N. A participant in a television show that has consistently hired crazy black people, or treated its black contestants as though they were crazy
O. A Poster Guy for People You Don't Even Know
P. Triply-screwed, because anything you accomplish comes with a tiny little almost-invisible question mark that questions the validity of your accomplishments
Q. A person for whom extemporaneous speaking is difficult at best
R. Inextricably bound to your race, always signifying it, always being signified by it, kind of tired of telling white people it's okay, kind of sick of trying to draw the line for every single white person about what is okay and what's not, sick of trying to explain it, sick of trying to figure it out in your own head even, sick of biting your tongue so that you don't explain to very nice people that you like that bullshit like "I don't even see race as a factor" is the ultimate white privilege, and a fucking lie to boot, sick of feeling like you're invisible until people -- who are vastly less intelligent than you are -- know about the five degrees and the Oxford thing and that whole pile of crap, sick of your relatives looking at you funny like you're not black enough, sick to death and tired of everything that's said, and not said, and sick of having to justify that which is neither justifiable nor necessary to justify, sick of measuring your every accomplishment against this hypothetical black kid who, seeing you on TV, is supposedly going to realize what a mountain of elbow grease can get you, and so, so sick of white writers trying desperately to even comprehend what life is actually like for you without hitting these mine fields of Otherization and Fetishization and God forbid, Identification
S. The fourth Apprentice
T. Drawing a line through your whole life, starting somewhere pretty rough and rising, every day, pushing harder, and seeing that this is where it led: You win. Rock star.
Answer Key: All of them. At once. And those are just the nice-to-pretty-shitty ones, the ones I feel okay about typing with my own two hands. Most of them probably forever.
In 750 words or less, tell me how you're feeling right now. I know you don't think on your feet, it's like the one calculus your mutant brain can't do, and I know you probably don't really have a set speech for this, so take your time. And hey, congratulations!