Sabrina & Jacky

In the UC system, school starts in October. Just as we are getting into the rhythm of teaching as new faculty, we find that the holiday season is upon us.

 That December, I got an e-vite from Jacky inviting me to a Christmas party at her house. It was one of those Ugly Sweater parties white people like to throw. I had never been to one, but I thought it could be a nice way to make friends. I RSVP’d “Yes.”

The day of the party, I realized I didn’t have any ugly clothes, because vanity. So instead, I chose this absolutely adorable sweater, a white V-neck crop with bold shoulders and elastic ribbing at the bottom. I paired it with some wide leg black jeans, and did look great.

I didn’t recognize the address on the e-vite. I don’t know why, but I was shocked by the quality of her neighborhood. She lived in a swanky area of Laguna. The kind of area that, as a Black person, you start to wonder if you ought to get out of your car in. Because as soon as you do, here come the po-po.

Fortunately, I saw a few faculty I recognized on their way in. I jumped out of my car to join their group.

The house was far statelier than any junior faculty has any business owning, or at least that’s what I thought at the time. I found out later that she was renting. The house had, a beautiful brick façade. Inside, it was a relatively small three-bedroom, three-bath. One of the bedrooms had been converted into an office. 

But the exterior of the place was the real draw. Beside the brick work, it had a large concrete backyard outlined by a thick layer of grass. Just beyond the grass was a carriage house. Given the size of the property, the party was to be held outside in the backyard. 

Jacky saw me come in through the side gate with the others. She came over and embraced me.

“Sabrina! So great to see you!” 

“Hi Jacky!” I offered, leaning in for the hug. I stepped out of the embrace, taking in the full specter of this party. There were a bunch of tiny party favors lying around. Tiny sunglasses, mustaches, top hats, and Christmas stockings. I didn’t understand the miniature theme, but I didn’t feel like asking about it.

Jacky addressed me again, this time she’d wanted to introduce me to someone.

“Sabrina, this is Janie. She and I rent this place together.” I must have had an expression that read, huh? because she quickly clarified, 

“Janie’s my roommate.” My shoulders relaxed.

“Hey Sabrina.” Janie said, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hey Janie. Nice place.” I said.

“Thanks.” She smiled, then added, “But you are not wearing an ugly sweater!”

“Ooops!” I said, hands raised. “Got me.” She shook her head and stalked off. 

Jacky trailed off too, checking on other guests. I turned around just in time to see the married woman entering the backyard. This time, her husband was in tow.

“Hi there.” I said politely, though I’m sure I never learned her name on purpose.

“Hi! This is my husband! Bartholomew!” She cried.
“Hey Bartholomew.” I said, waving.

“Oh come on!” He said. “That sweater’s nice!” I could see that this was actually going to be a problem. This party was going to be lousy with Ugly Sweater pedants. I smiled politely.

“No. I can’t seem to find a reason to keep ugly clothes.” I said. He rolled his eyes. 

Bartholomew was considerably less attractive than his wife. But she was beaming, clinging to him like a life raft. He on the other hand looked good and goddam tired of playing the role of the “happy newlywed.” His eyes had a hollow look. All it took was for her to be temporarily distracted by another faculty arrival for him to make an escape. She turned to say hello, and he stalked off to man-talk with one of the other dudes at the party.

I was having a fine time just chatting. There was hot cider and snacks, and people were looser, since we weren’t on campus. Someone made a joke about a scuzzy senior faculty member in their program, and we guffawed deliciously.

It turned out that the party was outside for a reason besides its size. This was no regular Christmas sweater party. This was a Christmas sweater dance party. Someone cranked the music up. We were all invited into the designated dancing area. 

I love dancing, but they weren’t playing, like Mary J. Blige or J-Kwon or anything. No Chingy and what not, so I didn’t know who these artists were.

Because I didn’t know the music, I decided to dip into the party favors, to make the songs more interesting for myself. I wore a different tiny party favor for each song. Hat for this, glasses and mustache for that. I was amusing myself because with that music on, I wasn’t ready to go home, but I wasn’t enjoying myself. So after every song, I walked back over to the table, put on a new party favor, and danced around with it. 

Jacky saw me and was like,

“It’s great that you’re using those!”

Other people looked at me as if they were pretty sure about the neurodivergence. 

At a certain point, a song came on and everybody went up. That song was soo fire! I had never heard it before. 

“Omigod! Who Is This?” I yelled randomly into the crowd.

“JUSTIN BIEBER!” Someone yelled back.

“What? Oh!” Hearing this, a few of us slowed our groove. We looked around, uncertain how to proceed. Uhh, were we really a bunch of 30-somethings getting our whole lives to Justin Bieber, tho? We shrugged. Fuck it, nobody will know. We got back to getting our entire lives.

Incredibly, a dance battle broke out. Some guy had apparently been haranguing Jacky about a dance-off. Jacky finally decided to take it to him.

Now the weird part was neither of them were doing battle things. The guy started hopping around in a circle. Jacky, on the other hand, was doing dance moves. That is, actual ballet and modern dance moves. Have you ever seen anyone doing modern dance to a Britney Spears song at an Ugly Sweater Party? Because if not, you don’t know as many white people as I do.  

I’d had just about enough after that. I watched that guy beg Jacky for a battle the entire night, and that was what it’d come to. What was his name again? Anyway, I suppose I was impressed by Jacky’s, er, flexibility.

I thanked her for inviting me and told her I should go. I made up some thing about needing to get an early start, bleh bleh bleh. 

She was disappointed. But said that she understood.

 

* * * *

 

There’s nothing to do in Orange County if you’re not going to the beach or to the mall. For that reason, I try never to do them both on the same day. I pace myself to savor the few delights the divine gives us in a planned community. 

It was a beach day. I went to this gorgeous beach not too far from where I live. The road is torturous; I’d never suggest walking it. But as you wind down that drive in your car, blaring The Sundays’ “Wild Horses,” an expansive ocean vista unfolds before you. It is breathtaking.

I was walking around, zoning out. I was listening to Frank Ocean on Pandora, pissed that I had no more skips left, when I heard:

“Hey Sabrina!”

I looked up to find Jacky and Janie walking towards me.

“Hey!” I said, pleased to see them.

“What a coincidence? Do you guys come here often?” I asked. 

“Yah, we live a few blocks from here, remember?”

“Oh, right.” 

“You remember my roommate Janie.”

“Hey Janie.” I said.

“Hey.” I noticed that Janie was usually short on conversation. I wondered if she was still being pissy over the sweater.

“Listen,” Jacky broke in. “I wanted to invite you to an art show.” Jacky was a professor of Anthropology by day, and painter by night. She had a couple of her portraits on display at the Christmas party.

“Sure! I love going to art exhibits.” I replied enthusiastically.

“It’s going to be the weekend of Feb 12-14.” She said.

“Ok sure.” I said. Then I thought, Valentine’s Day Weekend?!

“And afterwards,” Jacky continued, “we’ll get drinks.” 

It wasn’t immediately clear who the “we” were, and she didn’t specify. I thought if other people from the first-year crew were going, she should say that, right? So is this just the two of us? Is she’s asking me on a date? I decided not to get ahead of myself. There was no need to stress. All of that would be revealed in due course.

“Sounds great.” I said. “I look forward to it.”

“Yah, me too,” She said. She and Janie turned to walk away. Then, she turned back toward me, flashing a smile. 

 

* * *

 

I thought it over. 99.9% of straight women who are in a relationship will do like the married woman and let you know early and often that they have a partner. (I’ve found that men with partners are excruciatingly slow to come forward with that information just as often.) I noticed that Jacky never once brought up a man in conversation. That alone was enough for me to believe it likely that she was not straight. 

I wasn’t sexually attracted to Jacky. But, I liked her boldness, and her life as an artist was intriguing. And she seemed to like me. This could be interesting. I thought. If it turned out it wasn’t a date, it would be an art exhibit with colleagues. Yet, she had invited me out to a show and to get cocktails on Valentine’s Day weekend. Was that just a coincidence?

There was something in her manner that led me to believe it wasn’t. I am sure I must have identified myself as queer at one of those new faculty happy hours. I had felt like since at least the night of the Great Centerpiece Looting, she had been giving me signs. And my other queer friends keep telling me I need to start dating women.

I was mulling all this over when I got a text from my friend, a Cal State professor named Jose. Jose is brilliant and hilarious. He’s gay, and he stays high. I sometimes wonder if he teaches like that. I once saw him get drugs delivered to his door in like 2015. He had a fake medical card.

 

“What’s up boo?” 

“Sup?” 

“You wanna come up to L.A. this weekend? We can smoke.” 

“S’pose to be going out with this white lady.” 

“What white lady?” 

“Like a date.”

“Wuuuuuuuutttt?”

 

“A date” is how I was reading the situation by Feb. 12th. I had waited until then to see if Jacky would clarify what day we were going—since the show was running the entire weekend. I thought there would have been a text, maybe a group text, firming up the who and the when. Nothing. 

Make no mistake, I live in Orange County. And so for that reason alone, I was definitely planning to go to this art show. Because, what the hell else was I supposed to do? 

I texted Jacky the morning of the 13th. 

Hey Jacky, I am interested in going to the show tonight. Is that OK with you? Is it too late to get tickets?

 

She wrote back quickly, 

 

Hi Sabrina! So good to hear from you! It would be great if you could come tonight. I’ll leave a ticket for you at the front. 

 

Then, she took the opportunity to pick up an old thread.

 

Are you still interested in getting drinks afterward? 

Sure ☺

Ok, let’s meet in the lobby after the show and see where things go from there ;)

 

That last expression, “see where things go from there” is not the kind of thing I would normally text to a friend. And with a wink emoji?  The whole thing felt very racy. Very Mulholland Drive.

By that afternoon, I was trying to prepare myself for a date. What should I wear? Hmm. Shouldn’t be too sexy. But also, I should slay the game. It was an authorized mall day, but I hadn’t found anything there. Back home in my closet, I landed on skinny jeans and a silk blouse.

But juussst as I was starting to get ready, something felt off. I realized I had been the one to confirm the plans. Yet now, I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to go. 

First of all, I wasn’t convinced I wanted to date a white woman. I had dated enough asleep—opposite of woke—white men to know I didn’t need those kinds of problems. But also, she had seemingly forgotten about inviting me until I reached out. Then as soon as I did, she started in again with the flirtatious messages. What the blood clot?

Hmm, I can’t very well back out now, I thought. So instead, I stayed on the phone with Jose for approximately two hours while I tried to persuade myself that there was no harm in it. 

 

* * *

 

The show started at 8pm. At 6:30, I finally convinced myself to get into the shower. When I got out of the shower, at quarter to 7, I saw this text from Jacky:

 

You don’t mind if Fabio joins us tonight, do you?

 

I stared at my phone. I thought, OK. Riiggggghhttttttttt. Except, Who the Fuck is Fabio? 

Did she send this message deliberately one-hour before showtime? Is this b…And why had she written it like I knew who this man was? 

This is the thing, had she told me about Fabio—who he was, and that he was going—that morning, I would have maybe been fine with it. Or at least, if I wadn’t, I coulda linked up with Jose. 

Now, I was going to be forced into an awkward evening with a woman I barely knew, and a man I had never known. There was no way for me to ask, “and who is Fabio,” without coming off as jealous. 

The whole thing was draining. So, I wrote back:

 

I wish you had told me sooner. You two should go, I’m actually not feeling so well anyway. I will see you at a happy hour soon!

 

This (surprise!) was the beginning of an angry text storm by Jacky part.

 

Well, he only just told me he wanted to come. 

 

 I didn’t respond to that. Then, 20 minutes later,

 

Are you here yet? I don’t see you. 

 

Then, one hour later,

 

Did you even show up?! 

 

After this last message, I was like, oh wow, she’s nuts. I mean, I did at least lie about being sick. She could have pretended to care.

 

I texted Jose and he said,

 

Now she’s on your jock :-/ 

 

Then I texted him her skeevy message about Fabio that initiated the drama. He replied,

 

OMG! Sneaky white women.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Valentine’s Day, Jacky called. I didn’t pick up. She left me a loonng voicemail.

As I listened to her four-minute rambling voicemail, I thought for sure we had entered Crazy Town. I reflected on the series of events: she flirted with me, invited me out, then invited some other guy to join us, got mad when I wasn’t with that, and then spent Valentine’s Day trying to make up. Whereas as far as I knew, we weren’t even dating. 

 

I texted my friend, another professor named Long, like,

 

Ugggh! This woman keeps calling and texting me because we were supposed to go out last night. 

What woman?

The woman from the party I told you about. The artist.

Oh, you can never date an artist. They’re crazy. 

We had our first fight before we had our first date. And that’s what I get for being a fake Lesbian.

 

* * *

 

I never saw Jacky again. But I realized the word for what we were both doing might just be “toxic femininity.” 

Here’s why: I later found out that Fabio was the dance-off joker. He had a crush on Jacky. She knew that, but like most women by our 30s, we know the drill with men: they pursue the shit outta you, only to have their eyes glaze over like Bartholomew’s the moment you let them into your feelings. Then it’s all checking their phone when they’re in the bathroom, and asking about this chick in the DMs.

She and I were both sick of that. But, neither one of us, were actually gay. So what did we do? We pretended like we were going to be gay, and ended up re-creating for ourselves the same drama Justin Bieber was known for (and can you believe I got a JB call back up in this?) 

Maybe toxic femininity is nothing more than leading a person on—of any gender—in hopes of having a relationship that deep down you know you do not want. Hey, that sounds a lot like what the men do…