Thaicoon.

I’ve been meaning to jot this little anecdote down for a while now. I haven’t quite figured out how to tell this story pictorially, so this one may just be words.

For those of you who are illiterate, I apologize in advance.

I have this friend “C.” She’s basically one of the coolest, sweetest, people you’ll ever meet in your life. She’s one of my favorite people in all the land.

C has an unparalleled affinity for all things Asian… considering she’s a black woman from New Jersey who grew up rocking out to Michael Jackson.

My first memory of C was seeing her name on a list for the Students for International Training program in which I enrolled in 1995. I studied for 5 months in New Delhi. As I scanned the list for any other souls that might be black, I saw C’s name (which, you will have to trust, has a very Indian ring to it) and was like “huh. She must be Indian.”

Imagine my surprise when I saw her on the plane. She’s black y’all! Darker skin then me.

Shenanigans at the YMCA in New Delhi

We became fast friends. We became sisters, even. We lived for about a month in a small town in Northern India called Udaipur. (It’s where Octopussy was filmed. Octupussy’s lair, in fact, is the Lake Palace. It’s gorgeous.).

Bond. James Bond.

Wherever I would go, the locals would feel the need to tell me “where my sister is.” “Hey! I just saw your sister! She went that way!” They were really great about keeping tabs on the strange black girls living in their town. I’m pretty sure their only experience with black people was reruns of the Cosby Show. The locals didn’t see too many real live black people, so they naturally assumed that she and I were sisters. I was the Rudy to C’s Vanessa.

I could go on for days about all the shenanigans and trouble we got into that spring, but I’ll save that for another time. (People at work might be reading this.)

I remember there was this one particular Chinese restaurant in New Delhi called Fa Yan. I must have eaten 100 meals with C at Fa Yan. Homegirl didn’t like Indian food. Who decides to live in India for 4 months, but doesn’t like Indian food? My friend C, that’s who. Practically every day, “Hey C, where do you wanna go for lunch?” “FA YAN!” And we would go.

Cut to 2003. C had fallen in love with a guy who is Southern Thai. I say “Southern Thai” not because he’s from the southern region of Thailand, but because he is literally a mild-mannered southerner who is Thai. There’s really no other way to describe him. He’s Asian-American (Thai) but speaks with a southern accent. He hunts and has a cabin in the woods. His brothers drive pick up trucks. He’s also one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet. I would love to write out his (and now her last name) but since this is a public forum, and I haven’t yet cleared this story with them, I will refrain. I will tell you this. It’s got a shitload of letters in it. And having been friends with them for nearly 10 years, I still can barely pronounce it.

So it’s their wedding weekend. I fly to Atlanta, excited about being chosen to be a bridesmaid.
We hop in the car and head to the restaurant they had chosen to be the location of their rehearsal dinner. “It’s one of my favorite Thai restaurants in Atlanta. You’re going to love it.,” C says to me.

So we pull up to the restaurant. Can you guess what the name of the restaurant is?

THAICOON & SUSHI BAR.

Thai.

Coon.

I couldn’t make something like this up if I tried.

Thaicoon.

C and her husband now have two children. They are probably the cutest goddamn children on the face of the earth.

Little Thaicoon babies that will one day take over the world.

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