Cancel The Cookout Tee
Cancel The Cookout Tee
Preserving Black spaces, protecting Black culture, and raising the bar for white ‘allyship’.
“I fear I am integrating my people into a burning cookout.” --Dr. Martin Luther Kidding Jr.
After careful consideration, it’s been decided the guest list for y’alls “Cookout” has far exceeded its’ diversity cap and the majority of you need your plus-one privileges revoked indefinitely. Anytime a non-Black person does something remotely hip or morally decent, you clowns dole out another golden ticket to The Cookout. white cop plays basketball with some neighborhood kids (after a strenuous day of stopping and frisking these same kids’ parents): his ass gon’ be at The Cookout. white bride lip-syncs a Cardi B song at her wedding reception (where no Black people appear to be in attendance): she’ll be at The Cookout…and she won’t get the CP Time memo so expect her early. white boy can do our latest dance moves (not nearly as well as the Black friends he learned ‘em from): somebody already has his to-go plate packed with an extra piece of mac and cheese squeezed under the loominum foil.
How is the bar for entry set so low? Where does it stop? The Cookout’s criteria for admission doesn’t go beyond consuming Black culture and commodifying BlackCool and that’s bound to cause issues. As she gets in line for her second helping of banana pudding, Rebecca might get hip-checked if folks aren’t satisfied with the pre-cookout vetting process. Have y’all analyzed their voting records, including midterms? Can we get ahold of their lifetime log of nonsense 911 calls and ensure they’ve never questioned a Black family at the pool or harassed a kid selling waterbottles without a permit?
I don’t know who’s on your cookout’s planning committee but I don’t think the Head Coon In Charge has thought this all the way through. What if they bring food? Would the kitchen it was cooked in pass your Granny’s inspection? Or would she be clutching her pearls to find cats on the countertop and a cabinet void of spices? How are you ducking and dodging casseroles at office party potlucks yet shucking and jiving to invite the possibility of raisin potato salad into our sacred space? Your vegan cousin Ayesha has been tryna convince Uncle Dave to allow quinoa burgers on the grill for 5 years and he’s drawn a line in the sand with his leather GrillMaster 5000s. Good luck expecting the elders to get on board with gluten-free buns too!
And have you considered logistics? Do we have enough folding chairs to fit all these colonizers? And the yard is only but so big. You’re over capacity and next thing you know, a hipster tryna balance his plate piled high with the last few pieces of jerk chicken has now knocked over Aunt Helenora’s lemon cake. You know the one she barely ever makes.
Heed the evergreen words of Dr. Martin Luther Kidding Jr., “I fear I am integrating my people into a burning cookout” and stop this madness once and for all. Blame it on the lack of garden burger grill space. Blame it on the guest list full of feds. Blame it on your bar for white allyship being subterranean. Blame it on inclement weather, rained out by a storm of white tears sure to show up in forecast soon. I nearly suggested a sign at the gate that reads “Your Allyship Must Be This Tall to Enter”, but this diversity dinner is a lost cause. Just Cancel The Cookout.
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