[RANDOM BLACK GIRL]
I want to be adored. I want to be worshipped. I want to be the best goddamn part of your goddamn day and when you see me in the street you will think “I am desperate for that random black girl to be my best friend for whom I will buy drinks and food and short-haired cats and long-haired dogs, unprovoked because she’s so goddamn cool.” Notice how I said “will” that last time? I’m trying to use “I can” language.
My therapist Dr. Linze encourages me to do so. My therapist. I don’t like telling people I have a therapist because they get all weird and fake-compassionate like “Ohhhh, your therapist. You’re in therapy?” with this strange voice as if I’m depressed and a loser! Which I am. A loser. But not because I’m depressed. I am depressed, I’m just saying I’m not a loser because I’m depressed; two things can be true at the same time and not necessarily related. And I think therapy is good. And healthy. And maybe those people should be in therapy too, because it is not just for the severely broken and mentally ill!
I want to be the treat Dr. Linze encourages to end your day with. I used to hide this way of thinking but then I realized: where does that get me? Why not be unabashed with my longing for praise. For a while there, I thought part of my charm was that I was black. I wear braids or twists or – better yet – my curly baby ‘fro! And people stare. They do. Are they in awe of my timeless, Hollywood movie star unbelievable rare beauty? Are they time travelers from a time of segregation and they wonder how the negroes are out and about? We’ll never know. But turns out, every other chick is black nowadays. Everyone has a curly baby ‘fro, white girls practically have curly baby ‘fros. They have enough negroes. In fact, you, the reader, are black yourself! Aren’t you? To my surprise, I discovered some people don’t like black people! What the hell is that?
Things Dr. Linze encourages me to do: take walks in the sunshine; see my parents (I hate my parents); see my friends (I don’t have friends); get a Venus fly trap (Dr. Linze said plant but I think Venus Fly Traps are enticing); get a treat at the end of a long, productive work day; get a treat at the end of a short, unmotivated rot-in-bed day; have a schedule that you stick to; and a myriad of other things to get me out of my prolonged slump. (Slump in what? Slump in life, I guess. Slump in my inability to cook or get out of bed or shower or have a will to live if I had to throw one out there.)
In my pursuit of admiration and adoration, I look at myself naked in the mirror for 15 minutes a day. In silence. No music nor podcasts. This isn’t something Dr. Linze told me to do, but I came upon a clip of Hillary Duff saying she does the same, and she seems to be relatively level-headed for growing up as a child star. So every night before my shower at around 8 pm I strip and pile my clothes in the laundry hamper, and I look at myself. My sagging boobs, and horribly flat feet and my perfect ass and I sigh. When my timer goes off I take a shower, moisturize, trim my eyebrows if need be and lie in bed and think of three things I am grateful for in my life. I was told once that If I do this for long enough It’ll become like second nature, and eventually I’ll be unable not to see all the wonderful things in my life. Well it’s been 4 months of thinking nightly “I’m grateful for…” my body, food on my table and a roof over my head; clean running water, nice pens, and my summer dresses; Wes Anderson, Soda and my digital watch. The problem is, I ran out of things rather quickly and I felt as though repeating was cheating. Cheating whom, I’m not exactly sure. So I started listing random shit, like carrots and alarm clocks and the poor worm I fucking stepped on this morning on my stupid morning walk that I force myself to go on so I’m not so goddamn depressed. I’m sure Dr. Linze knows what he’s talking about. I’m certain.
Dr. Linze is a small, quiet pale person with short curly hair (see? curly baby ‘fro!!!). I’m kind of obsessed with him. He’s really frail and awkward and stumbles over his words whenever he fails to be “politically correct” – ex. grouping me with “African Americans” (I’m Canadian.) ((I may mess with him and say my family is from the Caribbean)). But he’s good and kind and level-headed. I was initially wary of a male therapist, but I like that he’s akin to a sort of rat-like person. Maybe a racoon or hamster. He’s always holding his hands pursed in front of him a little bit uneasy. I’m fucking obsessed with him. At the end of every session, he breaks this position to shake my hand and send me on my way for my post session-treat; A crisp iced white chocolate mocha foul the foul coffee truck outside his pompous building.
I forgot Dr. Linze’s first name and I still have yet to remember or do any sort of searching to find out. Dr. Linze’s office is small, quaint, and I prefer going in person because speaking to Dr. Linze over the phone reminds me of sad times, when I’ve called under rather dire circumstances. Kind of a mood killer. The office is boring and neutral and I’ve said many times “you could use a pop of color in here, Dr. Linze, like a sexy tapestry!” to which Dr. Linze has responded “thank you for your input RBG [Random Black Girl], I’ll certainly keep that in mind”.
You might have noticed by now that I’ve decided to keep mine and Dr. Linze’s identity’s a secret entirely. Dr. Linze obviously didn’t call me “[Random Black Girl],” he called me “Maya.” Fuck. Okay, my name is Maya. I’ve grown to love my name. A bit of an ordinary name for a [Random Black Girl], but my parents didn’t know I’d be random - I’m sure they hoped their little Black Girl would be a Diana Ross-type. Dr. Linze obviously isn’t really his last name, but I’d like to keep his identity a secret. I don’t know how he’d feel about me writing our private conversations for any reader to come upon. He has a wife and a kid after all.
The archetype of the RBG intrigues me. Do people see me on the street in awe of my natural golden glow or my medium sized lips? (alright for black people but above average for white people) Or do they think: “hey, random black girl.”
“Sometimes I fear that my great big dreams of my life will never amount to what I have in my head, even if I do succeed. I want to be great. I want to be big. I want to have my name in lights or whatever people say.”
“Whatever ‘people’ say? That’s not what you want. Tell me what you want.”
“I want.
I want.
I don’t know. I want money. I want a 30-inch middle-part flat-ironed buss-down. I want goddess braids. I want perfect even glowing brown skin and toned legs and I want people to write songs about me, just upon learning my first name. I want people to grovel and worship me. I want people to resent me because I’m nice and talented. I want people to think I’m wonderful.” “I think you’re wonderful.”
“Dr. Lienze, you flirt!”
“Maya.”
“Sorry.”
“I think you’re wonderful and you were being genuine and open. Please, continue.”
“Yeah. I don’t know. I guess the problem is I don’t know what I want. I’m here for all these ideas for my life but I’m so tired and I haven’t even the gotten the chance to start. Am I sad? Do I have ADHD, OCD, DID-“
“I can assure you, you do not have dissociative identity disorder, if that eases your worries.” “Can you just give some meds? I think I’d feel better.”
“Maya-“
“Yeah, that’s my bad.”
I wonder if Dr. Linze adores/admires/worships me and the ground I walk on. Not in a weird way, I simply wonder if after we end our session and I go to leave he sniffs my perfume as I’m walking out the door. THAT’S the kind of shit I’m longing for. I just want someone to sniff my goddamn perfume as I’m leaving the room; is that too much to ask for? Dr. Linze has a wife and kid. He can worship his wife and me at the same time, I’ll allow it. As long as I’m a bit higher on the podium. Dr. Linze disapproves of my need for admiration.
“But isn’t it healthier that I’m like. Aware of it?”
“You’re right. That is a great step in the right direction. But the reason I’m here is to move even farther forward. Have you been going on walks?”
“Yes. Dr. Linze, I’m practically skipping for fucking joy out there.” (True.) “Have you been consistent with your schedules?”
“Yes.” (True.)
“Seeing your friends?”
“yes.” (Not technically a lie because I’m seeing the friends I have which is none so technically I’m not lying.)
“Seeing your family?”
“Yes!” (Definitely a complete lie I can admit that wholeheartedly!)
“I want you to keep a journal. Write down your thoughts, your feeling, your likes, dislikes, things in your day that made you want to scream, things in your day that filled you with inspiration, hope, joy. Write every thought down, even if you deem it to be insane or inconsequential or pointless. Just write. Here”
He hands me a slim, slick black notebook. It’s fresh. I bet it smells incredible but I don’t want him to think I’m a freak. I don’t want my therapist to think I’m a freak. I hate myself. “You know, I watched a really good rom-com where the therapist tells the beautiful young protagonist to keep a journal. I’ve seen a couple, actually.”
“Well, you can be that beautiful young protagonist then.”
He definitely worships me.
by Sewit Eden Haile
Sewit Eden Haile (she/her) is a performer and writer living in Vancouver. Recently, her first one-act play, pretty girls, premiered at Studio 58’s FourPlay festival, a series of four student-written shows.