of fear, what does that have to do with the questions and comments I get about my booty? Let me circle back around to that question. First, let me tell you about a recent phone conversation I had with a friend whom I haven’t seen in years, during which she talked about the trials and tribulations of having a big butt.
Before she was an adult, grown men sexualized her. When she wore the exact same clothes as her friend with an average ass, she was sent to the school office. And then of course, there’s always been the jealous haters. She knew I wasn’t one. And that meant she could vent freely. She knew I wasn’t the type to say, “What are you talking about? I would kill to have your ass!” Never. So what did I say? Sigh. Something way worse and much stupider. But before I confess, I have to say that her ass truly is a masterpiece.
Actually, her whole body is beautiful like a fine art sculpture from which it is difficult to look away.
Still, back when we spent a lot of time together, I never said a single thing to her about her big toned butt or her tiny little snatched waist. In fact, I never said any unsolicited thing to her about her body period. As someone who has been asked tens of thousands of times the exact same set of body questions, including how tall am I, it is less likely, though never impossible, that I’m going to point out the one thing about someone else that I know has already been pointed out by literally everyone. Maybe this too is why she felt comfortable complaining to me about her privilege.
But I guess while she was talking, I was listening to reply.
Because when she paused, I told her I knew exactly what she meant. And the reason, I said, is because on May 25, 2015, I went to the Dominican Republic and got a BBL. “You got what?” she asked. I repeated myself but she just asked the question again. “You know,” I said, “a Brazilian butt lift!” She was super quiet. So I filled in the space with words as I reiterated how I had learned first hand about the down side of having a big ass.
Then I told her all about this article I read called, A Psychologist Explains The ‘Pretty Privilege Paradox.’
I explained how it was comparable to big booty privilege. She was still awfully quiet. But I kept going because I thought since I now also have this privilege/punishment thing, I was qualified to speak on the matter. I told her how at first, I was so mad at everyone for treating me better, for privileging me. How dare they? I was still the same person I was pre-op! Don’t misunderstand, I did have some ass privilege already, but not like I had after the BBL! That was like winning the privilege lottery except I was mad about it because it all felt so shallow and fake.
I didn’t say that next to the last part to her though, because she already knew what my pre-op body looked like. But I did tell her that she was only seeing one side of the equation and it wasn’t the privileged side. She insisted she doesn’t have and has never had pretty privilege or the like. The way I saw it, though, is that since she was born with a big ass, or at least the genetics for it, she must be blind to the privilege it brings. She can only see the punishment of it, because somehow, us humans often see negativity easier than positivity.
Needless to say, she didn’t appreciate my unsolicited opinion. She said she had to go shortly thereafter. Unfortunately, my top skill is not quietly listening to friends while strictly “holding space” with the intention of not giving any feedback when they’re done talking. Within a few minutes of listening to someone describe their problem, I’ve usually identified what I think is their blind spot. It’s hard for me to turn off the part of my personality which spent years doling out advice on the crisis line and the nurse advice line.
Of course, I don’t just ruthlessly hold up a mirror for people who I know need soothing rather than insight. But she was my friend, and so I guess I felt like I could speak freely. To borrow the Scriptural analogy, I didn’t mean to pick out the mote in her eye while ignoring the beam in mine. Also, I like to believe that I can take what I dish out, so to speak. In fact, I want to have my blind spots pointed out to me even if it is painful, because in the end, it’s worth it. Nothing is more embarrassing than to be out here having a part of me seen that I can’t see myself!
So that evening, in my head, I replayed our conversation. I found at least one blind spot which came as an aha moment. Being told that I have white privilege has always made me feel defensive. I have often thought if anyone knew how incredibly hard my life has been, they would never put that label on me. And then I realized this is exactly (more or less) what my friend said, just about a different kind of privilege. And just like I think she’s blind to her privilege because she was born with it, so am I. Or at least I was until I had that epiphany.
Then I had a second realization. Who was I to assume that just because I acquired big booty privilege the moment I bought my ass, that she automatically got hers through genetics?
So I sent her a message and apologized for making such a biased assumption. She didn’t open it, but I bet she read it from her notifications screen. While I am truly sorry for being an ass, aka assuming, her icy coldness didn’t bother me as much as it once would have. She withdrew her warmth the moment I said I had a BBL. And that was before I pointed out what I assumed to be her privilege. And that brings me back to the question I asked above in the second paragraph. What does fear have to do with anything?
It has to do with my fear of rejection and loss of a pseudo privilege, the same privilege about which I was so mad when I acquired it.
See, I’ve learned that rejection comes with truth telling. For example, not long ago, I stopped to talk to an old man on the street. He was enthralled with my red hair and he wanted to tell me about how he and his brother had red hair in their younger days. The conversation spilled over to those standing nearby. And soon the topic switched from my hair to my ass. A female asked if she could touch it. I said yes because the request wasn’t sexual. It was as benign as wanting to touch someone’s flexed muscles or wanting to pull a ringlet in a person’s hair just to watch it spring back.
She poked, prodded, jostled and smacked my ass before announcing to everyone that it was real.
She then informed me that being a ginger with a big ass meant I would be “accepted by the black community.” She then asked for my number after informing me that we were going to hang out together. Right about then, I decided to tell her that I had a BBL. By the way, at no point had I ever said it was real. And sure enough, just like my friend, she quickly became icy cold before the conversation was soon over. Of course, I also replayed that conversation over and over in my head just in case it was something else that I had said.
It’s crazy how people punish you as a fraud for being authentic enough to admit your own fakeness.
And it’s even crazier how people give you privilege for either your genetics or what they assume to be your genetics.
I am finishing this entry today, 8/29, which is when I saw the above post on Facebook. It reads, “Authenticity doesn’t guarantee everyone will like you. It guarantees that you will like you.” Well said! So, if I had it to all over again, would I still get a BBL? Absolutely, I would! But you know what? I kinda feel like I understand what Biggie Smalls meant by more money equals more problems. Instead of “mo money,” I could say, “mo booty.” And yes, of course, I still want the more booty and the more money even if they come with more problems. I’m just sayin’ it’s worth it!
P.S. Even scarier than admitting my fakeness, is changing the settings on this post from private to public. This is because I have trouble with the logic behind political correctness. And so I usually just steer clear of sensitive subjects in which I am likely to commit a heinous faux pas. But in this case, I made an exception. Thus, I pray as Nina Simone sang, “Oh, Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood. I’m just a soul whose intentions are good.”