Michelle Buteau - Survival of the Thickest: Essays

Gallery Books

An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Copyright 2020 by Michelle Buteau

Certain names have been changed.

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First Gallery Books hardcover edition December 2020

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Interior design by A. Kathryn Barrett

Jacket design by Emma A. Van Deun

Jacket photographs by Gijs van der Most

Author photograph by Mindy Tucker

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-9821-2258-4

ISBN 978-1-9821-2260-7 (ebook)

to gijs aka bob. youre my first, the last, my everything.

J ersey. The state and its people bring a lot of things to mind. When you think of Jerseyans, you might think of loud, brash people in leopard-skin clothing with red-painted lips and big hair. If thats what you picture: youre absolutely right. No shade to Jersey, but theres a reason why The Sopranos and Jersey Shore were big-assed hits. We a mess. Whether youre Black, brown, white, or in between, were gonna meet you at our closest Wawa, cop a hoagie, get that extra red sauce on the side at that I-talian place, drive down the shore just so we can yell at someone to drive properly, but not before yelling at someone else to not fuck up our sneakers. (Dude, they brand-new.) Jerseyites are a yelly people. Get used to it. Were also the state with the most diners per capita and were the spot where that jackass Aaron Burr killed Alexander Hamilton, kicking off a whole musical and a bunch of other shit.

There are a few states that feel like a nationality. Jersey is one of them. Were supposed to be the Garden State, but Fuggedaboutit! is really the peoples slogan, and never mind my position as to where the Statue of Liberty really resides. (Its in Jersey, bitches!) I was born in North Jersey, raised in Central Jersey, and spent my last year in South Jersey, right outside of Philly. Shit, Ive seen it all! Im like the Jersey Khaleesi, but my Drogo was a guy from Trenton who wore a Naughty by Nature T-shirt with Karl Kani jeans. No matter where I lived in the Dirty Jerz, my neighborhood was always predominantly Italians and Irish. If you were Polish, then you were exotic. I mean, so many letters in your last namehow does it even fit on an ID? There was also a smattering of Chinese, Indian, and Arab families, but they mostly stuck together. Samesies for the Black folks. Then there was my family. The light-skinned Caribbean folks all willy-nilly on the wrong side of the tracks having it out with the Italians and Irish just trying to make shit work. It did not work. We were always the odd men out. We were the light-skinned family no one could quite put a finger on. We were the white sheep, with weird accents, exotic food, and loud music no ones ever heard of. We were the Bob Marley Family because thats the closest thing anyone could compare us to. Yes, you got that right. My childhood was all No Woman, No Cry whether I liked it or not. Heres a typical rundown of an interaction from my childhood with another Jerseyan:

They: What are you?

Me: Human.

They: Are you Black?

Me: Yes, that okay?

They: What do you consider yourself?

Me: Cute.

They: Whos white in your family though?

Me: Who sent you, Hitler?

I dont know why everyone in Jersey becomes a representative for 23andMe when it comes to a light-skinned face that doesnt speak Spanish. But they sure do. If youre a light-skinned Black person thats not Puerto Rican people lose their gahtdamn minds. If someone speaks Spanish to you and you say, Sorry, I dont speak Spanish, they look at you like they just met a short guy whose license says hes six foot four. I would tell people I was Jamaican and Haitian, and they would looked confused as fuck. There was even that time when somebody said to me, Well, then, shouldnt you be darker with a basket of fruit on your head? And that was my guidance counselorbitch, please. The parents of my friends would say shit like, But you dont look Jamaican or Haitian. Really? Have you been there? No? Then shut up.

My father was born and raised in Les Cayes, Haiti. His mother raised him with her sisters. She was a twin. She had brown skin, and her sisters had dark skin. My grandma had had a relationship with a man; those are the only details I know. Shit, I dont even know if my dad has a birth certificate. But my grandma got pregnant, and legend has it (please dont get me started on deep-rooted Caribbean-family secrets) they couldnt be together because she had darker skin than him. So she just went off and did her thing and raised my dad. His father went off and married someone with light skin and had a whole other family. The resemblance between the two families is frightening. In the case of the Haitian doctor and the nurse?! Yes, you are the son! Evidence? Just look in the fucken mirror! My father never grew up with a dad, yet he was a pretty great dad for me growing up. I mean, yeah, hes batshit crazy and hot-tempered, but hes human as fuck.

My grandfather had a lot of children, kind of like a Mormon dude but without the compound. So its hard to say how many people I am actually related to. To give you an example of how this plays out, my friends will have strangers slide into their DMs to say u cute or u up? But for me, strangers slide into my DMs to be like: I think were cousins? No, really, I think were related. Holidays are always so easy! JK. LOLz. Theyre not. My mother is from Jamaica and has four brothers between her two parents. Truly, shes a loyal sister and a selfless wife. Shes also a pretty solid mom, except for her snooping problem. Momsies is like a real-life CSI, wearing blazers, crunching numbers, inspecting the suspicious toothpaste left around the sink, and reading my diary. Yep, I had a diary when I was ten, and she read that shit and then chicken-breast grilled me on it. She was like, Why didnt you tell me you have a crush on a guy named Russell? Thats why, to this day, I cant remember shit and I never write anything down. (Because what you dont remember, you dont really know. Just ask that white girl from Homeland.) If I had to diagnose it, Id say I have Jamaican-mom PTSD. Whenever I hear my little firecracker of a mom coming around any corner (even now) starting in with that disapproving accent, I duck and cover and then point at my sibling, which is weird because Im an only child. It just goes to show you, deflect and defend is a great domestic policy in my little world. I stand by it. I truly do.

So, back to Jersey. The first house my parents ever owned was a cute, starter-kit home in a blue-collar neighborhood with a sunken living room, sunroom, and one bathroom. If you know me, then you know my dream home is going to have at least five bedrooms and twenty-seven bathrooms. Having so many toilets that no one in the house knows what kind of day youve had? Now, thats a true sign of success. We also had a big backyard and Jah bless my parents, they didnt know they had purchased a house in a flood zone. Aint that cute? My earliest and first childhood memories will forever be around what I call THE FLOODS. I remember my neighbor was in her driveway in a canoe rowing down the street like it was another normal day in Jersey. But, hey, that shit looked fun. So I joined in. What other light-skinned girl can say she learned how to swim in her driveway? I dont know another one. Do you? Well, then were probably related. Give her my number.