On Tuesday, my wife Monica Quibbits published an article on this website headlined, “Through the Eyes of M’oniqua.” When I first read it, I thought we’d been hacked, and then I thought my cousin Bennington was “having fun” tarnishing my wife’s reputation for no reason yet again, and then I thought—in fact, I was sure—that artificial intelligence had finally escaped into the ether of the internet, scrambling everything. But I was in doubt again as soon as I saw that everything else on the page—the logo, the bylines, the top five—were all spelled correctly and properly rendered. There was nothing unusual about the spelling of my wife’s name. Yet the article couldn’t have possibly been written by her. Why? Well, because my wife isn’t a black woman. She just thinks she is.
Let me explain something. “Through the Eyes of M’oniqua” was written in African American Vernacular English, or AAVE. This is a dialect of American English that’s been a staple of mainstream discourse and pop culture; recent examples include “unc,” “deadass,” “lowkey,” and “pause.” In previous decades, “word” and “dig” flourished. AAVE is a part of American life, no matter whether you’re white, black, or something else. I’m a male rooster, and my wife’s a female hen. Our story has been told and I’ve explained our provenance and abilities many times, so I won’t waste space repeating myself. I understand you may be confused after reading my wife’s article. So was I. But I have some insider information on why that might be going on, why my wife thinks she’s black: she’s trying to get something out of me.
I like to think I’ve been a good husband, but maybe I’m wrong; maybe I should’ve stayed a little longer in the restaurant industry and gone into business with Wolfgang Puck. Maybe I should’ve learned to flambé, or cook Brussel sprouts and oatmeal instead of scratch feed and morning hay. I’m a Southern boy (from Massachusetts) at heart, so I need my country food. Perhaps this is where my wife picked up her curious affectation, or affliction, I’m not sure yet. The south? The deep south? I know she’s not in hell, but it’s disconcerting to wake up one day and find the woman you love talking about “getting her hair did.” Excuse me? We don’t have hair, certainly not enough to “get did.” We mostly have feathers, and I’m not willing to tell her that I like her natural. Of course I’ve told her that before, many times, en flagrante delicto, but suddenly she’s “M’oniqua” and she won’t speak to me.
She’s more aggressive than she used to be. Hostile. I understand you may find this funny, considering my wife’s widely viewed by her readers as hostile and aggressive. Let’s not lose sight of what’s important: my comfort. And I’m not comfortable living with a hen who isn’t the hen I met so many hundreds of years ago. She’s speaking in tongues, and I don’t mean the AAVE. That I can kind of pick up on. But when it’s every word, everything she’s saying, It’s extremely disorienting. This version of my wife also doesn’t ever quiet down. She’s abrasive in ways I didn’t imagine possible. I’m just glad Bennington isn’t around because I think we might’ve had a self-defense situation on our hands by now, from either party. They hate each other, in all versions.
I won’t repeat some of the things M’oniqua has said to me, mostly because I can’t understand them and have no way of transcribing them. It’s not just noises, it’s a proper dialect, but it’s deeper than the AAVE I’ve been exposed to as a mainstream American male. It as though this is who she’s been for years, and I’ve just woken out of a bad dream. Rachel Dolezal I could clock as a nutcase within five seconds of seeing those photos of her when she was younger. But I’m going through my house now, looking for old photographs of my wife, and still coming up blank… there’s nothing… no pictures of Monica… they’ve all become M’oniqua… what’s happening to my life? “You best been seen to be heard and made to understood that it is this baaaaaaad bitch who is gon make you SWEAT and Imma work you and get you workinonit…” That I could get down. Things got intimate after that. I’m not so uncomfortable with M’oniqua anymore. I do want my wife back, but for now, I’m satisfied. Get down, get down. She says I’m square, she’s probably right.
Nicky isn’t back from BWI yet. Maybe I should call him or pick him up and get some “me” time. I wouldn’t want M’oniqua finding this. It’s four a.m. and she’s just gone to bed. The music was so loud before I couldn’t write. Maybe the lounge will have a continental breakfast. Maybe. Maybe…
Oh… hmm… I’m getting a text message… Nicky has to go back to LA? “I’ll just stay in the lounge,” he says, “you don’t need to pick me up. My plane leaves in five hours.” He doesn’t know how much I need it. I need to tell him about M’oniqua. Maybe it’s a sign—maybe she’s method acting. Maybe… like I said I’m not unhappy I’m just tired. I need a break from M’oniqua and I want my wife back. Monica. Her name is MONICA. Honey if you’re reading this it’s entirely insincere and false and, obviously, the work of one Bennington Quibbits.
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