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Bed Stuy BBQ Crew

Bed Stuy gets really loud in the summer.  The whole neighborhood hangs out on their stoops and talks to each other. There is a constant stream of cars down my block blaring their radios so loud that sometimes I sing along. It’s kind of like playing name that tune.  But, my favorite part of the summer is the BBQ Crew.  Every day, from early evening through midnight, there is a group of men ranging in age from thirty to seventy that stands in front of the brownstone three doors down gossiping and debating the politics of the day.

I am not going to lie.  Most nights I come home and turn on the boob tube.  I need it, it’s like my daily detox.  I don’t like to be disturbed for two hours. I have done this my entire working adult life. When I moved to Bed Stuy, I thought my tv time would be even quieter.  There are only five people that live in my building.   Bed Stuy was going to be my quiet space.  Unfortunately, I didn’t understand what living in Bed Stuy really meant. Watching TV is like going to the drive-in.  You are in your own car, but you can hear people at the concession stand and in the car next to you.  You end up just getting annoyed and eating your way through the movie.

There is a group of men I call the BBQ crew who congregate in the yard of the brownstone two doors down.  They range in age from 35-75.  The old man who hits on me hangs out with them.  They spend all night discussing the news of the day and gossiping while BBQ’g burgers and drinking.  There are two voices that are distinct and can be heard down the block.  One guy sounds like DMX and the other guy sounds like “Cedric the Entertainer.”  I never hear the story they are telling just the punctuation of the point they are making.  When DMX is emphasizing something he screams “What, What”  in DMX voice.  When Cedric the Entertainer thinks something is really funny he just repeats “Oh Lawd, Oh Lawd.”  So all of my shows are punctuated with WHAT and Oh Lawd.  Imagine watching the Golden Girls and Rose has just finished one of her St. Olaf stories.  Then DMX shows up and says “WHAT”  It’s like being in a club with a bad DJ.

My favorite is watching the news and having Cedric Screaming and Giggling while repeating “Oh Lawd” over and over again.

Doritos and Aggression

I have a thing for Doritos, specifically Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos. If you aren’t familiar, they’re in the purple bag. When I lived in Bed Stuy, I ate them at least once a week. Since the move to Washington Heights, I have probably had them twice in two years.

1. I got soft. I have laundry in my new building. In Bed Stuy I hung out in front of the laundry mat eating doritos while my clothes were washing.

2. There was no bodega in my immediate area of Washington Heights until this past winter.

I was craving Doritos last week, so I walked to Frank’s Market. They only had a giant bag of SSC Doritos and I can’t have a large bag in my house. Have a large bag = eat a large bag, so I bought some fancy chocolate and crossed the street to the new bodega. There was a man sitting outside on a bench. This seemed promising. Good bodegas have people hanging out in front of them. I approached the door and the man looked at me and got up from the bench. As I was pushing the door open, he was right behind me. He put his hand on the door over my head. A little weird, because he was totally in my personal space. I let the weirdness go, because maybe he was trying to help me open the door. (I don’t need help opening doors.) Who knows?

I found the SSC Doritos immediately, but I took a little time to inventory the rest of the store. Bodegas serve as the emergency supply line to the neighborhood and I wanted to know if this one was correct. Toilet paper, tampons, diapers and butter, it was all there. Satisfied, I walked towards the check-out line with my chips. I passed the man from the bench ordering falafel at the sandwich counter.

When I got to the check-out, the clerk was already ringing someone out. I stood a few steps behind and waited. The bench man finished ordering and walked towards the line. Then he stepped directly in front of me and put his butt in my face. The wale of his blue corduroys (it’s summer) was all I could see. I said “Really.” He didn’t move or acknowledge me. He must of been able to feel my breath on his backside. “Come on.” He shifted his weight to his left foot. I stepped from behind him and positioned myself right next to him. I looked up and said in a calm quiet voice “Did you mean to cut in front of me?” “Did you mean to go ahead of me?” He barely looked at me and said “Noooo.” His face turning red with embarrassment. “You didn’t see me there?” “Well I thought you were in line for a sandwich.”

He was the only one in the sandwich line and walked ten feet to get in the check out line. I answered “No” as I crossed in front of him. The clerk said “Hi Miss is that all for you today?”. I said “Yes, thank you.” The clerk rung me out and I walked back up the hill to my house eating Doritos. No word on whether the bench man enjoyed his falafel.

Mrs Wren

Mrs Wren

Last night I fell down a Youtube rabbit hole. One of my Facebook friends posted the Mikhail Baryshnikov/Gregory Hines dance scene in White Nights. This led me to Gregory Hines dance videos, then Sammy Davis, Savion Glover, Nicholas Brothers, Bill Bojangles, Sandman Sims….. The virtual dance party went on until three in the morning. Dance is an integral part of my life and continues to be part of my workflow. I don’t do well in offices, because breaking out in a dance performance is generally frowned upon. It’s weird, but it helps me concentrate and control my ADD.

I started classes at the Pelagie Green Wren Academy of Dance when I was 6. Mrs Wren was the first African American dancer in the chorus at the Municipal Opera of St. Louis. During her first year, she received death threats and had to have police protection. (The police protection would eventually become her husband, Mr. Wren.) She was tough as nails, but as graceful and beautiful as a bird.

I still remember my first class. I was so excited, I could barely contain myself. I probably didn’t contain myself. My mother dressed me in my dance uniform. Mrs Wren’s school was strict, we wore black leotards and very pale pink tights. When I arrived at the studio, I put my bag in the dressing room, waved goodbye to my mother and sat in the studio with the other girls. We were between the ages of 4 and 6 and all a bit nervous. It was the first dance class for most of us. I was a fan of Fame and hoped Debbie Allen would walk through the door with a stick and do a speech.

But then Mrs Wren came in and what happened next was so much better. The room was full of tiny girl chatter, until she yelled “Quiet.” The room went silent. First lesson learned, when Mrs. Wren yells you listen. She took attendance, calling each girls name. Then she told us to place our tap shoes against the mirror. “Quickly and then come back and stand here.” She stood in the front of the room and with her index fingers pointed to the floor. We did as we were told. Then one by one she placed us in lines shortest to tallest across the studio. There were numbers on the floor so we would remember our lines. She put on some music and stood in front. She said “Follow me.” She took us through some stretches. A couple of the girls lost focus and started talking. “Young Lady in the back.What is your name? Stop Talking.” The girl stopped talking. Normally, I am a chatterbox. I regularly got in trouble for talking to much in school, but not in Mrs Wren’s class.

We moved on to the ballet positions. “Watch me. Stand up straight. Look at my arms and my hands.” Do you see what my feet are doing? Mrs Wren walked around the room and inspected our feet and arms in each position. She corrected bad foot placement and lazy arms. After that we moved to the bars for plies. Somehow I wasn’t paying attention and ended up behind a tall girl, so as Mrs Wren was demonstrating the plies, I leaned out from behind the tall girl. I jumped back in once we started to do the plies. Mrs Wren noticed, but I didn’t notice she noticed, so as I was practicing my plie, I felt her hand on my shoulder. I was moved quickly to the front of the line. She said over here and moved me in front. She kept teaching while moving. No one missed a beat and I was back to my plies in seconds.

After plies we started tap. Shuffle. We did shuffles for ever, then shuffle step. Do you hear what my feet are doing? Do you hear that? She went through the lines and had us demonstrate a shuffle. If a girl didn’t get it she would make the sound until she did.

It was the early 80’s and Fame was a hit show. I envisioned Debbie Allen walking in the room with a stick and saying

adore tap dancing. It used to be a major part of my life. I took dance lessons from the ages of 6-18 at the Pelagie Green Wren Academy of Dance in St. Louis. Mrs Wren came into my life at age 6. She was a star. Tough as nails, but as beautiful and graceful as a bird.

Mrs Wren was tall, kind of looked like a bird and she always wore her hair in a bun. She was also fierce and didn’t suffer fools lightly, even 6 year old fools.

I really wanted to dance. I was obsessed with the movie Fame.

My writing process includes dance. Not shaking my butt a little bit to the beat. I mean full scale performance level dance. It helps me clear my head, so I can refocus. Dance has been a part of my life as far back as I can remember. Coco from Fame was my girl! I wanted to be her. I knew I could be her. I hadn’t yet figured out that my shortness was terminal and the world wasn’t ready for a tiny dancer. (See what I did there.)

My parents being supportive gifted me with a light blue leotard and matching stockings for my fifth birthday. They did not enroll me  in a dance class. This unfortunately gave me license to roam the neighborhood in my leotard, stockings and tennis shoes. Coco walked around like that, why shouldn’t I?  A year later, after many arguments about the appropriateness of  leotards and stockings as playwear, my parents signed me up for dance class at the Pelagie Green Wren Academy of Dance.

Mrs. Wren was the first African American accepted into the chorus at the Muny (Municipal Opera of St. Louis), the largest outdoor theatre in North America. While she was there, the theatre had to provide her with a police escort for fear of racial attacks.  I didn’t know any of this at six. I was just excited to have somewhere to go in my leotard.

Mrs. Wren’s school had a uniform. Black leotard with the lightest of pink stockings, pink ballet slippers and black patent leather tap shoes. I was nervous on the way to class. I had no idea what to expect. Fame was really my only frame of reference for dance class, but those were big kids. It probably wasn’t going to be the same.

When I walked into Mrs. Wren’s studio, I immediately knew I was in the right place.  It looked just like the Fame set. But the best part was Mrs. Wren.  She dressed just like Debbie Allen, but her voice and looks were more striking.  I could tell immediately she wasn’t playing. This was the first dance class for many of us; some of us were barely in elementary school, so imagine the chaos.  Mrs. Wren yelled “Quiet!” The room went silent. First lesson learned, when Mrs. Wren yells you listen. One by one she placed each girl in lines shortest to tallest in five lines across the studio. There were numbers on the floor, so we would remember our place. She started with the positions.

Then she yelled “Head to the bars quickly, shortest to tallest!”  Everyone scattered and headed for the bars.  I was so caught up in the scattering; I ended up in the middle of the line, (Behind a very tall girl.) Mrs. Wren demonstrated first position and said “Everyone watch and copy.”  I leaned out from behind the tall girl to get a better look.  Then Mrs. Wren said, “Second Position.”  I was still leaning out, when I realized Mrs Wren was looking directly at me. I quickly jumped back in line, but it was too late, she grabbed me by the shoulder and walked me to the front of the line. Although it was a relief not to strain, I noticed something in the mirror.  I was a half foot shorter than the next shortest girl.  I knew I was short, but that’s really short.

Bully Ecosystem

I have been thinking a lot about Bullying lately. (I wonder why.) I spent a good portion of childhood being bullied. It was really awful and it has molded who I am as a person. Has it made me stronger? Sure, but it has also made me anxious. It has permanently changed the way I relate to people. Funny thing is bullies don’t fare much better.

How do we combat Bullying. The “We should all love one another doesn’t work.” Everyone isn’t going to love one another. Most of us won’t even like each other. We shouldn’t have to, to be respectful. The prepping of victims saying I love you, don’t worry about it. Those are awful people doesn’t work either. The Bullying won’t stop with that and the victim is continuing to be victimized. Then I started to think about what makes a bully successful and just like everything else, it takes a village.

There are five different types of humans in a bully ecosystem. Their definitions courtesy of Merriam Webster.

Bully-a blustering, browbeating person; especially :  one who is habitually cruel, insulting, or threatening to others who are weaker, smaller, or in some way vulnerable

Toady-one who flatters in the hope of gaining favors.

Contributors-a person who contributes money, assistance, etc.

Bystander-one who is present but not taking part in a situation or event.

Victim-one that is acted on and usually adversely affected by a force or agent.

Bullies are wounded people taking their pain out on everyone else. The group of people is being governed by one person’s feeling of inadequacy. That doesn’t make sense.

Toadies have low self esteem, but enough ambition to be the second in command of this dysfunctional power structure. They back up the bully. Even coming up with cruelty on their own, but only when the bully approves. They orbit around the bully hoping to always be in the sunlight of the bully. The problem is bullies are not loyal people. You can be the number 2 one day and replaced by another toady in waiting the next.

Contributors are freelancers, hoping to get a permanent position. Hopefully becoming a toady. Low self esteem, but a little lower than the Toady. Followers who act as henchman. The laughing chorus.

Bystanders are witnesses to the cruelty, but they don’t say anything one way or the other. Also afraid of getting caught in the backlash, they remain quiet.

Victims are by themselves. Any friends they may have had are scared off, because association may make them targets too. Some may have had a positive self esteem at one point until a bully gets a hold of them. They are different, something that distinguishes them from the herd.

Most people have exhibited behaviors from all four groups. It’s natural. What is unnatural is getting caught in a power structure that puts one person in charge by being mean and hateful. Why does cruelty mean power? It is exhausting for everyone involved. Why do we put up with this? Especially for children. Why are we allowing children to dictate how other children are functioning. I get it we all have to relate to each other and the world will never be perfect, but wouldn’t it be smarter to arm our children with tools to identify the problem and choke the power structure out. I am not advocating fighting physically. I am talking about strategies to stop the problem.

 

New York: Atlantic Records

My first two years in New York I temped at Warner Music Group (Atlantic, Elektra and Warner). I was poorly paid, but after three months of unemployment, I could finally pay my rent and feed myself.

My first assignment was assembling press kits in the A&R Department at Atlantic. The department’s assistant was in the cube next to mine, so we chatted a bit while we worked.

Me: How do you like working at a music label?
Assistant: I love it!
Me: Cool! Is this what you always wanted to do? Do you want to move up?
Assistant: Yes, I do. Listen, don’t ever speak to the artists or ask for their autographs.
Me: Umm.. Ok. I hadn’t even thought of that.
Assistant: Cool, just don’t do it.
Me: Ok

In my head, I thought, Wait, did she just call me a groupie? I stopped asking her questions and focused on easier topics like lunch and the weather. On my last day of the assignment, the assistant asked me to cover for her next week. I gladly accepted, because cash.

The week was pretty uneventful until Wednesday, when I was walking back to my desk from the bathroom. I heard someone yell from one of the offices “Yo, yo, yo come here. Miss, Miss, Miss come here.” I looked around and realized I was “Miss.” I looped back, to find Fat Joe and his entourage packed into a tiny office. I was overwhelmed. That was a lot of manhood in a very small space whose attention was solely focused on me.  I smiled a tense smile. I was nervous.

Fat Joe: What’s your name?
Me: Cara
Fat Joe: Nice to meet you.
Me: Nice to meet you too.

I feared this wouldn’t end well. I was talking to an artist. Something I had been warned about.

Fat Joe: So Cara….

Then like an Angel proclaiming Jesus’ birth I heard my boss calling out for me. My boss didn’t know my name, so he was just screaming “Hey.” I waved “Goodbye” to Fat Joe in the middle of the conversation and took off running back to my desk. I could hear Fat Joe yelling “Come on!  Cara come back!” I went on with my work without acknowledging Fat Joe screaming my name from a few offices down. It was a perfect strategy since no one in that office knew my name. The noise of Fat Joe screaming, blended into the regular noise of the office, kind of like the noise the subway makes. A couple of minutes later Fat Joe’s record exec returned to his office and they began their meeting. I disappeared for lunch, so I wouldn’t see him on his way out.

A month later, I was back in that same department and I heard a woman’s voice in the distance say “Hi, how are you.” She repeated it over and over again. Her voice was getting closer with each “Hi, how are you?” Finally, she appeared from around the corner.  It was Lil’ Kim! Lil Kim was at her peak back then. There was a half-naked, life-size stand up of her in the elevator bank. The elevator doors opened and there she was day in and day out, staring at me. When the real life Kim passed, she looked me dead in the eye and said “Hi, how are you?” Then kept moving down the aisle greeting everyone as she passed.   It was a little surreal to go from stand-up Lil Kim, to the live version without any warning.

The star sightings were exciting, but they were my least important experiences at the record labels.  They were my initiation into New York life. It’s where I learned to be tough.

New York: Audit

New York has been on my mind, over the past few weeks. When things get difficult or uncertain, I do an audit, to determine whether this place is worth it. Obviously after fourteen years, the pros have won, but it has been a real struggle.

My first apartment in New York was a fifth floor walk-up, jr. one bedroom, that I shared with my former college roommate.  The building was near the UN, so technically I lived in a good neighborhood. It’s just that my building was the ragtag outlier in the middle of doorman buildings filled with diplomats and bankers. The people living in my building had jobs, just not good ones.

Strangely there was a fancy restaurant on the bottom floor of my building. Bill Clinton ate there frequently, so did a colony of mice who migrated upstairs to sample our food. I developed a tick from seeing them scurry around my apartment. Yes, I attempted to kill them, but New York mice are smart. They don’t just willy nilly walk into traps. They walk up to the traps, sample the peanut butter and then peace out back to their nest until they get hungry again. I had one walk into the living room look at me dead in the eye and then keep on moving, like no big deal. Zero fear. Long after I moved, I would catch something out of the corner of my eye and my body would involuntarily jump. People at work thought I was crazy. I guess it could be classified as PTSD.

The amenities, shape and design of the apartment was also less than stellar. The bathroom was off the kitchen. The plumbing was so bad, the toilet frequently overflowed and flooded the kitchen. I went through a lot of bleach during those years.

The kitchen was ridiculous in itself. It had a sink and about a foot of counter space next to it. The tiny stove was directly in front of the counter, which made the counter useless. The stove was only partially useful. It had four burners, but you could only fit two pots on the stove at one time. The oven was so tiny and powerless it took six hours to cook a tiny turkey. Through all those complications, I managed to become a good cook.

I still think of those years in that apartment fondly. I had a great view. Bruno, the landlord, left the roof door unlocked, so the tenants could have an outdoor space. My neighbor Adrienne and I used to go up there to get air and smoke cigarettes. On the 4th of July, we watched the fireworks crowd free.

My photography idol Gordon Parks lived down the street. I came out of my apartment building one afternoon and there he was across the street. Like someone had placed him there for me. I screamed like a crazy person “Hi Mr. Parks!!!” He turned and said “Hello” very politely. I realized in that moment, maybe I needed to find my chill. The next time I saw him a couple of weeks later, I said “Hello, Mr. Parks,” calmly this time.  I didn’t want anything from him, I just couldn’t believe my good fortune in living so close to a legend. I saw him a lot over the years. He was always pleasant and greeted me back.

While working at Time Warner, I got free tickets to a screening of the documentary Unstoppable: A conversation with Melvin Van Peebles, Gordon Parks and Ossie Davis. Mr. Parks was in attendance. After the movie, I rushed up to the stage with everyone else to finally properly introduce myself. When it was my turn to speak, He said

Gordon Parks: I remember you from the neighborhood.
Me: Yes, I am the crazy girl who screams at you from across the street.
He laughed and grabbed my hand
Me: (Nervous giggle) I am a photographer and you have always been my favorite. You are someone I have tried to emulate.
Gordon Parks: Oh Thank You!

Unfortunately, our conversation was cut short because Melvin Van Peebles Sr. asked why I wasn’t as excited to meet him. Then Mr. Van Peebles proceeded to hit on me. That’s another story for another day.

Mr. Parks died a year later, in his apartment down the street. I am grateful I got to know him, even a little bit.

As a child, dreaming of moving to the city, this is what I envisioned my life in New York was going to be. I didn’t envision the struggle, but who does.

 

Facebook: MisInformation Highway Election Results

Last Tuesday I voted for Hillary Clinton. I took a voting selfie. (I hate selfies.) Maybe that should have been my warning for impending doom.

My section of Washington Heights is primarily white and liberal. On Tuesday, everyone was walking around smiling. They weren’t hopeful, they were sure they had won. They paraded around joyful, jubilant and smiling with their I voted stickers prominently displayed on their clothing. Joyful is an odd emotion for New Yorkers, so imagine my confusion.

There is no mystery that I am black. Black people are taught early, to never count on a sure thing. Suspicion should always be the first reaction, because the other shoe can and will drop. We can’t escape the world around us. We don’t have the luxury of being concerned one moment and then dropping it when we get too tired of fighting. Our lives and safety are directly effected. Most minorities understand this. With that said, as I was running my errands, it became eerily apparent, that I live in a white liberal bubble.

When I went to the post office, everyone was gleefully talking about voting for Hillary. A woman standing next to me in line told a postal worker that she had to get home to set up her victory party. I giggled. It was a nervous giggle. She paused and shot me a nasty look. Her look said, she was sure of her victory and how dare I penetrate her bubble.

Then Hillary lost. Everyone was stunned. I wasn’t stunned, I was sad. I ate Spaghetti Carbonara for two days and stayed off Facebook until Saturday. When I finally got back on Facebook, it had devolved into a misinformation highway. Misinformation coming from all sides. Indignant people spewing nonsense and yelling at each other.

It reminds me of my preparation skills in high school. I was often unprepared. Mrs Sweeney, my high school advisor, called me a “Big Dummy” at least once a week. She wasn’t being nasty. She wanted me to wake up and realize what I was doing to myself. I was wasting my potential by refusing to prepare, buckle down and learn. I am fairly confident, she would call all of us “Big Dummies” right now.  We need Mrs Sweeney more than ever, but unfortunately she passed away.

So in her honor, I have decided to offer a service on this blog. I am going to address some of the misinformation I see being bandied about on Facebook. I am going to burst bubbles and it might make people uncomfortable, but I am only dealing in facts.

I will start with myself. I was one of the dummies who posted the bison at the Dakota pipeline. The story was they magically appeared. Like Indigenous people have some special communication with Bison. The real story is the bison were released on purpose. Still cool that the bison were part of the resistance, but not completely truthful. I got lazy that day.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/bison-buffalo-dakota-pipeline_us_5814d37de4b0390e69d0987c

Other dummies are posting that President Obama never won the popular vote. In fact he won it both times.

In 2008 Obama beat McCain by 9,550,153 votes

http://www.fec.gov/pubrec/fe2008/federalelections2008.pdf

In 2012 Obama beat Romney by 4,982,291 votes. Not as much as in 2008, but still decisive.

 http://www.fec.gov/pubrec/fe2012/federalelections2012.pdf

The 2000 election between Gore and Bush was the last time someone  won the popular vote and failed to secure the electoral college. Gore won the popular vote by 543,895.

http://www.fec.gov/pubrec/fe2000/prespop.htm

Bonus: I have heard some of my fellow dummies in New York proclaim that they are safe from all this division. 

Woman gets punched in the face by Trump supporter in Brooklyn restaurant for disagreeing with his views.

http://gothamist.com/2016/11/14/bar_tabac_trump_supporter_attack.php

Welp, your bubble is has just been compromised. Time to mobilize.

Saturday Night Fever……

What do these three things have in common, furniture found on the street, food on the verge of going bad and a pratfall?

Don’t worry, I’ll tell you.

My weekly food planning strategy is stupid at best. I always eat whatever takes the least effort first, this is also  the stuff that takes longer to rot. So my strategy is really abject laziness, procrastination and counterintuitive behavior. Last week I ate sweet potatoes for three days in a row. Then I ate the vegetables that I could stir fry quickly red peppers, onions and mushrooms, while the butternut squash and broccoli sat in the refrigerator getting old. I am too lazy to roast broccoli. I should win an award for that.

I got up Saturday morning and realized I was on the verge of wasting a bunch of food. So, naturally I started cooking immediately. Hahaha, don’t be silly… I cleaned the house, washed my hair and wrote. Then I tried to take an online class on SEO.  The class was so boring, my ADD kicked into high gear. When I snapped to, I found myself in a trance watching early 80’s music videos. The SEO video was still playing in the background.

And it’s 11:30pm

Cooking, I must get to cooking.

I started by making rice, because I was having stir fry for dinner. Then I sautéed the vegetables for the butternut squash soup. Eventually, I threw all the ingredients for the soup in the crock pot and turned it on.

I used a new recipe for the biscuits. It didn’t really work, but I ate five of them right of the oven. No need for stir fry any more.

Then I got a genius idea for the roasted broccoli. I would make a spice rub for it. I started toasting the Kashmiri chili and salt.  I threw in the garlic for a quick second. I should of watched it, but I wandered over to the linen closet to get a kitchen towel. It started to smoke. I ran over and turned off the stove. Then I ran to the other side of the kitchen jumped on the chair to open the window. I struggled for awhile, but I finally got it open. When I went to dismount from the chair, the chair wobbled, because I found it on the street and it’s not really stable. It just looks nice. So instead of sticking my landing, I fell flat on my side. 1:30 in the morning, lying on the ground stunned and it’s still smokey. I don’t want the alarm to go off, so I jump up and turn on the air conditioner.

I sit for a minute on the couch, contemplating whether I want to continue or give up. I need to take an Advil, the fall will not go unpunished.

I eventually persevere, rub the broccoli with the spice rub and put it in the oven. It’s very late, so naturally I call Anand. We play phone tag, because my phone has been unable to receive phone calls. I turn off the air conditioner, because it’s too loud and it’s October. Anand and I finally catch each other. Then….

Fire, Fire, Fire the fire alarm calls out in a calm slightly English accent. Its affected really. If a fire alarm is going to talk I want it to scream in shrill tones. FIREEEEEEEE!!!! I guess it’s better to get the weirdly calm English lady at 2am.

Smoke poured from the oven, because I put the broccoli on wax paper, because I didn’t want to wash the cookie sheet. Now, I am the asshole cooking at 2am. My neighbors must think I am drunk, but the broccoli was amazing.

1 Head of Broccoli

2 TBSP of Kashmiri Chili Powder

2 Cloves of Garlic Minced

Sea Salt

Olive Oil

Pre heat oven to 425. Wash broccoli and cut end off. (Don’t buy broccoli florets.) You want to cut the head of broccoli into long florets, like two inches long. Chop the garlic. Get a small skillet, put the Kashmiri chili powder and salt in the dry skillet on low. Toss the chili and salt around the skillet to release the oils. It only needs a couple of minutes and you need to babysit it. Then throw in the garlic, cook just so it becomes warm and then pour in olive oil. You need enough oil to make a slightly runny paste.

I am lazy and don’t like to wash dishes, so I pour the paste on my cookie sheet and toss the broccoli in the spice mixture with my hands. You can do it in a bowl with utensils, but if you do it my way, do not put your hands anyway near your face until you wash them thoroughly. Put the broccoli in the oven for 20 minutes or so. You want the broccoli still crunchy, with a little char. Eat with your hands. If it’s too spicy dip the broccoli in some Greek yogurt.

The Exes Week

I have a fair number of exes. At my age, unmarried and living in NYC, it’s pretty standard. What may not be so standard is my exes return again and again. They usually drop back into my life, in groups of three, in the span of one week. I like to call it what’s old is new again, disaster town or crawl into my hole and wait for next week. Since it happens pretty frequently, I should be used to it, but it stuns me every time. It’s Monday and this week is “The Exes Week.”

The first one arrived last night. L and I started as friends. He has always been there for me, but the age difference is too great. We are in different places in life, always have been and probably always will be. L actually saved me from J. Funny how their names are alphabetical. Anyway, L came back last night, we had dinner. Talked about what’s been going on in our lives and had a wonderful time. We never really ended our relationship. We just stopped seeing each other. He left last night and we promised to keep in better contact. The first ex that contacts is usually the nice one. The one I don’t mind seeing. It lulls me into a false sense of complacency.

The second ex who contacts, is always a disaster. A Sonic Boom. I got on Facebook after L left. When will I learn? There in my Facebook inbox was J.  J and I parted horribly. I will leave out the details, but it wasn’t pretty and was part of my horrible year last year. To say I never want to see or hear from him again is an understatement and yet there he was in my inbox. Not really the inbox, he was filtered into the other box. I ignored him, because nothing good will come from us speaking.

I went to bed last night and dreamt of Justin Bieber. I never dated Justin Bieber or anyone that looks like him. I don’t even listen to Justin Bieber’s music. Is it a sign? I don’t know. The only thing I can predict about exes week is that there will be three. So this week, I will sit and fret and think of all the possibilities. What if exes week is going alphabetical?What if it is going chronologically backwards which would explain explain L then J. Either way all signs point to O.  O and I haven’t spoken in a couple of months, by my choice. I am bracing myself for impact and hope the universe is kind. Maybe Justin Bieber will appear instead.

Out of Shape

Move you’ve got to move, move. Run, Run, Run!!!

I am admittedly out of shape. Ten years in a high stress newsroom with an unlimited candy supply has made me a little soft around the edges. Also, in my former neighborhood, I had an addiction to cabs. My cab rides became a social thing, as I became friendly with the drivers. It was a way of keeping my hand on the pulse of the neighborhood. This is what I told myself anyway.

When I left the job in May, I decided I was going to be a little less soft around the edges. My current neighborhood is perfect place to tone up. In Washington Heights everything is either up or down a hill. My little legs were going to be tone in no time. Well, maybe not no time. The first week away from the job I went out to get groceries and as I was hauling them back up the hill, an old woman with a walker threatened to pass me. I wasn’t having it, so I sped up and lapped her. I am not going to be fitness shamed by an octogenarian with a walker. Petty…

Unlike my candy addiction, my fitness goals are not something I stick to. I have weeks I walk everyday and other weeks I sit on my couch ordering mofongo. As I sit in my shameful, carbed out coma, I promise tomorrow will be better and then it isn’t.

The other day, I was rushing to get to the post office before it closed. I still haven’t conquered my lateness, so I got a Lyft down the hill. The only way I could justify taking a cab, was to promise myself that I had to walk the long way home through Fort Tryon Park. I made it to the post office with just two minutes to spare, but I made it, handled my business. As I was leaving the post office, I looked longingly at the short cut and then I made myself cross the street towards the park.

Once at the park, there is an easy route and one that is basically like climbing Mount Everest. I decided to take Mount Everest. Fitness will be mine!!!! As I am climbing, I pass two teenagers making out. They stop and stare because I am breathing heavily and sweating profusely. I hadn’t even come to the first fork in the path and I wanted to quit. I kept going, sweating and cursing under my breath.

A few minutes later, I reach the first fork. I pause and pretend I am not sure which way to go. I put on my confused face, so if I encounter anyone, they will think, “Oh, she’s lost.” Not, “Oh the little beggar is out of shape.”  I regain my breath, a little, and continue. My heavy breathing starts back up as the incline gets increasingly sharp. My body is contorted into a 45 degree angle as I climb. I see a man in his 60’s power walking down the hill in an 80’s parachute track suit.  Clearly he is in better shape than I and is smiling as he power walks. My face looks like someone is beating me. As we get close to each other, he says.

Man: MOVE! You’ve got to move, move.

He marches in place as he shouts words of encouragement. I am embarrassed obviously. My charade is blown. My own personal charade, no one else was fooled.

Me: I am going

Man: Run Run!!!!

Me:Yes got it.

His encouragement is annoying now, so I haul ass up the rest of the hill. I hear him screaming Move, Move as I turn the corner. I guess his plan worked. He embarrassed me enough, that I ran up the hill. I almost collapsed at the top, but I didn’t.

I walked the rest of the way home, slowly. As a reward for my efforts, I ordered mofongo. This fitness thing may never be mine.

 

Bonnet and Frank’s

I haven’t been the most gracious about my new neighborhood. Most of my surliness comes from being overworked and feeling out of place. My opinion has drastically changed since I left my job and started roaming around during the middle of the day. I discovered that’s when the neighborhood comes alive.

Last week at Frank’s grocery store, I got caught in some drama. As I walked through the sliding door, I saw all the signs of a hot mess. There was an ancient woman in a woolen bonnet (average temp last week was 95 degrees) swinging a metal medical cane at the pastries on the top shelf. Pastries were raining down on the shelves behind. Boom, Scrape, Boom, Boom!

The entrance to Frank’s is really tight, so the cane was coming perilously close to my head every time Bonnet swung back. Her shopping cart was blocking the path, so no one else’s cart could pass through. I froze, because I knew I couldn’t help or get past her. I was also completely fascinated. I just stood there, with my mouth open, as Bonnet destroyed the display. I tried to catch the eye of the cashiers on the other side, but they were too busy. After a minute or so of pastry carnage, two women came in the store. One of them realized the damage Bonnet was doing and offered her help.

Good Citizen: Let me help you. What are you looking for?

Bonnet: I want to see all of them. (She continued to whacking her cane at the shelf.)

Good Citizen: But what kind do you want?

Bonnet: I want to see all of them. (Screaming) I want you to bring every piece down and show it to me.

If you are wondering, I am still standing there with my mouth open. I hear the sliding door open behind me. A woman was standing just outside the door with a 6 month old on her hip. I looked back at her and nodded. 

Me: Do you want to get by?

Baby Lady: (shrugs) I need a cart. There is nowhere to go.

Me: I’ll move over there.

I pointed to the area behind Bonnet’s cart.

Baby Lady:We’re ok.

Me: Well at least you will be able to get in the air conditioning. (It was a very humid day.)

I squeezed past Bonnet’s cart while she was busy with Good Citizen. The Lady and her baby took my spot.

Good Citizen: How about one of these?

(The good citizen brings down three)

Bonnet: No, no, no!

(The good citizen puts back the first three and brings three more down.)

Good Citizen: Ok, what about these?

Bonnet: No!!!!! (Screaming and banging her cane on the ground.) I want to see the ones in the back.

Good Citizen:Give me a break lady!

Bonnet: I want to see all of them!!!!!!!! (Still banging her cane on the ground.)

Good Citizen: You are a miserable, nasty lady. I am done. I’m DONE!

Good Citizen stormed past me and the two staff members who had just arrived to help.  One of them was picking up the rubble from “Tornado Bonnet” and the other went around to help her get the right pastry. The baby lady had enough and stuck her baby in a cart. She tried to push it through the tiny opening between Bonnet’s cart and the fruit, but she couldn’t.

Staff Member: Ma’am, I am just going to roll your cart away for a minute.

Bonnet: You will not. I want it there. Leave it there!!! (Banging her cane on the ground again.)

Staff Member: Well we can just roll it right back.

Bonnet: Leave it! I want it right there.

While the staff member had Bonnet’s attention, I took the opportunity to move her cart back so Baby Lady could get through. Bonnet sensed her cart move just as Baby Lady was pulling through the newly freed space.

Bonnet: Don’t move my cart! I want it right there!!!

Me: Lady, I have been waiting here for fifteen minutes. I am going to go get a cart and push it through.

The second employee took Bonnet’s cart from me and kept it to the side, so I could get a cart. I passed Bonnet and moved quickly down the aisle, happy to get a little space between us. I ran into Good Citizen in the middle of the produce aisle. She turned around holding her face. I could tell she was exhausted from her encounter with Bonnet.

Good Citizen: That was awful.

Me: Yes, it was.

Good Citizen: She was so nasty.

Me: She is still yelling over there. 

Good Citizen was standing directly in front of the limes. The limes were on the top shelf, out of my reach and the main reason I came to the store. I didn’t want to ask for help. I don’t really like to ask for help and Good Citizen had been through a lot. So, I stood there looking in the direction of the limes (like a weirdo) and then she asked.

Good Citizen: Do you need something.

Me: Yes, um could you grab two limes for me?

Good Citizen: Sure, how do you want them? Sort of hard but not too hard?

Me: Yes, that’s perfect.

She picked out two limes and then we walked down the aisle together. We got to the meat section and she turned to me.

Good Citizen: I used to see her in Gideon’s (The Kosher Bakery across the street).

Me: Oh…

Good Citizen: You know Gideon’s closed.

Me: Right

Good Citizen: That’s where she got her pastries.

Me: And she could see of all of them and point to which one she wanted.

Good Citizen: Yes

Suddenly, I started to feel bad for Bonnet. Her neighborhood is changing and she is too old to adjust. I am going to guess Bonnet was never the most reasonable individual, but the pastries are just a symbol of her frustration. It must be awful to feel like your world is gone and you are too tired to learn the new. You slowly lose your independence.  All you want is the what you want, nothing extravagant, just the ability to choose. Gentrification is not just about money and race. It’s also about age.

Coping Skills

I haven’t been riding the subway much, during my sabbatical. In some ways, I have become a suburbanite. I stick to my neighborhood. There are places to get food and a really great park to watch the sunset. It’s not that I am avoiding the subway, it’s just not something that occurs in my daily life now. Yesterday, I had the pleasure of riding it to midtown and my coping skills were tested.

All New Yorkers have a very developed set of coping skills. This life isn’t normal. There’s the rotting trash in the summer. The overcrowded subways with people with questionable hygiene. Hauling food and furniture on the subway, because it seems like too much of a hassle to rent a car. This life is not for everyone, so you develop the skills or you leave.

My subway stop is two stops from the end of the A line. It’s pretty rare that I don’t get a seat, especially during non-peak hours. Yesterday was no different. I sat by the window, the seat next to me was open. It remained open for three stops and then a man forcefully plopped down next to me. All seemed fine until the doors closed and it began.

Nigga, Nigga, Nigga, why you lookin at me?

Nigga, why you lookin, step back Nigga.

There was no one near him except for me and I was staring forward.  When someone starts screaming, the NY thing to do is to go on lockdown. Don’t make eye contact, don’t acknowledge you hear anything, put your sunglasses on if you need to. It’s our version of closing our eyes, putting our fingers in our ears and screaming “La, la, la, la, la, I can’t hear you.” There is a reason the transit system’s motto is “If you see something, say something.” We have to be reminded to get out of our cocoons.

Try me Nigga!

It is still unclear who he is talking to. No one is engaged. I scan the car to see if he is actually addressing someone and I don’t see any acknowledgment from my fellow hostages. I say hostage because we are on an express train and relief is delayed. Also, if you acknowledge by getting up and walking away, you run the risk of becoming the target. I decide I need to see what my seatmate looks like. I quickly glance to my right. My seatmate is a Latino man in his 30’s, wearing dark sunglasses.  Despite the big sunglasses, I can see a star tattoo near his eye peeking from behind. That’s all the information, I could gather in my 20-second scan. I turn back and face forward. He didn’t notice me.

Nigga, you want to hold me. Hold me down like Rodney King. Try me Nigga. TRY….. ME….

Girl Power Nigga!

Girl Power….

Fuck that shit Nigga!

We reach the next stop and a woman tried to sit in the seat in front of us. Our subway kidnapper slams his feet on the seat as she is about to sit down. The woman quickly scoots to the seat next to it.

Nigga naw, naw Nigga!

He continues ranting and I keep my music on full blast, but I can still hear Nigga being thrown around.

The woman gets off at the next stop. The doors stay open for a while and she stands on the platform. It becomes clear to me she got off because of my seatmate. My seatmate is still ranting shifts towards me in the seat and then screams “Fat Bitch.” I assume he was talking to me, but I ignore and then he slams his foot on the seat in front of us and takes his shoe off. He starts wiggling his sockless foot around on the seat and pointing it at the man two seats from us. Everyone is still ignoring.  As you can see from the picture above, no one is acknowledging him. That’s his knee. Look at the people across the train. Most have their eyes closed. I can assure you they aren’t sleeping. That’s a coping mechanism.

I snuck the picture. I couldn’t get one of his face. I am a journalist, but I am no Christiane Amanpour and getting a picture of his face seemed one step too close to danger. My stop was the next stop, but the time in between 125 and 59th street is at least 8-9 minutes. I hold my breath and hope I can make it. Then I realize, I have to ask him to move his leg, so I can get off. How will I accomplish this? We pass 72nd street and I brace myself. My stop is next. Will I have to talk to him? Will he rage out.

We reach 59th street, I stand up and miraculously as the door opens my kidnapper puts his leg down and releases me. I run out of the car before he changes his mind. The car quickly fills up with more unsuspecting hostages. I turn around and wish them luck as the train leaves the station.