The Story of a Wale Fan

I hope every single person I come across today will ask me what I did last night, so that I can tell my story. But alas, nobody cares, except the few folks who knew that my homegirl and I were privileged to be among some of the select few to witness the very first unplugged concert of DC’s finest, Wale. My homegirl was literally the first to arrive, hence the first in line. Despite the fact that the instructions said the doors would open at 6 and close at 7:15, they didn’t start the entry process until about 7. I use the word process very loosely. However, we were listed as associates of Wale which meant we were given red wrist bands while the majority were given blue, were told we were VIP, and personally escorted to our seat which was the best seat in the house in my opinion; an elevated plush brown leather love seat that said “reserved”, with an ideal view of the stage. We were ecstatic. Excited fans trickled in and sat in the seats all around us. The intimate setting which looked like someone’s living room was bubbling over with noisy chatter and laughter. It was the ultimate vibe until about 30 minutes later. Over the course of about an hour, the same young lady who sat us told us a total of three times that we had to move, without an explanation. Each time though, she would get distracted and the move never happened. Finally, we noticed the security guard whom we befriended while standing outside, approach two young ladies sitting about 10 feet away, closer to the stage, to tell them they had to switch seats with us. The young ladies appeared to be just as confused as we were as they told him they didn’t want to move and they were fine where they were seated. The security guard basically forced them to move, after which we had to give up our plush brown leather sofa to sit in seats that barely accommodated one butt cheek. As we crossed paths with the two young ladies we looked at each other like “what is this about?” Then, my homegirl made a statement that set the tone for the rest of the night, “It’s because I’m not light-skinned”. At first I thought she was trippin. But then I thought to myself, why in the world would they force people to move out of their seat when everyone involved made it clear they didn’t WANT to move? At this point we were frustrated but the show was starting with Angie Ange on the mic from 93.9, so we chilled. No more than 3 minutes later, the same security guard whispered in our ear “I’m sorry but yall have to move”. He could see in our faces that our cooperative spirit was quickly vanishing. We turned to our right and saw two light-skinned girls standing there waiting to take our seats; two girls who waltzed into the venue late, with blue wrist bands which meant they weren’t VIP, which meant they weren’t “associates of Wale”, but they had the “look” that clearly Wale’s team wanted for the cameras. After an intense and passionate exchange of words with the security guard who claimed to understand our emotion but was just “doing his job”, we got up, humiliated, frustrated, confused, and disrespected. Not only did we have to give up our seats a second time, but we didn’t get seats at all. Yes people, we had to stand the rest of the night. They didn’t inconvenience anybody else and ask them to give up their seats for us. After all, we were first in line, with a red wrist band, associates of Wale, and VIP. Naw. All those blue band wearers were seated, enjoying the show, with the look that Wale’s camp needed for the camera.

It was at this moment I realized that the artist who did a song with Chrisette Michelle called Shades where he chronicles his life as a dark skin brotha where black Americans didn’t accept him, where he resented light skinned people, where Chrisette so poetically says “Shades doesn’t matter heart makes the lover”, is clearly not surrounded by people who feel the same way. Or perhaps, his own life and way of thinking does not truly reflect the words in his songs. Whatever the case, our cries for justice and fairness fell on deaf ears. Nobody in his camp EVER offered an explanation although we asked for one. Nobody owned their responsibility for what happened; they simply said “we’re doing what we’re told”. And did I mention some of those who were in his camp were young black women? I wonder if they’d follow such instructions if it were their Mother, sister or daughter being treated this way. To offer us a measure of compensation, or in other words to shut us up, the young ladies offered us seating for the second show. Are you kidding me? I almost had to laugh. Is this all a part of some sick experiment? Then the security guard offered to buy us drinks. Gee, thanks. At this point we stood by the bar and made the best of the situation, hoping the Tito's and Jameson would kick in and take all of our problems away. We sipped, and sang, and sipped, and danced, and sipped, and sang some more. But like with all distractions, the problems don't go away. Eventually the owner of the venue approached us and told us to walk with him to the back. He heard about what happened, and wanted to hear our side of the story. I will say, out of everyone, he was the most sympathetic and empathetic, however he was limited in what he could do since he wasn't technically part of Wale's camp. He did however offer us some more rounds on the house and said he would make sure we didn't leave there without a meet and greet with Wale after his show. Oh so is this where our red wrist bands matter?