An Open Letter to the Cello Player on 7th and E Street

This is the letter that I've written for the cello player on 7th and E Street. I would have delivered it, if I actually meant any of it and/or I was an absolutely crazy person. Unfortunately, neither apply in this situation. However, I did want to share with you the pain of heartbreak, unrequited love, and the pang of spending entirely too much money on gourmet cupcakes.

Hey you.

I don’t know your name—just simply “Cello Player Who Sits at 7^th and E Every Afternoon.” I wanted to write this to you because, well, it’s time I explain myself. Okay, it’s time that I explain us. You see, we met for the first time almost a week ago. It will actually be a week tomorrow. #HappyAnniversary! I passed you on the street and there you were, playing your cello. I’m pretty sure you were playing “Secrets” by One Republic. It’s one of my favorites—oh, you too? How ironic. Anyway, I immediately thought, “Sigh. This might be the person. You know, the person.” But alas, I came back to my office. I didn’t say anything until I asked my friend Maeve what I should do to which she said, “WWTD.” I’m assuming you don’t understand what that means—What Would Taylor Do? Yes, Taylor Swift. Because you play cello, I’m sure that sounds incredibly bass base to you; I apologize.

But I followed through, and I went back downstairs. I wanted to say something or impress you, but I didn’t know how, so I bought cupcakes. I took one for myself because, lesbihonest, it’s cupcakes. Then I took the other one, opened up the box, said, “Great cello playing. Hope you like cupcakes. –Justin” and then put my number. A friend pointed out that I gave you singular cupcake so technically the plurality might have led you to believe that someone else took the second cupcake, but “Hope you like cupcake” seemed weird. I did what felt right. You stole my heart, so I stole your extra cupcake.

Anyway, I gave it to you and you smiled because (a) liked me, (b) really like cupcakes, or (c) have nice manners. I hoped for a text or a call, but alas, that didn’t happen either. I was left behind, like a bow with worn out hairs. And let me tell you, you were my first and my last One Cupcake Stand. I know that I was kind of aggressive, but that’s just the city we live in. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love flies by you going 400 miles an hour, so if you don’t watch out, love will pass you by. You played your harmonious melodies and drew me in and then left me out in the cold. (Quite literally—it’s been frigid in DC lately.) You are a cello tease.

I’m not saying anything would have happened. But I can tell you what could have. I had a whole slew of puns like “Cello there, how are you?” and “Bach dirty to me,” but we’ll never get to use those, will we? I imagined it going really well and then one day, we’d spend our lives together. We’d lounge around after a long day. You’d get up and fix some type of drink and then play something simple on a stringed instrument, and then I would… watch. Because that’s pretty much the limitation of my skill set—looking at things… and cooking. Oh, and last night I found out that I can do a really good version of Forrest Whitaker’s eyes, but that’s neither here nor there. I had a life planned. A world that could have belonged to us, but it was over before it started.

I consider crying sometimes when I think about it—the situation, your cello, that cupcake… life, really. But I don’t because as Amy Winehouse once said, “My tears dry on their own.” But my biggest issue is that you continue to return to the corner of the street that I work on. You sit there, smugly, playing some classical piece and you see me walk by for my tri-daily trip to CVS to pick up an assortment of necessities. You don’t even say a word. I am Adam Sandler in a remake of 50 First Dates, except it’s not 50 First Dates. It’s 50 First Break-Ups. And then I think of that cupcake. Do you know how much white people pay for cupcakes? That was like, nearly $4.00. That’s the price of 2 cakes in 1962. For all intents and purposes, let’s look at it that way. I bought you two 1962 cakes, and you didn’t even care. Sometimes I wonder if you even ate it. You probably are gluten-free. God, you would be gluten free.

You might have even ruined the cello, no, ALL string instruments for me. And that sucks because I really love string instruments. You took Vitamin String Quartet from me, and that’s almost harder because everything they do is fantastic. They’ve literally covered every song in existence. For God’s sake they did “The Best of Nickelback” and “The Best of Nickelback 2.” I didn’t even know there was enough Nickelback to make a “Best Of” album, let alone, two. And you know what? I probably even enjoyed them. That’s how amazing they are, and that’s the amount of damage you’ve done. The only thing I want to thank you for is taking a little more Nickelback out of my life. For that, I am truly grateful.

It all makes sense now. I may not be the kind of guy you’re into. I’m commercial and fun and witty and mainstream. You sit on the corner playing your cello and you’re interesting and shit. It’s whatever. But you remember—it was mainstream music that brought us together, and it was your inability to love that tore us apart. As I close, I quote Taylor one more time, “I should have said no. I should have gone home. I should have thought twice before I put down a mortgage on two freaking cupcakes.”

In Christ,

Justin

I'm Curious About The Help

Being a housewife is something that takes a lot of hard work, but I know that I'm dedicated to perfecting it because if my plan works out and I marry into money, then that's what I'm aiming to be. In a perfect world, I'd like to sit somewhere all day and watch "my stories," drink some wine occasionally, and spend the rest of my time writing... books, poetry, essays, hate letters... anything that involves a pen/paper or rather, keys/fingers. But I don't want to be the basic kind of housewife; I don't want a maid. There are three things that I don't trust people with: my bathroom, my laundry, and most importantly... my food. Plus, having a maid reminds me too much of human elitism, which reminds me of slavery, which really kind of bothers me.
And you would think that human elitism is something that most of us have come past, but I'm sadly reminded in small ways every day that we're not. For instance, my friend Jamila used to cut a great deal of people's hair in the building I lived in during college. Whenever I needed a precise buzz cut, I would consult Jamila and in ten minutes flat, I would have a neat hair do with trimmed up sideburns and neckline. Most people would offer to pay her, but she would never accept it. And then, another one of our friends asked Jamila if she would give cutting her hair a shot; it all seemed pretty normal until she wanted to discuss Jamila's ability. Just for a point of reference, Jamila is black, so there was a little extra weight when her "customer" sincerely responded, Wow, Jamila. You do a great job cutting hair; did you learn from your mom? Is this something you guys do in your family? Jamila, like a trooper, entertained all of her questions. I sat on the sideline amazed that she would even ask... It was as if the only two times she had ever had contact with an African American was through the movies Friday and Beauty Shop. I mean, did she know that she was playing into a giant stereotype or was she just oblivious. I decided on the latter when she responded, Did you start practicing on colored hair? Like, do you usually just work with colored people? My eyes had to be the size of saucers, as I looked at Jamila. I imagined that she would raise up her scissors and jam them into the back of this girl's neck, but she maintained her composure, as if these questions were more of a game than anything.
And it only grew from there because it was as if once she knew that the door was opened to use the word colored as a culturally acceptable way to refer to black people, she dropped the word as many times as her mouth would allow. I sat in amazement, wondering what absurd thing would come out of her mouth next... Are your colored scissors colored sharp enough to cut colored hair? Colored, colored, colored. I often found myself very thankful to be living where I was from as the person that I am because most of the prejudice I face is only from the far right... which is actually kind of most of East Tennessee, but whatever. I've never had something about myself that I couldn't hide or pretend wasn't existent; I've never had to deal with something so obvious about me being scrutinized or even ignorantly mocked. Well, until lately.
Yesterday, after coming home with Patrice from the mall, my roommate, Andrew, told me, My friend Jill wants you to cook her fried chicken tonight. She really wants it; she is going to come over tonight. Flabbergasted and exhausted from the day, I looked at him and said, Is she going to bring chicken over because I know I'm not going to go and buy it. I knew it wasn't just cooking dinner for a couple of friends... this was more like a cultural experience for her and her boyfriend, who may I state... are very nice people... but nonetheless, this was more about being able to say that they'd had "southern fried chicken." And when someone brings me chicken and offers to give me some in return for cooking it, which is more than Minnie could have said in The Help, then sure... I'll cook your chicken up. I was never really worried about the cooking of the chicken; it was more of the difficulty of explaining the process.
I knew that the night was going to be interesting as soon as Andrew told me, and Andrew knew it to. He gave me, I'm sorry, I love you eyes because he knew that if someone else was buying this chicken, then I was going to need to not just meet expectations, but exceed them. As far as I was concerned, this was not just another night of making fried chicken... this was the Olympics of Southern fried chicken, with opening ceremonies from Dolly Parton and Kenny Chesney and appearances by Tommy Lee Jones, Paula Deen, and potentially someone connected to the Johnny Cash bloodline. And you know, no one could have really prepared me for what would come last night because, like I said, I've never been at a place where I was so noticeably different from everyone else.
Andrew was helping me make dinner as Patrice and Brad watched from the counter, and when Jill and her boyfriend showed up, the festivities began. Everything was essentially done except for the chicken, but considering that there were 14 legs to cook, dinner was hardly ready. And of course, before the first leg hit the egg mixture, they were peering toward the frying pan asking questions, How do you get the breading to stick to the chicken? Oh, the egg? That's so cool! and Is this your special recipe? Did you come up with it on your own; did you learn this from your family, or have you just always known? And all of a sudden, I realized how difficult it must have been for Jamila to have not said anything because all I wanted to say back was Nope, I just shot out of my mom with a frying pan in hand. Soon, they wanted to know things about the South like if I hunted and fished, which inspired me to do the one Southern tradition that I embrace more than food: fix a rum and coke. They asked if Southern people really had all the regular narrow-minded sentiments, and as I entertained their questions just like Jamila, the grease in the pan popped out and shot onto my hand. I grabbed my hand and said, Ahh! Damn! Jill's boyfriend responded without missing a beat, That's the Southern snap I was looking for!
I was never aware that there was such a thing as a Southern snap... actually, the only Southern snap I had was one that I had desperately tried to avoid so not to perpetuate any stereotypes unpopular for a Southern boy. My Southern snap was less of a cultural thing and more of a Tyra Banks inspired masterpiece. But, what made it all okay is that it seemed like they really thought that all of these things existed, and back home, I like to believe that my Dad was sitting on our rickety porch, whittlin' a piece of wood into toys for my nineteen brothers and sisters, most of whom are married to one another. Sure, there are some things about the South that are a little awry, but all in all, I like to believe that we live like most of the rest of the nation, even if we do have a couple more banjos than the rest of the world. And I think that the biggest lesson is learning not to assume that someone's identifier is not always synonymous with the stereotype associated with it. Not all black people cut hair, and not all Southerners can cook fried chicken... especially like me.