An Open Letter to Oprah Winfrey

An Open Letter to Oprah Winfrey:

Dear Oprah (may I call you Oprah?),
Ok, how about Dear Miss Ross (is that more fitting?),
Oprah, you and I go a long way back. A long way. Indeed, I've been watching you since I was a tormented teen, celebrating the fact that there was finally a black, overweight woman taking over the daytime airwaves from Phil, who was so damned political and Michael McDonald-ish, and while nice, was married to that nasty bitch who had the butler write that book about how awful she was - you know, That Girl. I love Phil. Don't get me wrong. I'd kill for nightly reruns now. But back then, the talkshow grew stagnant. We all subconsciously wanted, no, needed, a new voice, someone to encapsulate our generation. Someone like you. As I said, I was so happy to see a young, overweight Black woman in crazy-ass patterned clothes, on the tv. Because, you see, being a gawky teenager from Nowheresville, Saskatchewan, with new wave and punk leanings, but trapped in my sweet love for all things preppy, who was addicted to the Cosby Show, and Benetton ads, and the funk of Midnight Star's "No Parking on the Dancefloor" and the sage words of The Time's "Ice Cream Castles", which went "You are white, I am of color.... let's fall in love", well, honey, I naively assumed I was pretty much Black. Black on the inside, that is. So, while I hung my posters of Lisa Bonet and watched Breakin' and Krush Groove, and danced in my room to my 45 of "Oh Sheila", I just figured it would only be a matter of time before my innate blackness would come out. So when I saw you that first season, I was all "ummm hmmmm, damn, tell it like it is, my sister." And your clothes - ain't nothing weirder about them than Bill Cosby's sweaters, don't ever let anyone tell you no different. So I loved you. You were safe. You were real. I loved your weight. I cheered you on when you would comment about it, I was planning protests in my head for those horrible skinheads who were mean to you on your show - I was there.
I was even there when you lugged the trolley of fat out with you. I was there when you gained it all back. I cheered when said you would never talk about your weight again. I cheered when you said you were marrying Steadman. I sent back the toaster to Sears when you didn't marry him. I was there when they were saying you and Gail were lovin' it up. I was there when those hillbillies were all mean to you about the meat thing. I was there when you were saying you were a cokehead in your youth. I was there when they found out about that baby. I was there, babygirl. I was there when your Mama, Vernella, or whatever, was being crazy. Or when your sister was all wacked.
Hells bells, I was there when Gail and her hubby broke up. Honey, I was all about y'all helpin' Stella get her groove back, you know what I'm sayin'?
And then the guru thing happened. Suddenly, you were making the connection. And damned if I didn't get right in along with it. I saw you and Bob lose the weight. And made the whole connection. I bought the book. I followed a lot of it, to the point of spitting out a grape after realizing it was after 8 at night. I lost 50 lbs. I looked fucking sexy, I gotta say it. This man bitch was something to see naked at that point of my life. This was right after coming out of the panic attack/anxiety thing. I kept a journal like you. I drank the water. I followed the book club obsessively. I made sure I bought a book a week and a hardcover a month like you told me to. I have thousands and thousands of books now. An entire room. And more in boxes. AND I got rid of boxes. You created a problem. But I was there for you.
I gained the weight back after a couple years. SO did you. I've gained it and lost it a few times, and so have you. But I'm still here, although I keep thinking if you can't do it with Bob around on staff, then what the fuck hope do I have with kids who want nothing more than to enable daddy so we all can have ice cream. Because if daddy don't have ice cream, ain't NOBODY having ice cream, you know what I'm saying?
So I sort of lost you with the diet stuff. And the books, well, I am sorry, I've spent 7 or 8 years studying English literature, but if I have to read one more fucking Toni Morrison book just to see you brought to tears over some passage that is as dense as the London fog, well, I'll slash up. I love Ms Morrison, don't get me wrong. I love Beloved. But it freaks me out. And most of her other stuff does, and I don't get a lot of it. I remember asking a professor, who I respect deeply, what the hell it meant in Beloved when it kept making reference to "a hot thing". She basically said 'I don't rightly know." Honey, neither do I, and one or two Morrison books are enough. And then all the classics came out and I mean, those are things I want to read on my own because I know about them. I want you to uncover the gems like Wally Lamb, or that book about zvergs, and so on. So I lost a lot of the book stuff.
And you know, I bought into the Rosie cookbook, and honey, ain't nobody at home sitting in Cleavland is going to be able to make any of that shit. It might as well have been written by Martha Stewart, who loses me the second she talks about tampanades and creme fraishe. Same thing with the Rosie book.
And you lost me when you get all pissy and say you get mad when people say you have more help because you have a cook and Bob, because you still did the work and avoided the taters. True, but honey, I need a Bob, who I can pay 6 figures, who knows it's his job to get my fat ass out of bed and on the treadmill, and to make it entertaining and show me how to do weights and whatever. And if someone would cook for me, so I could sit down and have some nice unfried chicken, well honey, that's half the temptation killed to order a fucking pizza and down it with a liter of Coke, you know? So don't gimme that.
And you lost me with the celebrity friends thing. I would love to have your friends. But honey, it's annoying that all you talk about is them and you can never ask them the deep questions. Like, Aniston - I wanted to hear you say "is your heart broken? Why are you divorcing?" but noooo.... and Travolta, I want you to ask about that crazy cult he's in. But no, it's just "my best friend so and so...." Puke.
And then there is the whole interrupt everyone and your way is the right way thing - if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy really is the new mantra of the show.
And the whole calling the dogs your babies and showing us your rose gardens? Bad move. Turned me off more than the thought of Joan Rivers naked.
And while I am glad you have a favorite martini, know that most of us can't afford to invest in a sack of kumquats and 400 pomegranites to make one frigging drink.
And while I am on your side James Frey-wise, you could have avoided the whole thing by getting your peeps to fact check, because I had alarm bells going off for half of it, and for someone as learned as you, well, you'd think...anyway...
I still think you are the cat's ass. I love Gail. I love a lot of what you have to say. I still could bawl when I think of the Africa trip or the trip to the Concentration Camp. You do so much good.
But honey, you have also gotten annoying.
So let's take some advice from Joni and get back to the garden.
Yours,
JT, who is finally comfortable in his skin as an overweight white - yes, I said it - WHITE - man.