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| J. and the Crew really oughtta be paying you, Shels... |
The gracious men over at VerySmartBrothas.com taught me something recently, through their amusing glossary of terms. To quote:
"2520: Code for refering to caucasians and sh*t. If said aloud, the 25th (w) and 20th (t) letters of the alphabet “y”-”t” sound almost exactly like “white.” First used on VSB by Sister T, we think this term originally derived from harold clemens blog, ghettouprising."
I told a close friend (a Spelman woman, no less) that I found this new (to me) phrase spectaculrarly freaking awesome and that I was, very deliberately, going to introduce it into my vocabulary. What's code-switching without new codes? DuBois would be proud. But probably not. He'd chuckle for a second. DuBois probably didn't chuckle.
Anyway, Sista Spelman duly informed me that I was late to the game--she and her friends had been using it for years. (Don't know why you need to speak in code at an HBCU, but I'm sure she had her reasons...)
I felt crushed...but I had to cut myself some slack. See, I've attended PWI's my whole life. (If you don't know what it means, 98% of the W's in Negro Code stand for white...though this is actually a commonly used education term. Just keep reading.) I love my parents, because they did an amazing job of keeping me grounded in church and with family, friends, and service, but worked their asses off to give me the best education they could afford. In St. Louis, that meant predominately white institutions (there you go)--the ones where rich people pretended like they weren't rich even though they clearly, clearly were.
That meant that I led a particularly Clandestinegro life for much of my adolescence. The Negro in me was Clandestine, not by personal force or desire, but because my environment was so diverse, the ways of my inner blackness had yet to emerge. My Great Black Awakening was a little ways off, but I was still living betwixt two worlds--and I didn't realize I didn't really fit into the PWI world until 7th grade. Sure, I was smart enough to gain entry into the top private school in the area, but apparently I needed a 2520 come up--and fast--to be one of the cool kids, when I had no problems with this at my hippie-dippy-love-everyone-alternative-education-awesome-place-for-kids elementary school.
This is to say that there were several membership requirements I didn't realize I was lacking until the time came:
1. I had never seen, nor did I know the entire script of Dirty Dancing.
It was at my first 7th grade sleepover where they played this apparent classic. I say apparent because, if you ask me, I didn't see what was so special about it. White folks dancing the way black and Latino folks had been doing for far longer? Not exciting or brand new. Not to mention that, excepting the ever-agile Patrick Swayze, the "dirtiness" of their "dancing" wasn't even cool because they did it poorly. It felt more like A Chorus Line: Summer Camp Special, full of Broadway dancing and flouncy dresses, all occurring in some remote sleepy town that would never exist in real life. Not never.
Quite frankly, as the only brown skin baby in the place, I had the urge to tell them that wasn't cool at all--turn on an old episode of Video Soul and they could see MUCH better dancing--dirty and non. But that urge was fleeting--they were contemplating letting me into their club, so I just shut the hell up and pretended to know what was going on.
That meant pretending to recite lines and feign excitement ("Yeah...nobody...baby...corner. OMG...yeah-I love this part too!") and trying to stay awake. Alas, this piece of crap is a 2520 come-up requirement.
To this day, I'm still not impressed.
2. I owned nothing from J. Crew. Or Abercrombie. And little from Banana Republic.
I was 11--what the hell did I need with clothes that expensive? I was tall, gangly, awkward (but cute!), and growing out of my clothes at an alarming rate. My mother would have been crazy to buy me distressed denim at $69.50 a pop when I was distressing my jeans from the Dillard's kids section just fine.
I didn't even know what J. Crew or Abercrombie were until I got to secondary school. For me, cool clothes came from whatever stores they had in Jamestown Mall (which used to, by the way, be the spot). And don't mistake--they were cool. Limited Too (paint splatter jeans, anyone?), Dillard's, Famous-Barr (now known as the atrocity that is Macy's)...hell--THIS is the mall where I first met Express and her formerly cute clothes. You could not tell me I wasn't stylin' on these pre-pubescent hoes.
But tragically, I realized I didn't have the right cool clothes for my new 7-12th grade environs. You needed lots of torn up hats from Abercrombie & Fitch. And some Birkenstocks--preferably well worn. Dresses? Banana or Nordstrom--any label. And your everything else? Your cardis and necklaces and jeans and tees and definitely your shorts and your two-pieces and your flip flops? Those must be J. Crew, darling. Nevermind the fact that my Pastor father wasn't even trying to let me wear a 2-piece to the bathtub, let alone buy me some bright pink shorts for 40 bucks cause I just had to have them. Just give me those flip flops.
There was one pair that I finally put my hands on, around freshman year. J. Crew had gone and upped the standard: now, the flops were platform, with an elastic thong where the rubber used to be. J. Crew, I can officially afford to love and wear your whimsical clothes now, but I do have a bone to pick with you, because that was the most STUPIDLY designed pair of footwear I had ever owned. I really thought I was doing the damn thing. But I was trippin'. Literally. YOU try walking on some 13 year old skinny stilts for legs on a big-ass foam platform and some stretchy material to hold your foot in place. That sh*t made NO damn sense, J. Your foot would extend so far up that you'd lose your balance going up the stairs to class.
But it didn't matter. Cause if I fell over, or my shoe slipped off, you'd still see the "J. Crew" insignia on the inside. Making me the coolest klutz in class.
3. I owned no low-key 2520 status symbols.
In the land of understated prep, there were some must-haves that separated the in-crowd from the rest of the mostly black, mostly poor and middle-class people.
You'd think the purple racerback suit I got on vacation in Orlando would have been satisfactory. But no. I had to beg Moms for the swimmer's standard. Speedo symbol: clear but not obvious. Bright colors: a must. Slight pattern: preferable, but not necessary. But sporty for sure--no ladylike embellishments or corny details. I was convinced I'd die a very long and embarrassing death over and over again, ever day in gym class, without one.
It was the most uncomfortable suit I had ever owned--probably because it was gotten on sale and I was 2 steps away from being too tall for it. But I wore it till the material started peeling. Shameful.
You never actually had to drink out of it, but you did have to have it--the classic blue, light purple or grey with wide-mouth top--nothing fancy (even though they were $15-20 back in the day). It had to be hanging from your L.L. Bean backpack (with the monogram, of course). And how did it hang?
With your bright green carabiner! I don't think I ever really hiked a day in my life, but I've gone through 15 of those freaking things. You're welcome, R.E.I.
My boyfriend bought a Nalgene bottle last night. And it had to be a Nalgene. Guess my life has officially come full circle.
The Right Keychain:
It wasn't a Tiffany's keyring. Or a Coach one, or some other luxury brand, as you might suspect. No. It was these monogrammed, needlepoint leather key fobs that everybody had. You could only get them at this extra shi-shi arts and crafts store on the street around the corner from the school.
But these were a trap. You see, in order for said key fob to qualify, it had to be made for you by a friend. Which meant if you didn't have one, no one liked you. If you had 4, you were the freaking (wo)man. You knew if someone actually gave it to you if there were a note inside, filled with awesome inside jokes about your parent's pool house, beer, and awesome closings like "LYLAS" or "You're SO Money!"
Eventually...I said f*ck it. I made my own and my friend Kara wrote the note. And neither of our families have a pool. Or a house for said pool.
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| Note: My 2520's did NOT include those silly symbols. We were too money for that... |
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