Open Letter to Rachel Dolezal from Johnny Americana

Note from the Blog Custodian: Since “paddytheduke” the normal blog contributor is being held against his will in an undisclosed location until he agrees to post this love letter, we at The Alembic are all too eager to see the matter resolved. Mr. Johnny Americana, a somewhat dumb-headed and lonely old acquaintance of “paddytheduke’s,” has demanded the use of this platform to profess his love to Rachel Dolezal, former head of the NAACP’s Washington State chapter. Mr. Americana, while purpose driven and blind with passion has always had the somewhat debilitating deficiency of being obsessed with women he sees on television while paying no real attention to context. Mr. Americana’s letter is posted as part of an agreement to release Mr. “The Duke” as soon as possible and we wish him the best of luck. Go right ahead, Mr. Americana.

Dear Rachel, First, allow me a quick introduction. My name is Johnny. Last name, Americana. Americana like the coffee type and believe you me, I like my coffee black. Always have. Pure, delicious, and smoking hot. Next, let me tell you that I am outraged. As much as I can piece together you’ve been forced to resign from your post as head of the NAACP. What type of world do we live in where a black woman is somehow deemed unfit to head an organization for the advancement of the black community? It’s the most hypocritical thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t stand hypocrites and I’m sure you feel the same way. People all trying to be who they are not, and not be who they are. Washington State, no less? I always assumed the upper west side of the United States was a place of tolerance that didn’t judge people by the color of their skin. Well my “assuming” about Spokane, Washington has made an ass out of you and me, as the saying goes. A great big round curvy ass. I’m here for you Ro-shella. I’ve been watching you on the TV down at the coin laundromat where I hang out. The sound is busted, but I don’t need volume to tell me that you’ve got a problem and that I am the man to solve it.

Here’s the deal. I know in this world you can never be too sure about yourself, but I’m pretty convinced I’ve fallen in love with you. Madly. Suffocatingly. Blindingly. I’ve never felt this way before. I’m like a different person. My old friends don’t even recognize me. I can’t take my eyes off the TV screen when the camera is on you in all your Nubian splendor. I know this might seem weird, a total stranger putting his fragile emotions on the line, but I believe in being honest and upfront. So first, I’m in love with you. Second… I’m white.

Now Shelly, before you brush me aside, let me assure you that all white people aren’t poisonous little devils. In fact, there are many of us that have a lot to offer. I’m not sure how much time you’ve spent around caucasian folk, maybe none at all, but we’re an okay bunch once you get to know us. In fact, let me offer up a little history from a decent set of white people. I’m speaking of course about the sitting Supreme Court of 1967.

It was destiny last Friday, June 12th when I first caught sight of you on one of them news channels. If you didn’t know, June 12th, in these United States, is known as “Loving Day” in honor of the landmark Supreme Court case that made it legal for people of different races to whistle at each other, flash their things at each other and marry each other, even though I’m a little sketchy on the fine print. I’m no lawyer although I work for one from time to time. He is a fraud lawyer. Mostly because he handles fraud cases but also because I’m not sure he is an actual lawyer. I get a cut of the lawsuit every time I fall on slippery floors in supermarkets and dart out in front of fancy cars. I’m ashamed to admit I spend my life tricking people. I hope you aren’t turned off by that. It takes a lot of skill to get hit by a car and not get hurt but act like it. Anyway the great Supreme Court of 1967, led by the honorable barrister Hugo Black, told us Americans that we can marry any chick we damn well please. Hugo Black? “Don’t mind if I do.”

Listen Shel-Shel, if we hurry up and get this thing going we can be married by this time next year. June is always a beautiful time of year for a wedding. We can have the ceremony somewhere that appreciates diversity. Forget Washington State. I’ve got friends in Alabama, Mississippi, Rural Georgia, and South Carolina–real freedom-lovers that would be glad to see two people of mixed race stand up to old taboos.

Ray-Ray, I can’t wait to meet your parents. I can only imagine the look on their faces when I show up to the house. Boy won’t that be funny. They’ll think you’ve gone crazy! I know they will be able to get over their prejudices and come to accept me into the family. First off, I never work on Martin Luther King day. In fact I took the whole month of February off last year (Black History Month!) but that was because I got hit with a golf ball at this uppity white country club. They knew what was good for them and settled out of court.

Sweet Ray our kids will be beautiful. I have acne and psoriasis so I hope that they have your beautiful brown skin and tight curls. Who knows, with you by my side the sky is the limit. I could be mayor of New York City. Imagine that?

So here is what I’m going to do. You just give me the make, model and license plate number for Cornell Brooks’s car. As head of the NAACP he has to have some major pull and after he runs over a pedestrian some time next week, he’ll be more than happy to reinstate you back to your old position in order to clear up the whole fiasco. That’s how strong my love is. Not many people can say that and mean it. Even if you don’t get your old job back I will be able in the next couple of months to provide a comfortable life for us as long as reckless supermarkets keep creating hazardous conditions for the general public and cars fail to yield for pedestrians that appear out of nowhere.

Heartsick and white as fuck,

Johnny Americana.

P.S. I’m very broad minded. I don’t know if you’re into role playing but I’ve always been a little on the kinky side. I’ve got some 18th century costumes. I’ll even let you be Thomas Jefferson and I’ll be Sally Hemings. If that isn’t downright progressive then I don’t know what is.

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