Why I Love White People

Until the age of seven, comedian Samantha Irby had not realized that “she wasn’t white.” Her love affair with examining the oddities of white people has continued ever since.


| May 2014


If you haven’t heard of Samantha Irby, that’s about to change. Creator of the wildly popular blog Bitches Gotta Eat, Sam is a force of nature. Her candor in style and subject matter—mostly sex, dating and the general lousiness of men—has earned her a cult following. In Meaty (Curbside Splendor Publishing, 2013), Irby explodes onto the page in a series of brand-new essays written with scathing wit and poignant bluntness. The following excerpt is from “Milk and Oreos.”

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I fucking love white people. As a matter of fact, having grown up surrounded by your legion on the rough, tree-lined streets of Chicago’s North Shore, I wasn’t really even aware that I wasn’t white until I was approximately seven years old. Okay, I knew, because I never had a sunburn, whatever the fuck that is, but I didn’t know-know. But with every politely declined camping invitation and spat out mouthful of roasted beets, it became that much clearer to me that, despite my penchant for craft beers and J.Jill knit cardigans, I AM NOT WHITE.

It has been exceptionally difficult for me to come to terms with this shocking revelation. I don’t know what the fuck Kwanzaa is. If a bitch asks me some black history shit I’m always like, “I don’t fucking know! Rosa Parks?” And black people are always telling me I “talk white,” which until recently I thought was due to my passionate defense of Christopher Guest films, but now realize is a criticism of the fact that when I say “motherfucker,” I pronounce the T. And the -er.

I’m pretty much an expert in white people. I don’t really un­derstand lacrosse, but I do pay for a subscription to the New Yorker. The subtle differences between us, though, were the catalyst through which I became cognizant of my blackness: The stay-home mom who also has a nanny? The shorts in the middle of December?! I don’t get it, but I’m grateful for you guys, I really am. Without white people I wouldn’t know what the fuck a scone is. Or that a $5,000 bicycle is a real thing. And with Valentine’s Day fast approaching, I thought I would write you a love letter to prove my undying affection for your kind.

Dear white people, I love you because you fucking mean well. I should clarify and say that I am referring to white people who buy North Face jackets and take their babies to yoga class, NOT these fucking Newport-smoking teen moms named “Destiny,” spelled with nine E’s. Those kinds of white people are terrifying. I like farmer’s market white peo­ple, the ones who are always dressed like they just finished climbing K2 when all they’ve done all day is eat samples at Whole Foods. The ones who try to convince me that a $15 jar of organically-grown, locally-sourced, environmentally sustainable white peach marmalade is a worthwhile fuck­ing purchase. I’m black, ho. FUCK EARTH. Black people don’t really believe in recycling. Or, for that matter, artisanal jam. If you see me put my Coke can in the recycling bin, it’s because 1. someone left that shit within arm’s reach of my desk and 2. a white person is watching me. Seriously, if there weren’t so many white people around all the time I would literally be standing outside with a can of hairspray spraying that shit at the goddamned sun. Fuck being cold. The only black vegans I can think of are the ones dodging the bags of donated oatmeal raining down on them from Red Cross helicopters, but I love that about you guys, I love that you could sit down to an enormous Thanksgiving dinner and only eat the fucking green beans because a turkey with a brain the size of my toenail didn’t have a happy childhood. That shit is fucking admirable.

PETERB
6/23/2014 7:12:54 AM

This is funny???