Hello again.

I don’t have cancer.

If you didn’t know me you might have assumed that my post one year ago was my last because I was diagnosed with cancer. And if you assumed that, you probably assumed that I spent the last year getting treatment, “fighting” for my life, and saying chemo was the reason for my baldness. But this past year was transformative in a different, more positive way.

I am now black.

For some reason, ever since I convinced myself I had cancer, I have been mistaken for being black multiple times and in wildly different ways. It first happened when I was caught eavesdropping on a black couple’s argument about Barack’s presidency.  After much disagreement, they turned to me, noticed I was listening, and asked, “Sir, are you black? What do you think about Obama?” It was the 2nd greatest compliment anyone has ever given me. Even though they had to double-check, I took it as a sign that my Gilbert Gottfried days were over. Then, a few weeks later I was strolling (what is the black people word for ‘strolling’, black people definitely don’t ‘stroll’, they, shit sorry, WE, walk slow, but we definitely don’t ‘stroll’) through Washington Square Park when I was greeted with, “Good morning my black brotha! Weed? Coke?” We all know that black guys use the word ‘brotha’ pretty liberally. I once overheard one of the fake-purse-selling black dudes on Canal St. say, “My brotha over there can help you out.” He pointed to a little 143 year-old Chinese dude that was holding fake Gucci purses. Now maybe I’m jumping to conclusions by thinking he was using the word ‘brotha’ as a term of endearment, instead of its actual meaning, but I would gladly be wrong if those two guys were indeed brothers. The family pictures are probably amazing and I can’t imagine the diversity of the music playlists on road trips. No weed, no coke for this black brotha.

There have been mistaken identities. “Nigga, I thought you was the The Weeknd,” a black high schooler told me. “Do I look like a fuckin’ Canadian?” I inappropriately replied. Then, one of my clients surprised me with, “There is something about your beard that reminds me of Mos Def.” Reminds you of Mos Def? My beard? I guess WE DO all look alike!

My favorite, Hello, Black Guy! encounter happened last week. I was on a B train when I heard the familiar battle cries of a crazy person making his way through a packed train. Surprisingly, the man causing the commotion was dressed in a suit, a real suit, not a suit with a lime green jacket from the 90’s and ball-sweat-stained sweatpants from two humid summers ago, an actual suit that matched and looked relatively clean. He held a book in his hand (I’ll give you one guess as to which book it was) held it up and yelled, “There are too many sissies in this world. Too many sissies. And we all lost our manners! Look at all the young men sitting in seats, letting women stand uncomfortably! We don’t teach our young men manners anymore! Especially young black men! I served two tours in Vietnam and when I came back, I came back to a world with no manners! I don’t want your money! I want your attention! These young black men with their phones, and their expensive sneakers, and no manners! Black men, I call on you to take back your humanity! Impress the world with your kindness! Get up out your seat and offer it to a woman!”

At this point, I think I’m actually making up a bunch of what he said. It’s my translated version of a long speech about black men, respect, and the overpopulation of “sissies” that really had nothing to do with his thesis. As people started to pay more attention, he walked over, pointed at me and then a black teenager standing across the train and yelled, “Now look at these niggas. I can tell you right now, that these black men had daddies in their lives. Men that stayed by their women and taught them respect! They’re standing!” At this point in his monologue, it would have been too difficult, and honestly, too scary to correct him with, “Excuse me sir, I’m actually not at all black. I have been mistaken for Mos Def, it has something to do with my beard, but I’m not black, I’m just standing.” So I didn’t.

This past cancer-free year has been great, disappointing, miserable, and amazing. Besides the Universe’s forced celibacy, I feel like I have hit my stride in New York City. I’m on a mission to expand my sense of humor from height, baldness, and small-dick “jokes” to bigger, more imaginative ideas that will probably be equally as depressing but hopefully really funny. And this whole being black thing is great. Today the black UPS driver I often talk shit with yelled to me, “You look happy today Marty!” “Thanks, I’m out here strollin’ with the dogs. It doesn’t get better than that baby!” Yes, I ended a statement with “baby!”

But I forgot, we don’t stroll. I still have a ways to go.