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Looking for Betty Ham; Or, How to Find What You're Looking For: Four Easy Steps

(Note: The last two weeks around here have been silly. Last night, I emceed the "Funny Ha Ha" version of our bi-quarterly MFA readings. I also had to read a piece. I had about two hours to write something. What I'm doing right now is called "qualification/warning." If you would like to spend your time reading something of literary value [or any value, for that matter], I seriously recommend skipping this post. Also, some four-cent words are smattered throughout. This is puerile. But if you don't mind, and you could use a cheap laugh, read on. I hope to get back to more meaningful writing soon. Thank you for your patience.)

Looking for Betty Ham; Or, How to Find What You’re Looking For: Four Easy Steps

1. Narrow Your Search

“Yes, Denard, I know you want a girl that 'got it goin’ on,' but can you be more specific?” In the summer of ’98, I was living in some housing projects in Mississippi, helping high school kids with the writing portion of college entrance exams. I knew that the colleges would want to feel that the applicants had a strong sense of drive, that they were in touch with what they desperately wanted out of life, and that they would stop at nothing to achieve that. My job was to help those kids express that longing, put into words what they were really looking for in life. I had been around Denard enough to know that he was capable of communicating what he wanted. Just that morning, he'd told another student to “get the fuck out my seat.” Denard was also clear about what he wanted when communicating with his “bitches and hoes,” which directives, while I appreciate their forthrightness, I cannot recommend to you. But I did recommend to him, after asking what he was really looking for in a girl, that he picture that girl in his mind and describe her to me beyond just that she “got it goin’ on.” “In what way, specifically,” I asked, “do she ‘got it goin’ on,’ Denard?” “Well,” he said after thinking for a minute, “she got brown hair.” “Yes, good, Denard, that’s the kind of stuff I’m looking for; what else?” “A’ight, a’ight,” he said, encouraged by my delight, “well, I know you think this be boring, but I kinda’ like dem brown eyes girls.” “No, not boring at all, you’re on a roll. Tell me more.” “Okay, okay. Gold teeth? Naw, naw, hoad up, juss one gold tooth. Yeah, yee-ah, brown hair, brown eyes, one gold tooth, and . . . .” Denard balled his left fist, as if he either were looking for just the right word or preparing to punch me in the tooth for making him work so hard. After about 30 seconds, his fist unclenched (as did my sphincter), he looked me in the eyes, and he said, “I got it, Jimmy. I’m looking for a girl with brown hair, brown eyes, a gold tooth, and . . . and . . . red shoes.”

I don’t know whether Denard made it to college, but for years, I felt good knowing that there was one more person out in the world who knew exactly what he was looking for.

2. Start Young

Tyrone was the only black kid in the Memphis suburb where I grew up. Tyrone was exotic. Tyrone was brilliant. Tyrone was naughty.

My first computer/video game console was an Atari 400. I had two games: Hangman and States and Capitals. I kicked ass in States and Capitals. One brown screen, one green outline of the country with its states, and one keypad to type in the capital when a state changed colors.

One day, Tyrone invited me and Jared and Steve and Matt over to watch him do computer stuff. It was 1985, and Tyrone had something called an Apple. We rode our bikes to his house, saying how boring it would be, laughing that his computer was named after a fruit, but knowing that we didn’t dare turn down Tyrone. Tyrone had a black belt. Tyrone could mess you up. As usual, his garage door was open, so we let ourselves in and walked up to his room. He was sitting in his leopard-print chair, facing the computer screen, arms resting at his side. When he sensed our presence, he lifted his arms in the air and twitched his fingers, directing us to gather round. Tyrone was powerful.

Steve, Matt, Jared, and I stood behind him, not daring to speak, waiting for instruction. About 30 seconds had passed when Tyrone poised his right hand above the keyboard and said, “Gentlemen, Tyrone knows what you want,” after which his right pinky tapped the enter key, the computer screen blinked on, and my eyes exploded. “Boys, he said, meet Betty Ham.” Betty Ham: a slightly angular, oddly pink woman wearing no clothes on Tyrone’s computer screen. Tyrone was in control.

I can’t remember now what Betty’s face looked like, but I do remember that she had no hair on her body. Tyrone had created Betty, so maybe he just didn’t know what to do with that part, or was working from imagination (I do remember thinking that she looked familiar—was it his artistic expression of Mrs. Heiburger, the librarian?)—or maybe his Apple’s 16-color palette couldn’t accommodate. Whatever the case, I knew, at that moment, that I had found what I was looking for. That knowledge seemed corroborated by my skin, which seemed to be gripping me, crying out for me to “get a good look, kid, you’ll spend the next 20 years looking for Betty.” I’m sure there was some part of me, even then, that felt shame for salivating over Betty Ham, and more the shame for being Jewish. Maybe I even felt the urge to vocalize some sort of objection, but before anyone could speak, Tyrone swiveled around in his chair and pronounced, “Boys, you’re welcome.” Tyrone was beneficent.

Say the name “Nevada,” and I would have to think for 10 seconds to recall “Carson City,” but say the name “Betty Ham,” and I will not hesitate: “Yes, please.” How can the outline of Florida even, which is slightly phallic, stand up next to two vaguely rectangular breasts with perfectly pixellated pink nipples? What boy wants to think about Birmingham when he can think about Betty Ham? Tyrone was a marionettist. The capital of Alabama is Montgomery.

3. Seek the Wisdom of Artists.

My junior year of high school, I lost a $5 dollar bet to a kid in my drafting class. “I’m telling you, it’s ‘haunted lips,’” I said. “No, it’s not,” he said. “Alright, $5 bucks it’s ‘haunted lips.’” “You’re on,” he said. Looking back, I should at least have made the bet contingent on his providing the correct lyrics rather than simply denying my version. 50% of American high schoolers in 1990 were driving around in their cars singing, “I have kissed . . hahmphmphned . . . lips / Felt the healing in her fingertips.” Bono inspired an entire generation to climb the highest mountains, to run through the fields, to run, to crawl, to scale these city walls,” and we did, if only metaphorically, but we were in high school, and so naive. We never stopped to ask, “Wait, why are we doing this? Bono never found what he was looking for; what makes us think we will?” That realization didn’t hit me until a few years ago. I hate that song. May you never find what you’re looking for, Bono, you jerk.

That longing to find what you’re looking for is timeless, so I wasn’t surprised when, ten years later, a new generation was singing along, stirred to existential questioning by their prophet, Christina Aguilera. To her credit, Christina made sure that no wagers would be placed on her lyrics, keeping it relatively simple: “I’m looking for a guy who will always be there / Not just any guy / But a guy who could also be my best friend / I’m looking for an answer / Why did you play with my mind? / But I know for sure, better than you I’ll never find / No no, I won’t find anyone better than you boy / That’s for sure / I’ll make you see / That it’s meant to be.” Damn right, Christina, that’s the question I’d been asking Bono all those years: Why did you play with my mind?

Despite the clarity of her message, Christina’s “What I’m Looking For” didn’t leave a lasting impression. My hunch is that she distanced too many of her fans with the line “better than you I’ll never find.” The search is hard enough, Christina—don’t burden us with non-traditional syntax.

One cultural prophet steps down, another takes the stand. I would be remiss if I didn’t note here that I’d been anticipating a new musical Messiah ever since the Bono letdown of '98. I was hesitant to believe when Christina entered the scene, and, in retrospect, rightly so, but shortly after Christina, another contender grabbed the mic. Her song “That’s What I’m Looking For” seemed to make sense of my world—why Denard might want a girl with red shoes, why Tyrone was in control, why Bono would never find what he was looking for. Maybe it was the self-confidence, the knowledge of her surroundings, the way she used the vernacular to sympathize with my experience—whatever the case, Da Brat had me convinced the first time I heard her sing “Hey JD, why you always be saying oh / Is that like frozen shit? / You just walk in and say oh shit / Bounce to this, come on / Where my rag wearing soldiers at / that love to watch the dough stack / never leave the house without their strap / that’s what I’m looking for / They know just what I want and need / keep a big bank roll and a bag of weed / and when it’s time to go down / they ain’t scared to freak / Shit, that’s what I’m looking for / Where my Rolley wearing thugs who / claim they don’t love you / but any time you want something done / they do it / That’s what I’m looking for / the ball all night type / frontin’ screamin’ thug life / that’s the type of nigga I like / that’s what I’m looking for / and we can bump all night / til we reach a climax / make sure you leave a phat sack for Brat / till you come back for more / six pack surrounding my belly hole that’s tight.”

An artist who speaks my language. Tight, indeed.

4. Google It.

I have a website. One of the things that fascinates me about having a presence on the internet is that my friends can find me whenever they want, even if they don’t know where I am. What scares me is that most of the people who find my website aren’t my friends.

I have a program for my website that tracks my visitors. The highlight of the program is the search string function. When someone enters a string of words into Google, and all those words appear somewhere on my website, and the searcher clicks on the link to my website hoping to find what he's looking for, I know about it. The stat-tracker keeps a list of those search strings for me. Sociologically, I suppose it’s interesting, a cultural zeitgeist meter of sorts. But frankly, it scares me a little, to the point where I’ve begun to question whether I want to be known as someone who’s “looking for things.” A sampler of the search strings used to find my website in the last few months: “ritual cutting jpegs / passion for blankets / yaRmuLke or yamIka? / steps of doing a shih tzus hair for show / kid haircutting scream / uterus dropped / blankets that guys like / jeremy huggins sex life / pictures of hot 13 year old boys / hairy chested men / photos of boys hiding under blankets.”

I’ve noticed several prominent search sub-genres, one of which is the ghetto-based search, which indicates to me that maybe Denard has been passing on his wisdom, which warms my heart: “ghetto quotes / ghetto love quotes / ghetto teen love quotes / tight ghetto love quotes / [and, more to the point,] how to impress someone with ghetto words [which I think was probably entered by any number of my white freshman comp students] / [and, for those who had mastered the art of impressing someone with ghetto words, there’s] hot ghetto mess.” Then there’s the group of conscientious folk who seem to be looking for clear direction on how to improve their or others’ lives: “how to write a sorry letter to an old friend / pictured steps on how to teach a 40-year old how to have sex [which, I suppose, is a noble pedagogical aim]." And then there’s the sub-sub-genre of those who have eschewed Hallmark in favor of the homemade card, which everyone likes. People found my website looking for “breakup i hate you cards,” which, though syntactically a bit awkward, at least won’t leave the recipient wondering. Also, “apology for farting cards”: “Dear Pastor, every so often, someone special comes into your life. You know that his words will last, that the hard days have past. Your sermons are moving, but I should not have passed gas. Forgive me.” There are the search strings entered by those who continue to follow Christina, despite her awkward word choice: “drunk girls at spring brake / 16 years girl naked homepage / photos girls thinks urinals are sexy” which begins to blend together with probably the most popular genre, the straight-up, tightly worded, unabashed search for flesh: “girls breats / foreskin pictures / free erotic foreskin pictures / soft porn pictures / sexual intercourse women turkey"—Turkey the country?

I was immediately taken aback by that last one, not because it’s any stranger than the other things people have been looking for, but because I felt that it indicted me, reminded me of my part in all of this. Women and Turkey. I tried to come up with the capital of Turkey, but Countries and Capitals wasn’t available until the Atari 800 came out. I knew, deep in my heart, that whoever entered that search string was, somehow, just like me, that maybe it was a guy named Jared or Matt or Steve, who, after all these years, recalled a woman, and two breasts, and knew that there was a name attached to them, a meat product, perhaps, and that he will never stop looking, never be satisfied. Damn you, Betty Ham.

Posted by ghetto monk at April 30, 2005 02:28 PM | TrackBack