Nana Aba Duncan

Published on www.bnblunt.com

I laughed the other night when a close friend leaned in to tell me that my sisters and I got the party started.  We were at a midtown socialite’s annual holiday function at a classy bar on Avenue and though the DJ was spinning some seriously funky tunes, no one seemed to be getting down.  As one of three extroverted sisters who love to dance, I was not surprised the party’s energy level spiked when we took to the floor.

It happens, but my friend later explained what he was getting at.  His point: people wanted to get near us. People thought we were cool.  By getting closer they thought they were somehow raising their own personal cool quotients.  And it wasn’t because we could dance.  It’s because we were black.

Among 150 revelers, most were white from their late twenties to early sixties. My sisters and I rounded out the ten black people in attendance. My guess is that it was a mid- to upper-class crowd, with all its fancy jewelry and expensive jeans.  Free martinis for each guest made for a jolly bunch and like everyone else, I was happy to be there.

I could easily contest my (white) friend’s idea that people would want to befriend me for some perceived black-therefore-cool characteristic with a few key phrases:  Don’t be ridiculous - this is Toronto!; As a multicultural society we’re used to being around and seeing people with different ethnic backgrounds, so why would anyone treat me differently?; and People here don’t even see colour! But to be honest I know well the difference between someone looking at me with genuine interest and someone who is  ultimately looking to have a fully ‘representational’ set of acquaintances. For some, having close relationships with members of ethnic groups or communities outside of their own warrants a measure of pride.  How many times do you hear comments beginning with “This black girl I know…” or “My friend  - he’s gay - …”? It goes beyond interest in knowing someone culturally or socially different from yourself and wanting to learn about his or her life.  It’s about being cool because you know them.

Perhaps I’m no different.  Fast-forward to another holiday party at a beautifully decorated condo townhouse in Cabbagetown. That I was one of two black people in a party of fifteen mattered not.  The balance there was between straight and not straight. My partner and I made up one of two heterosexual couples.  The hosts were a couple in their late forties and their friends were entertainers, PhD students, and bouncers who all varied as much in their ages as they did their careers.  What we all had in common was the very good wine and general good holiday cheer.  But as I started to get warm and fuzzy about my new neighbours (I recently moved to the area) and contemplated their insistent invites to meet again it hit me: I like them a lot and, oh my goodness, I think I like them because they’re gay.

I had to be honest with myself. I recognized I wanted these people to be my friends.  Because then…I would be cooler.  You would think I’d be less inclined to ‘expand’ in this area, as I already have more than one close friend who is gay.  And being black, I really needn’t worry about my level of coolness, right?But somehow, getting close to my new buddies would beef up my persona as a cool Torontonian.  It’s like being privy to the lifestyle of someone others perceive as ‘different’ – for whatever reason – makes me  more valuable as an individual.  And the more different cultures I know, the cooler I get.  After all, isn’t that what it means to be cultured? I get it now.  The folks at the first party just wanted to know about me.  But perhaps the most important element in elevating coolness through being ‘cultured’ is sincerity.  If I honestly like the guys at the second shindig and I’m ready to hang out with them, laugh, share personal stories and exchange advice like I do with my other friends, there is no reason why I shouldn’t want them in my circle.