Do
I really envy bammas? Maybe a little, but let me explain. I got
a call the other day from a fashion perplexed friend of mine inquiring
about a purchase he was mulling over. I know that sounds pretty
metrosexual of him, but I totally understood his dilemma. You
see, the guy I’m referring to could be snapped, cropped
and inserted into some type of welcome to metropolitan-x city
brochure (we’ll call him “Cropped Joe”). Cropped
Joe is your average dude but he has certain restrictions. He doesn’t
step too far away from the curb, but understands the need to occasionally
do something extra for a special occasion. I’m a bit more
liberal with my approach, but CJ knows I won’t steer him
in the wrong direction.
Anyway, the story is his folks are having a party and there’s
supposed to be a nice ratio of women there so he wants to throw
in an extra card to boost his winning potential for the evening.
He rings me up from the mall in front of some urban outfitting
shop. He’s contemplating buying a shirt from one of the
newer apparel lines, but he’s not too sure if this is a
Karl Kani blunder waiting to happen. I let him know that he’s
fully justified in treating this situation like an unmarked piece
of mail, because I’ve been there before. We all have. Yeah,
it looks nice, but it just doesn’t feel right. Are we really
willing to drop $80 for something that could possibly only see
the strobe of light once or twice? That’s a tough question.
Joe is worried about his fantasy football, General Tso and Remy
money for the next two weeks, but if it’s worth it, he’ll
make the sacrifice. I’m trying to not make the decision
for him, but give him the criteria to make his own. Is the design
overbearing? Is the logo dominating the shirt? Are there stripes,
polk-a-dots, zippers and velcro patches planted all over the shirt.
You know basic questions. A Grown man going through all of this
for a shirt to wear for four hours. It shouldn’t have to
be this hard. What a damned shame.
I know a guy who hits the club every weekend with two shirts in
his arsenal. No lie, true story; a black button down and a white
button down. No he’s not poor, he just doesn’t care.
He throws a t-shirt with a nice design under his inverted shirt
rotation and he’s off to the bar, happy. I kinda wish I
was that guy, sometimes. Better yet, I sometimes wish I was the
guy who still wears swingman jerseys & doorag’s under
fitteds. Maybe the guy who wears a party shirt/button up (the
line is so blurred I see little difference now). Or how about
the loud inside-out sweater man? They don’t have these problems.
Good grief, I think I secretly aspire to be a bamma. What a sad
revelation.
But wait, this may not be as bad as it sounds. Honestly, there
are some real perks in being a certified bamma. How come I’m
not one? Let me weigh some options here, before I write this off.
First and foremost, bammas get to wear what they want, when they
want, without much ridicule. There is an initial thick layer of
skin they must amass before fully embracing the culture. I’ve
witnessed (not to mention participated in) jokes at the expense
of many a bamma and I assume you have to get used to it. But much
like anything else, after a while it’s not even gratifying
to degrade an established bamma. It’s like telling someone
Chick-fil-A doesn’t serve on Sundays. Yeah, that’s
a nice bit of information, but so what? Give me something important
like where I can get my hands on Leonard pt.’s 1-5.
Seriously, I can’t lie, the bamma benefit of minimal ridicule
and freedom of dress, not to mention character, is quite attractive.
It’s almost as if you get a free pass because no one takes
you seriously, and…
*snaps out of it*
Hold on, what the hell am I thinking, here? Who the hell would/could
look themselves in the mirror knowing that people don’t
take them seriously? Let’s put all the dumb dressing tendencies
and obtuse behavior aside for a minute. If you’re walking
around with the understanding that people think you’re a
joke, how can you keep yourself from jumping off of a bridge?
As I think about it more, that’s what really makes a bamma
whole. They don’t know this. If they did, then they wouldn’t
be bammas. Certainly not authentic bammas. They would be bamma
imposters, probably the most worthless imposter of them all. What
would be the purpose? That’s like driving without a destination.
Bammas really think they’ve got their selves together. I
can actually respect that, in a point and laugh kinda way. But
that’s not for me. No way. That’s just some bamma-ass
shyt.
Oh yeah, I told Cropped Joe to cop that solid button down shirt
and rock a sweater over it. “As long as it’s neat,
your shoes are slick and your game is on point, the chicks will
gravitate. Use a couple of those extra bucks for a shot at the
bar to inflate your confidence and maybe you’ll be spending
the rest on a Holiday Inn room at the end of the night. Man up,
bamma down.”
