When Stereotypes Come to Life.

I don’t know when the conversation began to turn – I know I didn’t do it – but somehow I ended up on the losing end of a hilarious conversation with some of my African-American coworkers about how much white people love mayonnaise. They had fine time discussing every white coworker they’d ever seen eat lunch, and evidently, we really pile it on.

“I saw Becky eating a sandwich last week, and it had at least an inch of mayonnaise on it!”

And everyone screamed with joy.

I tried valiantly to defend myself – the rest of you white people, be damned, I totally sold you out – and may have slung some accusations back about black people bleeding hot sauce, but it was no good. Society clearly has a condiment hierarchy, and between Tabasco and Hellman’s we all know which one is ranked lower. They just treated me with the indulgence of those who have already won the Flavor War, yes, yes, we like condiments, too, and there was nothing I could do but ride the white creamy wave of shame back to my desk. I sent them all links to Stuff White People Like, which is an extensive list of my people and our likes, and mayonnaise is most clearly not there, but it was far too late. It only served to give them more ammunition.

I do like mayonnaise, damn it. I may not be dipping my French fries in it like the Dutch or sucking it right out of the tube like the Germans, but I find it to be an effective lubricant for macaroni, egg, or potato salad. And it’s good on BLTs. And with peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and oh, shut up.

As it turns out, a couple of days later I had to swing by the grocery store on my way to pick up the kids from their respective daycares, because I was out of food ideas for dinner and was going to make that macaroni salad, a meal I make when I'm feeling very lazy. I use a recipe I got from my mother that involves gathering up the ingredients and flinging them willy-nilly into a bowl. One of the ingredients was mayonnaise, which I, quite shockingly, did not have in the house.

I grabbed it off the shelf, paid for it, and socked the mayo away into a tote bag that my friend Funnie gave me from a law conference she attended, a tote bag with LAW STUDENTS FOR REPRODUCTIVE JUSTICE screaming across the front. The Coach purse Steve once won at one of his old jobs had become too small, so this is my handbag now, and by God I LOVE IT. Can a Coach purse hold a large jar of mayonnaise? Putting aside the question of whether or not it should, the answer is no.

I zipped over to one daycare and retrieved Chris, and then over to Alex’s school, where he participates in the YMCA after-school program for about and hour and a half before I can get there to get him. The YMCA is taking him on a field trip to the skating rink next week, and two of the counselors, who are also African-American, stopped me at the folding table set up at the front to ask me if I had turned in his permission slip. I put my STUDENTS FOR REPRODUCTIVE JUSTICE tote bag down on the table to look through it for the slip, and as soon as I set the bag down, it fell over and out rolled the mayonnaise, all the way across the table and over to the counselors.

Oh NO.

NO!

There is busted, and then there is busted. I was standing over the body with a smoking gun in my hand, and there was absolutely nothing I could do or say. The counselors looked at the jar, then looked at me. One of them picked it up and politely handed it back to me, and I stuffed it back into the bag, gathered up the shreds of my dignity, and left.

I try to console myself by imagining what a happy dinner conversation they both must have had with their families that night, talking about their day.

“…and she had a giant jar that she carried around in her purse! I saw it! It fell out and rolled all the way across the room!”

"Yes, but at least she fights for REPRODUCTIVE JUSTICE."

Update: Bitch Ph.D. has found another cartoon!



From Kawaii Not


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cartoon by Natalie Dee.