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At a certain point, I became fully engaged with my feelings of rage, rebellion, hatred, and revenge, which displayed themselves, in true waiter custom, through passive-aggressive exchanges and behavior. A man in his early 70's approached me as I was walking around with a fresh tray of roasted pig. He asked what I had and, as I eyed him in his White Hunter Black Heart safari outfit, all I could think of was, The food on my dish is exactly what you are! And then the word came falling out of my mouth. "PIG!" I was screaming into his face. He repeated his question and I ejected the same virulent, venomous response: "PIG!" As I wandered through the party, serving, I slowly adopted a persona. The amazing thing was, it was my ancestors who were guiding me. I became the black in colonial Africa; especially when I came across this one woman who had gone to the extreme for this little soiree. She was around 70 years old, and she had put either shoe polish or burnt cork on her face and body. She wore a grass skirt, sandals, a tank top, Afro-wig and two coconuts to resemble tits. I was so shocked by her outfit, it became almost funny. What fascinated me was that no one seemed at all concerned that we waiters were there observing them. This woman was totally oblivious to how degrading to us her costume was. Or so I thought. Sometime during the evening I saw her sitting in a corner nursing a martini, looking desperately uncomfortable. Maybe she was starting to feel the alienation of her new skin color--you don't want to stay black for too long unless you are willing to bear the responsibility. It's like a wine taster trying to go 10 rounds with Mike Tyson. Of course, the real reason was probably that Miss Long Island Mint Julep, our hostess, hadn't told our Miss Jungle Bunny of 1922 that we dusky brooders of Manhattan would be there. She was mortified; she had been outed. |
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