That's Just My New York Face

Dear Black Men of NYC:

Please stop asking me to smile.

I am not an angry person; I love to laugh and have a good time. Ask anyone. I'm all about the jokes. Hell, if it wasn't for a severe case of stage fright, I'd be cooning it up at open mic nights all over the comedy clubs of Manhattan. But that's neither here nor there.

If I'm walking around the city by myself, and I appear to have a scowl on my face, it's not because I wish to cause anyone bodily harm or because I'm unhappy in any way, shape or form. Usually I'm either deep in thought about what I've done, will do or need to do on any given day. I live in my head and in order to function I put up some facial armor in order to be left alone with my thoughts and get around unnoticed. Especially in this crazy city of killers, rapists and muggers.

This does not mean that you need to call me out in front of all the Anglos, who now think I'm that typical "angry black chick" because I rolled my eyes at you for calling me out. And it ABSOLUTELY does NOT mean you can grab my elbow with your "hey mami" and "why you so mad" commentary.

It just means I want to be left alone. And no amount of "c'mon, let me see your beautiful smile" will change my face. If anything, it will make me mad and force me to give you the stink eye.

And trust me: you don't want to get the stink eye. It comes with a shank to the neck.

*smooches...just trying to make it through the day in one piece*
--------------
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.