Editor,

Before I even write this, I know what you’re going to say. I know because I’ve already been told. I’m overreacting. But I’m getting ahead of myself. First let me tell you how it went.

Saturday night was just like any other Saturday night (the usual, barely disguised sex party, the usual music, the usual people) except for one thing: The Dirty South party!! Yes, I was excited. Finally, I was gonna hear some Cash Money Boys, Trick Daddy, maybe even Project Pat (well, that’s probably asking for a little too much). I was willing to ignore the flyers displaying skinny white boys in gold chains because, I figured, at least there will be some good music. My music. The music I have been dancing to since I’ve been dancing. Now, when I say good music, bear in mind that I don’t mean, intellectually stimulating, reflective music upon which to brood. No, I mean some good, shake your ass, bend over let me see it, kind of stuff. Maybe that’s a little graphic for some folks, but considering how many people attended the Bathroom Party, I think y’all can handle it. So I got dressed in my FUBU best, cause that’s how I used to do back home, and I got ready to have a good time.

How many people still reading this letter think I had the wonderful time I anticipated?? If you guessed not, you’d be right. Why not, you might ask. After all, the situation seems pretty straightforward. See Dirty South party flyer, go to party, dance all night, come home ecstatic. Right?? Wrong. As it turns out, the people throwing the party had never even heard the phrase "Dirty South" being used in a sentence. Either that, or they just didn’t understand what was being said and didn’t bother to ask anyone. Within five minutes of being at the party, one of the DJs came over and talked to me and my friend. He asked us what kind of music we listened to. We told him. He told us, "Oh, we don’t play any of that." He then informed us that we would be listening to East Coast Underground music. I should have just left then. But I had gotten my hopes up and my friend wouldn’t let me go home so early. So we stuck it out. Every song had the same mellow, slow, bob your head, stand in one place and chill kind of beat. Not that I don’t like it, I’m a fan of all genres of hip hop. But when you claim to be throwing a Dirty South party and then pretend as if your party-goers are as ignorant as you are and won’t notice that the tunes being played are definitely NOT what you’ve promised, you’ve got a problem. As in, you’ve got me, who definitely knows better, breathing down your neck, trying to figure out what your problem is so I can tell you about yourself.

And your problem, basically, is this: If you don’t know what you are talking about it, please keep your ignorance to yourself. If you want to throw a East Coast Underground party, call it that. Or call it something cute and catchy that pertains to that. Don’t lie to me and promise something you have no intention of delivering. Quit trying to be so cute and funny that you wind up looking dumb. Those of you who still don’t know, that was a definite faux pas. Yeah, you messed up. And I’m not laughing, either.

I bet you are, though. I’m pretty sure the idea of throwing a Dirty South party got a couple laughs. Somebody thought, what a good joke. But you didn’t count on me being here. That’s ok, because I messed up, too. I relied on a bunch of white frat boys to deliver the goods, and I expected them to know what they were talking about. I won’t make that mistake again. For future reference, though, Dirty South actually refers to music made by artists from the South (GET IT, GENIUSES?!?), specifically rap and hip hop artists. Examples are Lil Wayne, Juvenile, Lil Turk, Master P, Mystical, Project Pat, Trick Daddy, Trina, etc. There are others, many others. None of them are East Coast Underground, though.

So, I finally decided, at the end of the night, that my time at Pomona College has come to an end. Not literally, because I will be here at least until the end of this semester and probably next semester, but after that I am done. I will apply to every Historically Black College and University in the country. I will go to community college. I will go to professional beauty school. I am serious. I would rather be poor and live among the least educated people I can find than spend one more day here. Money means little more to me than being able to survive. That’s all I want to do. But I cannot do it here, where every day I am reminded just how little my knowledge, culture, background, history, and interests are valued. I know I am somebody. That’s the first thing they taught us at my all-Black kindergarten because they knew we’d have to really believe it to make it in this world. I believe it, and I don’t have to stay here and listen to anyone tell me otherwise. Period. The End.

Goodbye,

Lydia Lucas ‘04