MOO-LATTA!

Gliding through the deserted streets of New York's Financial District on my skateboard, a chilly November morning enveloped me. The air was frigid, making visible my every exhalation. In reality, I possessed little sense of balance, yet there I was, effortlessly navigating through a maze of construction sites, maneuvering past rickety wooden planks, potholes, and crevices. Clad in black sweats, white platform Doc Martens, a snug black beanie, and a thrifted velour overcoat, I carried with ease a casserole dish filled with basbousa and a platter of my renowned zucchini and haloumi fritters.

I found myself at the hospital, bearing basbousa and fritters for a convalescing man transitioning from a liquid diet. The palette of the ward was muted, dominated by hues of beige, puke green, and shades of dull lavender and aubergine. Spacious corridors accommodated the needs of the infirm. Approaching a lady stationed behind a plexiglass barrier, I inquired about the whereabouts of "S."

"Ah, he resides on the eleventh floor, room seven. Just to your right upon exiting the central elevators. 1107. Please sign in before proceeding," said the dutiful nurse.

I signed my name, leaving my unpainted wooden skateboard leaning by the elevator doors before whisking my offerings and my person into the tiny lift. With a press of the button, the compartment lurched into motion, ascending toward the eleventh floor.

Yet, the machinery was capricious, and the eleventh button remained stubbornly unlit. Then, I noticed the portentous glow of the thirteenth floor. As the doors slid open, a wave of disquiet washed over me. This was not the destination I had intended.

There, on the thirteenth floor, I encountered a nondescript figure—a portly, short black man clad in navy blue sweats and a beanie—methodically mopping the linoleum.

I waved the man down and asked, "Hello, sir, do you know if the elevator is working? I'm trying to go to the eleventh floor. Are there any stairs here so I can walk down to the eleventh floor without getting locked out? I wanna drop off this-"

He cut me off mid-sentence. "Oh, baby girl, don’t you know? Once you're on the thirteenth floor, you can only go up, not down. There are no stairs. Come with me to the fourteenth floor."

I followed him to where the central elevators should have been. I noticed my basbousa and fritters were nowhere to be found. Everything looked different. The hallways were narrower, and the space felt more Gordian. The walls were painted in primary colors—it was as if Almodovar and Le Corbusier had a field day and decided to decorate the hospital. The only pictures framed were NatGeo images of aquarium fish in cheap black photo frames. Everywhere.

Angelfish—Lionfish—Clownfish—Triggerfish—Moorish Idol—Parrotfish—Betta fish —Guppy—Neon Tetra—Goldfish—Discus—Oscarfish—Molly—Swordtail—Corydoras—Rainbowfish—Plecostomus—Danio—Rasbora—Killifish—Tiger Barb—Loach—Pufferfish—Archerfish—Arowana—Catfish—Rasbora—Tinfoil Barb—Electric Blue Acara—Silver Dollar—Blood Parrot—Red Tail Shark—Bala Shark—Zebra Danio—Black Molly—Rosy Barb—Cherry Barb—Gourami—Koi—Clown Loach—Dwarf Gourami—Glass Catfish—Rainbow Shark—Rummy Nose Tetra—Weather Loach—Yoyo Loach—Siamese Algae Eater—Pearl Gourami—Harlequin Rasbora—Electric Blue Ram—Jack Dempsey Fish—Electric Blue Hap—Severum—Haplochromis—Malawi Eye Biter—Malawi Gar—Malawi Hawk—Peacock Eel—Red Fin Kadango—Copadichromis—Lethrinops

We entered the elevator and found ourselves on the fourteenth floor. Stepping out, I beheld three young women. Each woman, while distinct in appearance, shared a common thread—an ethnic ambiguity that rendered them perfect subjects for the modern gaze. Their tresses, kinky golden or red coils, framed their hippo dung skin. Each possessed green or blue or gray eyes. It was a familiar sight, for I had encountered these women before during castings, shoots, and shows.

We all sauntered to a tiny room down those winding corridors, where more pictures of fish hung on the walls.

Thirty-nine Cichlids: Electric Yellow—African—Peacock—Red Devil—Nkhomo Benga Peacock —Ob Peacock—Red Shoulder Peacock—Ruby Red Peacock—Sunshine Peacock—Tangerine Peacock—Yellow Blaze Lithobates—Blood Parrot—Convict—Dragon Blood Peacock—Electric Blue Ahli—Electric Yellow—Taiwan Reef—Blue Dolphin—Blue Regal Peacock—Bumblebee —Kennyi—Cobalt Blue Zebra—Red Empress—Lemon—Livingston's— Firemouth —Red Texas—Venustus—White Convict—Wolf—Yellow Lab—African Butterfly —Rainbow—Electric Blue Johannii—Frontosa—Flowerhorn—Texas—Green Terror—Jaguar

Now shrouded in darkness, I couldn't see a damn thing until the man began lighting a slew of Byredo Bibliotheque candles—eight, to be precise.

With the flickering flames softly lighting the space, I finally discerned a hospital bed, an unused IV drip, and a monitor for vitals. Meanwhile, the girls perched themselves on a large, unpainted wooden surfboard, motioning for me to join them. Without hesitation, I complied. Why the hell not? Soon enough, we found ourselves seated on the board, criss-cross applesauce.

The janitor now spoke after a period of silence.

"You are now part of the mulatta coalition. Congratulations! How does it feel to be acknowledged?" he said.

"Umm, I'm sorry, there must be some sort of misunderstanding. I'm not a mulatta. I'm technically North African. Not from the Maghreb, but I am not a 'mulatta' though," I gestured, air quoting with my fingers when I said mulatta. "I mean I may have a Nubian or Ethiopian ancestor from way, way back, Nilotic or Cushitic, but I'm not a mulatta. I can't be part of this coalition. I'm sorry."

He appeared perturbed by my self-identification, "What do you mean you're not a mulatta? You just said you're North African. You hail from Mother Africa. You're an African woman. You live in America. You're African-American."

"No, no, no. You can't just project your American racial constructs onto me. I'm the offspring of two brain drain immigrants from a highly endogamous ethno-religious minority. I don't even remotely descend from anyone who had ancestors subjected to Transatlantic chattel slavery. I'm not Sub-Saharan in the slightest. It makes no sense. Anyway, none of this crap matters. We're all part of a rootless and deracinated mass, some of us better looking than others," I asserted.

The man and the girls appeared shocked by my retort.

"You're incredibly disrespectful and churlish," the man replied, "America is the world, baby. Here we welcome you to the mulatta coalition to atone for the sins of your white half, to intercede in Yakub, and yet you spurn us."

"Can you not 'we wuz' me, please? I'm not a mulatta! I can't help you with your project. It's pointless anyway! Why can't you just like yourself? All of yourself?"

Each of the three girls, no longer atop the surfboard, stood beneath their own individually illuminated floating Byredo Bibliotheque candle. Rhythmically striking bedpans with metal tendon hammers, they began intoning an incantation to the tune of Vachel Lindsay’s The Congo:

"YOU ARE A MOO-LATTA!

YOU ARE A MOO-LATTA!

YOU ARE A MOO-LATTA!

YOU ARE A HIGH YELLOW SNOOTY ASS COON

WITH A YAKUBIAN BOBBLEHEAD.

ATONE! ATONE!

YOU ARE A MOO-LATTA!

NOW, YOU MUST TATTOO FRECKLES ON YOUR FACE.

MOOOOOOOO-LAAAAAAATTTTTAAAA!

A-FREEKA! A-FREEKA!

JOIN THE AMERICAN RELIGION.

EMBRACE OUR THEODICY.

YOU ARE NOT A KIKE.

YOU ARE NOT AN EDOMITE.

YOU ARE NOT A CAUCASOID.

YOU ARE A PATMOS PROSTIE.

YOU ARE A MOOOOOOOOOO-LATTTTTTTTAAAAAAA!"