Open Hate Mail, Part One

Dear Bacon and Eggs,

I hate you.

Yes, you and you. You think you're the all-American breakfast, don't you? In preschool, they show kids pictures of you, eggs--sunny-side up--and you bacon--greasy and glistening--together on a plate. Breakfast, they call it. Desayuno.

You're nasty, though, especially eggs. I've known that a long time, despite those attempts at indoctrination. My mother scrambled eggs on Saturday mornings, and I left them right there on the plate. A scrambled egg will develop a flat, greasy bottom if you don't touch it. The pepper stands out against the pale yellow and white gloop like a black pox. The smell of eggs reminds me of waste and decay, of bad breath.

My aunt scrambled eggs on Saturday mornings, too. I liked her for her gold tooth. She once told me she put sugar in her eggs, and I believed her. I took one bite of her so-called "sugar eggs" ...and knew I could never trust adults again. I was eight years old.

Bacon wasn't always nasty. I used to enjoy tearing the fat-part from the deep red meat of every strip. I liked that a lot. And bacon once dressed up cheeseburgers and salads. Mom used to make bacon--er, cook bacon on Saturday mornings, too. I loved the smell; it meant I didn't have to go to school. It meant the Bugs Bunny and Tweety show would be on in a little while. It meant dancing to Purple Rain (on vinyl) with my mom while we cleaned the house.

But there are no eggs without bacon. I could eat every slippery bacon strip on my plate, but I still "had to" eat the flat-bottomed eggs. I missed whole cartoon segments because of silent battles over breakfast food. I sat at the kitchen table, pouting and toying with the salt shaker. Was it even necessary? I could have just had cereal and bacon.

Bacon and eggs, you're no breakfast. Everyone in this country wants to know why they have heart disease. They cut all the good stuff out of their diets because of you, because of what you did. I hope you're happy.

Always,
Sam

Dear Ashanti,

I wish I could say this was nothing personal.

When you arrived on the scene, when folks started calling you the princess of R&B, I was nonplussed. I listened to Brandy, Monica, and Aaliyah. Someone put me on Ella Fitzgerald, Etta James, and Billie Holiday, and I listened to them, too. I tuned you out. It was like you came along too late for me to think that you mattered. You are no jazz legend with a tragic personal history. You were not a teenaged R&B diva when I was in middle school. You didn't have cool braids, and you didn't elope with R. Kelly. Why would I even think about you?

And then I saw you on the cover of some magazine. Maybe it was Vibe. It doesn't matter. You had a gardenia in your slicked back hair. A gardenia. The headline gave you a title; you were now the new something of soul or whatever. With a gardenia in your hair.

I'm sorry. I didn't realize the death of Billie Holiday left an opening for you in the annals of jazz history. I didn't realize you were comparable to Billie Holiday. I must have missed your rendition of "Strange Fruit."

I know it was just a picture. But it was also a mistake. Billie Holiday's voice commands an audience. I watched a video tape of one of her performances, and I cried. She poured everything into that song. I've seen you dancing on BET. You should not dance.

You dressed up like Sandy from "Grease" for some cheesy video featuring Ja Rule. That was not okay. I mean, it really wasn't. It was, however, appropriate. The next time you play dress up, you should invoke the spirit of Olivia Newton-John and let the legends rest.

That should be that, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it, Ashanti? I shouldn't catch you sniffing around any of my other favorite things, right?

Wrong.

You showed up on an episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." You were just there. In actual scenes. With Nicholas Brendan. Xander. I thought I understood why you were existing in the Buffyverse. The show had moved to UPN. "Girlfriends" aired after every episode of"Buffy." The network knew their audience. The network thought I liked you. In scenes. With Nicholas Brendan. Xander. Big, funny Xander. How can you sleep at night, knowing you ruined a scene with one of the warmest, funniest actors on a sci-fi-comedy-drama series? You don't act. You can't act. You are, at your very core, anti-acting. Watching Buffy chop off your demon head was gratifying. Shame she could only do it once.

That's mean, isn't it? You probably think this is obsession, that I have an Ashanti dartboard or that I cross out your face when I see it magazines. It isn't like that, though. You provoke this. You show up where you don't belong. You wear the wrong costumes. You had no business belly-dancing in "Bride & Prejudice." You glittered, you worked your two-bit act for all it was worth, and you maintained this completely serious expression on your face the whole time.

Don't you ever shrink from looking ridiculous? Aren't you tired of pretending like you deserve fame, like you have the right to associate yourself with Billie, Buffy, or Bollywood Austen? What would you like to ruin next? Will I see you in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" tomorrow night? I know, you're going to write a book, right? Another sequel to Gone with the Wind because you've always been a fan? I wouldn't put any of those things past you, Princess.

Oh, and Shut Up,
Sam