Skimming through web sites a couple of nights ago I came across the picture of a naked and muscled black man with the words “Fear of an educated black man” printed across his handsome torso. My initial reaction was a customary “Oh, here they go again?”. You know, like who’s afraid of what? White people afraid of educated black folk? Get real. White people would be delighted to stumble across a flock of educated black males. As it is, every time one of us turns up they clutch their handbags.
As one of that rare(?) breed myself I cannot say that white people are falling over themselves to give me a job just because I am black and educated. Shame. But then again they are not falling over to give other white people jobs either; one can just check the unemployment figures. Why do I deserve special treatment? Back in the day, white people were supposed to be afraid of a black planet. Remember that? That’s the least of anyone’s worry – we are more likely to get a Chinese planet.
I did have my own fears of a black something. A week ago I stopped by a sex health clinic. For several weeks I’d been experiencing intermittent pain in one of my diamond balls. At first I put it down to an inadvertent crushing of said gem as I sat or slept but when the pain persisted followed soon after by burning sensations at the tip of my lovelypop I decided it was time to get things checked out. So I submitted my precious jewels to a doctor who had “a good feel” (I bet he had fun) and to a nurse who took swabs from where it-gives-me-the-needles to think of. They found nothing. Hurrah! On one hand this was disappointing news because then “what the fuck?”. But then again it was unsurprising news since I have not hanky-pankied since Dorothy realised she wasn’t in Kansas anymore. My black balls are, for now at least, OK. Relief! No more fear of a black something.
Moral: if you have balls and they hurt, don’t sit on them, get them checked.