Young Writers Society

I walked onto the elevator and pressed twenty-four. The button lit up. Seized with exhaustion I collapsed

theatrically against the back wall of the elevator. Letting loose alone on elevators was always sort of entertaining to

me. Before I had time to really engage in my strange elevator behavior, the chrome doors shot open, exposing a

pair of swollen breasts and a bulging stomach covered in a strained black shirt, which read in prominent red

letters “warning! Intelligent black woman!” Looking at my sneakers, I smirked. It wasn’t just the questionable

punctuation that tickled me, it was the message proudly displayed on the woman’s chest, which, inadvertently

and ironically conformed to the most insulting and derogatory stereotypes of black women; their unintelligence.

This message seemed to be saying, “warning, this black woman, the owner of these oversized breasts, is not like

most stereotypical black woman in that she is intelligent!” Or even sticking to the equally insulting stereotype

that black woman are overly sassy, “I’m warning you that I, just like most stereotypical black woman possess

copious amounts of sass, so in my own stereotypical ‘in your face’ way, I am telling you that I am intelligent.”

The elevator had stopped on fourteen and short, rather pinched looking bald man in an oversized suit stepped in,

forcing my elbow to sink into the woman’s arm meat. As we ascended in silence, I peered down again, this time,

being the literary snob that I am, inspecting the hard cover that was caught between her elbow and shapeless

hip. Resting between her pudgy arm, a curvy female torso pressed seductively up against her muscular male

counterpart. Stamped above the sizeable breasts and chiseled male six pack were two words in bright yellow.

“Booty Call.” I couldn’t believe this, while this woman, who did not appear to be of great intelligence was doing

her best to stand out against the stereotype, she only seemed to be giving off an impression of the opposite

effect. The door opened on twenty-one. I had failed to notice that the rather sour looking man who had been our

companion only moments ago had disappeared floors early, now we were on twenty one and it was her turn to

go, frowning sluggishly at me she marched from the elevator, chest pushed high into the air, walking proudly

away.

My review is going to be rather scathing, I'm afraid.

I don't really see how this is a story. Perhaps if this was something you actually experienced you could incorporate it into something larger. There is no character evolution, no central conflict, no plot...

It's ok to point out a walking sterotype, but explaining it ruins the effect. This whole thing could be compressed into this:

"I was alone in an elevator, when a plump black woman in a strained black shirt walked in, nearly hitting me with her floppy chest cannons, carrying a literary masterpiece called Booty Call. The message on her shirt read "Warning! Intelligent black woman!""

See? No explanation needed. The first bit about theatrics and the addition of the other rider add nothing, and can therefore be safely removed.

All this, without even bringing up racism issues.

Sorry I was so rough,
-Mike