Tapestry 06: Saint Laurent & Self-Control
Restraint is something I wear like regalia. A tuxedo. A dinner gown. It confuses people—and I get irritated by the confusion.
I do it as a perfunctory courtesy because Grandaddy insisted I lead with that upon arriving in this reality. He said something to the tune of, "You can’t walk a jaguar through Saint Laurent and not incite." So, I dress accordingly, just to partake in the finery in peace.
It irks me that they mistake my tux as an invitation to be haphazard. It’s infuriating to watch children play in electrical sockets when you’ve left copious snacks to engage them. And yet, they still choose danger. Juveniles. What can we do, except coexist? I'm still investigating. Deets soon.
By now, you know what’s simmering in my pots—you don’t even need to see it to know: it eats.
The casual way in which y’all allow people to treat and talk to you has left the masses out here unable to discern danger even when it’s standing right in front of them. These folks haven't been able to strengthen the muscle of recognition because you contort your self-esteem to allow them to ignorantly flex.
Then, I have to reposture. Because Grandaddy didn’t just preach from the pulpit—he lived it. As much as I want to wild out, he won’t let me. The heritage has invested too much to waste on "factory" items. So I simply glance at my patent leather YSL brass knuckles—an ancestral relic—to remind myself of what I’m capable of.
I enjoy a Housewives, Love & Hip Hop, katty Kardashians show as much as the next—but it’s always landed wasteful for me. A commercial read that slides under American television censorship guardrails just to brush against an opponent’s shoulder and entertain plebeians in the Midwest. Eh.
It can entertain, occasionally. But I don’t waste cannonballs on entertainment. A read isn’t something I do in a magazine—it’s what I do to rearrange your cellar composition. I see the depths of you that even you can’t see. I see the defense mechanism of your defense mechanism. Your insecurity about being insecure. It makes me obscenely dangerous to the psyche—and yet, incredibly responsible. He’s an artful God, trust me. He’s put me through decades of rigorous testing to see if I’d shake and take down easy prey.
Have I mentioned I waited tables for 17 years? If you’ve worked in retail or food service, you can probably relate to 15% of the mental testing I’m referencing. If you’re the only Black boy of four Black sisters, maybe 30%. If you’re gay, from the South, over 6’2”, and didn’t idolize Tupac, you might earn a few more points. But if you recalibrated your sense to double-check that you had your shit together before you pulled your umbilical cord, then you understand the level of restraint it takes not to obliterate every person who consciously, subconsciously, haphazardly, or unintentionally tests you daily. It’s one of the thinnest, yet most valuable trophies I’ve earned.
Upon sumptuous consumption of my father’s Ralph Lauren offerings, I softened my disdain for his absence. He had a usefulness I could harness. While I was fishing for fertile ground to seed the chanteuse with my required new standard of aesthetic, she was busy living her life. Her life that happens to be my life. A life that was about to make an earth-shattering turn—for both of us.
I know when it’s not right from the beginning. And this moment confirmed it for me:
I know.
But they don’t know.
And they don’t even know, that they don’t know.
“Aye!” he offered from across the street.
An oversized goon—a Lil’ Scrappy circa 2001 type—far too confident and far too unaware. My energy refused to budge the moment I saw him. But Veronica? She yielded. Yielded to his simple, carnal advance.
She never asked me for my perspective on key matters that could affect us all.
And I always wondered—why? Why not ask me? Doesn’t she know I know? Doesn’t she know?
If she knows—why is she moving like this?
Why would someone know better and still choose otherwise?
Maybe… she doesn’t know.
But then—why would she say she does?
And if I ask her if she knows, she’ll say she does, and that she’s grown.
So what’s left for me to do?
Next thing I know, he’s eating the big pork chop and sculling around our domicile.
There hadn’t even been another hurricane watch before this man was living with us. Not a single conversation. Not a warning. Not a nod.
And I knew she wasn’t conferring with those sisters.
I suppose Lil’ Scrappy registered as aboveboard to the 24–29-year-old Black girl demographic in 1997.
He certainly didn’t register on my scale.
He made no effort to frame the bulge of his gut into a more appealing silhouette.
We had little to no interaction. I simply observed him. I wasn’t engaging with a man—I was communing with a mammal.
I tolerated.
As I always did.
And waited for us to ascend to higher ground.
We ascended, alright.
It took a black eye and some garbage bags.
Have I told you about the time I thought the chanteuse was literally trying to murder me?
Lord knows I’ve been tired. Send provisions, Jesus. They’re hungry. I ate… but I’ll still take them to lunch.
Tiffin at the St. Regis Bar. 1 p.m. Dress accordingly and be ready to talk, damnit. I’m not dimming for you.
—Christopher.
