(Aunt) Jemima Cheers Up ASK WENDY

I hope this letter finds you well. It’s February, and America is embarking on a new era as the first African American man begins his term as president of this great nation. And as we reflect on this momentous occasion, I can only hope that perhaps this country can begin to shed some of the racial stereotypes that have haunted out national psyche for too long.

Some may say that I have been blessed with great success over the last century. That may be the case, but please don’t expect any expected exultations “praise the Lord” or “thank you, sweet Jesus” from me. My dear friend Coco Chanel taught me how understatement speaks volumes. Nevertheless, I am well known and well established, and I am impervious to the financial woes that many in our great nation are facing now. But there are other crises, dear Wendy, that can drain an individual’s soul.

I hate living a lie. The world has an image of me that is not in keeping with who I am. For God’s sake, I discussed physics with Einstein, and read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s manuscripts. MacArthur reviewed his battle strategies with me. So what if it was all over breakfast? These days people worship at the altar of Oprah Winfrey. Not to denigrate the accomplishments of another woman of color, but I’ve met famous people in my day, and I’m probably more recognizable than her. But where is my validation?

Wendy, you lived in the 19th century. Surely, even with your privileged British upbringing, you had some exposure to what my people were going through in this America. It was the late 1800’s, and I needed a job; I wasn’t planning on turning into a brand. I remember the last years of slavery, and I am repulsed by the fact that I was its inadvertent spokeswoman for many years. Thank goodness they finally let me take off that ridiculous headscarf. I am a woman of a certain age who has seen a lot in her years, but I’m no “mammy.” I would like to be treated with the respect that I have earned.

I’d like to attend some your meeting, as I am hoping they will provide some lively debates. I only ask for a few conditions. No matter how many requests I get, I refuse to make pancakes. Have the meeting catered, dear. I will not act as a surrogate “aunt” to Dorothy Gale or any of your other needy members. There’s hardy a maternal bone in my body. And if Foghorn Leghorn starts spouting off about how the “South will rise again,” I will show him what a proper Southern lady can do with an old chicken and a stew pot.

Respectfully.
Jemima (also known as Aunt Jemima)