10 Ways I am Undereducated, Ignorant and Unsophisticated

An Exercise in Humility and Self Knowledge... I think

A thing that is said about intelligent people, of which I believe I am one, is that they realize how meek and specific their knowledge is, and ultimately, feel quite humble about their intelligence. I do, but, I also, think that humility is something that is especially asked of Black femmes, and I think that stakes are too high to act unaware these days, and so, usually feel called to express myself and theory and intend to do so as widely, and as loudly, as possible.

This being said, there are some things about which I’m actually just uneducated or unwilling to bend to. There is a fine line between having respect for a space or a culture or a way of doing things, and the expectations that you will assimilate, and the consequences if you don’t, and sometimes I refuse sophistication, and sometimes I play oafish, and I think it is my right to invoke and revoke those modalities per my mood and treatment and the context and story of any particular space in any particular society at any particular time. I find myself in a great many particular spaces these days.

In both willed and unwilling, intentional and completely unintended ways, I play le fou. Everyone does! The Main Ingredient first sang it, but I’m inclined to an Aaron Neville cover of the regret soothing lullaby—a mainstay on 90’s smooth jazz radio stations.

Here are ten ways I’m aware of:

1. I have a radically unmasked enthusiasm to connect in intimate and non surface level ways that is not the cultural norm and I keep insisting that it can be, and I think it is a bit delusional that I am doing so. Anyways, I’ve been like this since I was a child. People used to say I was a bit annoying and I have heard that feedback. And I do feel a bit foolish about it, but also not enough to notice that most language is so inefficient?

2. I watch A LOT of trashy television. I am really proud of it. TBH I did soooo many hours bed being with the big time ouchies, but I won’t say that’s where the habit began and certainly not where it will end. I refer to this process as “putting the brain in the hot tub.” I cherish it and will not let anyone wrest me of this habit, no matter how lowbrow it may seem.

3. When I give a person too many chances to disrespect me because I am being ambivalent, or practicing not reading other people’s minds, or because I’m a bit spacey and don’t always pick up mean people social cues, sometimes, in part, because I really don’t expect them, and it weirds me out and compels me in this fucked up way, more than doing the damage, which usually seeps in slowly, if at all, but sometimes definitely and intensely. Like I honestly never expect it cause I’m like a really sweet earnest little baby, and who would ever want to hurt me. I think this and the first point contribute to a delusional bliss and forthrightness.

   To compound the issue, the way I get frustrated when communicating with people who are intentionally lying or connecting in bad faith, or scamming, or cheating, feels really unsophisticated. I really have too much hope in good faith. This is both childlike and childish. I want to manage my emotions, what I expect from people, and learn how to leave a conversation that is meant to take me out of character, gaslight or inflict pain.

4. (Related) Physics. I really don’t get it. Like not even the physics it takes to manage a body, I am prone to accidents and wobbliness.

5. Computers, also. I understand computerness, and the politics of tech and the internet, and algorithmic oppression, and the need for regulation, and actually, a fair bit about machine learning—but there are many places and forms in simple computing that mystify me, and cause me terrible frustration.

6. I cannot and somewhat refuse to eat with my utensils properly. I’ve always thought that switching hands to cut is an absolutely absurd, per-bite-pageant that reeks of exclusive dining clubs and being so fucking bored in French court, that instead of redistributing resources, or even caring to notice the needs of common people, you create etiquette. (Some people, however, have told me that it’s easier to cut with your right hand? But I wonder if this is a bit of snobbery (i.e. my mother brought me up this way and now I simply couldn’t imagine doing it otherwise)?) I don’t care where the dinner is at or with whom I’m having it. I will not switch my cutting and stabbing hands.

7. Playing the Piano: I studied classical piano for 7 years as a child, but it never felt natural in my brain or in my hands, it’s always been something I had to work really hard at, unlike composing, arranging, writing, and singing, which feel as though they come more naturally. It’s always confounded me and I have always wanted to be a pianist.

   I drilled my way through several classical recitals and made my parents very proud, but I really felt things changing, in a way that was more understood and embodied, when I began studying jazz with MaKanda McKintyre—one of the old jazz guys that populated the Upper West Side and Washington Heights and so many places in New York City at one time. MaKanda was a multi-instrumentalist jazz composer and the kindest most encouraging teacher. He made me feel the blues and understand changes and my options and what I could invoke, and how I could play. I adored him so much and the way he made me feel about music. He taught me the “C Jam Blues,” and then “Autumn Leaves,” and we were starting to play “Alice in Wonderland,” when he died suddenly.

   I remember it, physically, the color of the sky, the density of people in the street around us, when my mother placed a call as we were hopping on the train from Midtown to the Upper Upper West side to say we were running a bit late to that afternoon’s lesson. Makanda’s wife, Joy, answered, and simply said, “he’s gone, Georgette.” He had died of a heart attack. His arteries, the size of a pin. Me and my mom a bit fell apart that day.