After all, it’s about feelings, right? Why do we need Albert Einstein when we’ve got Morris Albert? You and the legislature understand the inner conflict I labor under day in and day out. I’m black to the core. I never miss The “Queen Latifah Show,” I’ve watched “Medea’s Family Reunion” over five times, I’m fluent in ebonics, and I do a fantastic Maya Angelou impression that kills at cocktail parties. My affinity for early ’90s Hip Hop and stunning collection of parachute pants pretty much seals the deal, don’t you think? From now on, I shall be known as Shaniqua Hughes. And, to quote Pope Francis, “Who are you to judge?”
Naturally, I want everything that comes with my newfound status as a PBW (Proud Black Woman). The whole nine yards. Send it to me via high speed rail if you have to: Special protection under hate crime statutes, Section 8 housing, race-based scholarships, the ability to attend Al Sharpton rallies and look indignant, permission to say “talk to the hand” without being ironic, but especially the preferential treatment in government contracting. With our state unemployment at 12 percent I could sure use that one. Line ’em up Moonbeam, because Shaniqua is here, and she’s fierce!
While I’m in the confessing mood, I have to unload this as well:
I am also disabled.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: I have no physical or mental deformities to speak of, but you and the Democrats will just have to trust me on this one. It’s just something I feel to be true — like my menstrual cramps or global warming. I’m sure we can scrounge up something to qualify me: My occasional road rage or my ACDD (Acute Courtesy Deficit Disorder) so common here in Los Angeles. Either way it’s clear: I’m a cripple, and for you to question it for even a second means you hate cripples. Cripple hater. Yes – you!
Naturally, in my debilitated state, I want all the perks that come with my condition – preferential parking, line cutting at Disneyland, and of course boarding the airplane first. Yes, you’ll see me. I’ll be sitting next to you with my “service animal.” He’s an unneutered howler monkey named Spitz with a nasty case of syphilis. I’ll let you figure out where the name came from.
And if you don’t like it, what are you going to do? Punch a crippled black woman?
Jim Hughes a writer and humorist living in Los Angeles. He is neither a woman, black, nor disabled, but he does have an awesome collection of parachute pants.