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Prince and Me

On my eighth birthday, my brother bought me my first grown up record, Prince’s Purple Rain. Chris being five years older was my style and pop culture guru. I remember opening the magical record and immediately running upstairs to play it. I played it over and over again for weeks. That is until Darling Nikki came on during Saturday morning chore time. Over the roar of the vacuum, my father clued in to the lyrics. Let’s just say it didn’t go well.

Dad: What is that filth!!!!

Me: It’s my birthday present from Chris. (Wrong Answer)

Dad: Chris! Why would you buy that filth for your sister?

Chris: It’s just Prince.

Dad: Turn it off immediately!

I was too young and sheltered to understand what Prince was singing. My brother was too. Strangely, my father never took the record away. So, I went into hiding and played it when he wasn’t home. I was pretty adept at hiding contraband media. I watched Good Times and What’s Happening everyday, despite both shows being banned from our home.

Prince became an obsession of mine. He was so weird and small. I was always weird and small. He fascinated me with his confidence in his weirdness. I was always a bit of an outsider for various reasons and I felt like Prince was too. The next summer my Aunt Lucy invited me to visit her in Minneapolis. Prince was from Minneapolis, maybe I would see him. Maybe we would dance together.

Aunt Lucy planned a full week. She even found me a buddy. Shitona is the daughter of my Aunt’s friend Sharon. She was 12 and I was 8 and although our age difference was huge in kid years, we had a lot of fun swimming, going out to eat and canoeing.

The big excursion for the week was a trip to the amusement park. We were going as a big group with Angelique’s daughter Brooke. Angelique was another one of my Aunt’s friends. On our way to their house, my Aunt told us that Angelique’s boyfriend was the drummer in one of Prince’s protegé bands. He was driving us to the park. I didn’t know what to do with that information. It was overload. Too much. I would be 1 degree away from Prince. Shitona didn’t seem fazed with this new information. I guess growing up in Minneapolis Prince doesn’t faze you.

When we got to the house, I was nervous. I wanted my questions answered, but I tried to play it cool. Eventually I just asked about the band and Angelique showed me a copy of her boyfriend’s album. They were all dressed in fluorescent spandex. This really seemed promising.

Brooke and Shitona hit it off immediately. They sort of excluded me. Shitona was fascinated by Brooke and ready to drop me. Now, I was too young for her taste. I didn’t care, the drummer was coming with us. I tried to ask Brooke about him, but she just rolled her eyes. I didn’t care. He knew Prince, so how bad could he be. I was about to find out. The drummer finally showed up. I was less than impressed and Brooke was making fun of his outfit, almost to his face.  To be fair, she was right. He had a curly mullet, was wearing white jazz shoes, white nylon dress socks, red and white striped very short running shorts and a mesh tank top. With one look at this outfit, I had a hard time believing Prince hung out with this dude. 

Prince is not hanging out with jazz shoes.

Prince wears interesting costumes, but jazz shoes and white dress socks are not something he would approve of.  Anyway we got in Jazz Shoes gangster door, white sedan and drove to the park. When we got to the park, Brooke, Shitona and some of Brooke’s friends ditched. I was left with my Aunt and Jazz Shoes. I was embarrassed, not because the older girls ditched me, but because I was with a guy that knew my musical idol and he was wearing jazz shoes. The indignity of walking around an amusement park with a guy dressed like a reject from an Olivia Newton John video still burns decades later. What’s worse is he wouldn’t answer my questions about Prince. He seemed annoyed if I even mentioned his name. I got nothing for my embarrassment. 

It was a hard lesson to learn at eight. Even Prince has poorly dressed nerdy friends.

The Lion King of 190th

I miss my old neighborhood. I am really homesick for Bed Stuy. It’s fall and the trees on Jefferson Ave are gold and red. The street lights illuminate them in a way that makes the leaves look like twinkle lights.

Twinkle Trees Bed Stuy Trees

The sun as it’s setting lights up the brownstones in such a magical way. But all that beauty can’t match, the beauty in the people who live there.

Brownstones

I desperately miss the people. They grounded me. I used to be just a stoop away from a surrogate mother. In Bed Stuy, I was never alone and that may have hindered my writing. When I was procrastinating, it was really easy to sit on the stoop and chat the evening away with Miss Barbara. When I was feeling ugly, I would walk to the Bodega.  One of the old men who hung out at the candy store next to the Bodega would tell me how beautiful I was. It’s like they knew exactly what I needed when I needed it. A whole house of my best friends was around the corner. I may have not seen them every weekend, but they were right there.

The new neighborhood is not built to be communal in the same way. It’s more like the burbs. We know our neighbors to say hi, but have no idea what is happening in each other’s lives. If I don’t go to the grocery store, I may not speak to another human in the flesh for an entire weekend. During difficult times, it’s really lonely.

That’s why Bubakar has become such an important person in my life. Bubakar sells newspapers at the intersection of the elevators and the ramp at the 190th street subway station. It’s the perfect place to sell papers and to greet everyone on their way to work. When I get off the elevator, he says “Good Morning” with the biggest smile. He is missing one of his front teeth, but it doesn’t take away from his beauty. He’s probably in his late 50’s, with perfect dark brown skin.  His booming voice sounds like James Earl Jones in the Lion King.    

When I get off the elevator, he yells “run” if the train is on its way or if I just missed a train, I am met with “Don’t Rush.” On the days when I don’t have to rush, we chit chat a bit and he gives me a damaged paper for free.  As I am walking away, no matter if I am running or had to time to stop for a chat he screams “Have a nice day,” as I am walking away. It’s the best way to be greeted in the morning. I hate the mornings when I don’t see him.

India pt.1

India has 28 states with 22 official languages and 758 non-official languages. The food differs across states, religions and regions. It’s cuisine is as diverse as it’s people. I had the fortune to grow up with the traditional foods of Kerala, a state in the southwest corner of the Indian peninsula.  My other mother is from Kerala.  From birth to seven my other family, The Drs Berger (Sosamma and Nate) and their children lived next door. The two families were more like one big family. There were five children between the two houses (Chris, Josh, Ravi, Me and Sarina).  The youngest three (Me, Sarina and Ravi) were inseparable.  We spent our days running in and out of the two houses, tearing across the lawns and generally being nuisances to our older brothers.  When meal time arrived, we sat down at the nearest table and were fed. I spent a good portion of my early childhood eating Southern Indian food.  Sambar, Pappadums, vadas too many dishes to name.  Vadas were always a favorite snack of mine.  It’s a south Indian fritter that can be made from lentils, chickpeas or yellow pigeon peas. There are at least a dozen types of vadas, but I grew up on Parippu vadas.  They are made from yellow pigeon peas, chiles and spices.  Spicy, crispy and comforting, they are the perfect snack after a hard day of playing.

When I was seven the Bergers moved to Cleveland.  It was a total heartbreak for everyone, but we kept in touch.  So much so, that when Sarina and I were twelve, Dr. Berger asked my parents if she could take me to India for summer vacation. My parents agreed and that summer I was off on the biggest adventure of my life. When we landed in Mumbai, my brain went on overload.  The traffic was insane, the poverty intense and the beauty was overwhelming.  Nothing in my short life prepared me for this.

The food was also an adjustment.  My morning cereal came with goat’s milk and hamburgers were made of lamb.  It was just different.   Although I spent the first part of my childhood eating traditional Southern Indian fare, that did not prepare me for the food in Mumbai.  Our first night we went to a fancy restaurant with family.   I had no idea what was coming, but then the waiters arrived with two brightly orange colored chickens. I learned very quickly the magic of butter chicken.  The taste was so heavenly, Sarina and I each ate an entire chicken a piece. We spent the next three days going to sari palaces, dressmakers and taking in the sights.

We flew to Cochin in Kerala the morning of our fourth day.  Uncle Kunjappan met us at the airport and drove us three hours to their village.  Along the way, I watched the landscape change from jungle to village to red rock and back again.  The Keralan countryside was everything Mumbai was not, quiet and peaceful, but as we traveled deeper into the countryside, I felt like we were getting farther and farther from everything I recognized.  We arrived at Uncle Kunjappan’s house in the late afternoon.  It was a mid century dream nestled among the rubber trees and a flowing river that ran past the property.  Sarina and I shared a room on the main floor that opened onto the indoor pool.  The whole house was open, birds flew in and out freely and at night lizards ran on the walls and ceilings. When Sarina and I were bored, we chose lizards and pretended they were in a race.

The first night Isaac, the cook, made a traditional American meal to greet us.  Pot Roast, french fries and mixed vegetables.  I was a little homesick, so it was a welcome taste from home.

We spent the next three weeks hanging with Appachan Sarina’s 100 year old Grandpa.  He didn’t speak much English and we didn’t speak any Malayalam, but we communicated in other ways, mostly through food and physical comedy.   He insisted that we learn how to eat with our hand.  By the end of our visit, we were masters.

We spent the rest of our time, visiting family.  Uncle Johnny and Aunt Mary, Uncle George and too many cousins to mention.  Every time we went to a new house, a large platter of vadas greeted us.  Sometimes they also served banana fritters, but I wasn’t as concerned with those.  Vadas were my connection to home and to India all at the same time.  India changed my life and vadas were my connection to the two worlds.

 

Moving to the other side of the Earth

The best part of living in NYC is the people. If you aren’t meeting new people everyday, you are wasting your time here. When I move to a new neighborhood, part of my adjustment period is finding my regulars. The people I see everyday, that will become the foundation of my life. They become part of my routine, no matter how annoying. I have found a few in Washington Heights. There’s Rasputin and Amelia Earhart, the newspaper guy with the Lion King voice and Julio the Super.

I met Julio on one of my visits to measure my new apartment. I was walking back to the subway when he stopped me on the sidewalk. Julio is an attractive middle-aged man with a full head of silver-grey hair.

Julio: Habla espanol.
Me:Un poquito
Julio: Usted Dominicana?
Me: No

Now that I live in a Dominican area, everyone thinks I am Dominican. Unfortunately, my high school Spanish doesn’t get me very far. I get the sideeye more often than not, like I am letting my people down. I see the disgust in their faces. There is usually some awkward exchange where I try to explain that I am black from the midwest in broken Spanish.  Sometimes people believe me and sometimes they don’t, but that’s not the point of this story. Back to Julio.

Julio: My name is Julio. You live here now? I haven’t seen you around before.
Me: Almost, I am Cara.
Julio: Well, I am the super for this building right here.
Me: Ok great
Julio: Where do you live?
Me: Over there.  (I point down the hill, but without a definitive direction.)
Julio: Oh on Fort Washington?
Me: Yes, near there. (Which is the truth, but not really specific.)
Julio: Can I get your phone number? (Julio is very clearly wearing a wedding ring.)
Me: Oh I have a boyfriend
Julio: But we could just be friends (Friends=Booty Call)
Me: Um I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate me giving you my phone number. But it was lovely meeting you.
Julio: Oh,ok
Me: Bye
Julio: See you soon.

I walked away knowing that Julio was still staring at me and that we were going to have similar conversations in the future. I wasn’t wrong.

Three weeks after I moved in, I met Julio again.  I was rushing to the subway on my way to work, per usual. The garbage was lining the streets and the trash truck was slowly picking up all the old furniture and rotting trash from the weekend. I looked over and caught eyes with a portly black man in a building uniform.  I smiled and kept walking.  He ran over and stood in my path.

Derrick: Hi, I am Derrick
Me: Nice to meet you, I am Cara.

Then Julio ran up from out of nowhere and stood next to Derrick and then I realized what happened.  I had been trapped.  Derrick was sent by Julio to stop me until he could get there. Derrick is Julio’s assistant in the building as well as in trapping ladies on the street.

Julio:  Hi, remember me?  We met a couple of weeks ago.
Me: Yes, how are you?
(Derrick was standing there with a stupid grin on his face just staring at me.)
Julio: Great! You moved in?

Me: Yes, thank you. It was great seeing you.  I am a little late to work.
Julio: Well see you soon.

I ran down the block to the subway station and that little exchange caused me to miss the train. I watched as my dreams of being on time, pull out of the station.

This week I ran into Julio again.  I often wear my noise canceling headphones to block out the outside world. They are usually my protection.  I was almost at the entrance of subway when I felt someone next to me.  I looked to my left and Julio was walking with me trying to get my attention.  I jumped a little and took off my headphones.

Julio: I have been calling you.
Me: I can’t hear anything with these on.
Julio: Are you on your way to work?
Me: Yes
I kept walking, because I was really late. (Disclaimer:I had been working since 7am.)
Julio: Ok, I will catch you on the way back. When will you be back here?
Me: Oh 6 or 7.
Julio: Ok, well I will see you then.
Me: Ok

I get home at 8pm and had no intention of meeting Julio on the way back. But, I am sure I will see Julio a lot while I live here.

 

London, The Cleaners pt. 1

EastEndersDuring my junior year of college I lived abroad in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, South Kensington, London. Sounds fancy and it was, sort of. Princess Diana, lived at the end of my street, but we also had an elderly, semi-homeless drunk couple, who drank tall boys from brown paper bags on the steps of the neighborhood church. We never knew what their names were, but their terrier was named Tommy. The man screamed Tommeee, Tommey, Tommey in between swigs of beer. His wife was a sad woman, who often had black eyes.

Our section of South Kensington was also the foreign student ghetto. The block was full of townhouses converted into hostels, budget hotels and dorms. There were a few actual homes dotted in between. Lycee Francais Charles de Gaulle was down the street. Lourdes Leon was a student while we were there. We were hoping for a Madonna sighting, but all we got was Hugh Grant. Hugh Grant was a big deal then. He was the talk of the town. We heard rumors of him being nasty to fans, so we didn’t approach. We just whispered behind his back in the corner store, while he bought skittles.

My dorm was filled with the United Nations. The majority of the students were from Japan, but there were also students from Hong Kong, Bangladesh, Nigeria, Belarus, Russia, Jordan, Pakistan and us, the Americans. By the second month, it didn’t matter where we were from, we were all partying together.

Our second night in the dorm, the school hosted a meet and greet boozer. The Americans, Zohair and Maen went as a group to the party. I hadn’t been in London that long, but I was drunk for most of it.  This night was no exception. The alcohol flowed freely at the school sponsored function and we all got a bit rowdy, including the Dean.

The party ended at 9, but our crew wanted to continue the celebration so we walked back home with the addition of a straggler named Muhammed. Zohair had promised to let him sleep in his dorm room.  When we got home I went to my bedroom, which was right off the front hall. Muhammed followed me talking non-stop. Everyone else dispersed to their bedrooms to drop off their stuff, before we continued the party in my room. Let’s just say I got played. No one came back and Zohair conveniently locked Muhammad out of his room. Muhammed and I banged on Zohair and Maen’s door, but no one answered.  Which is how I ended up with a leather panted overnight guest, whom I barely knew.

Muhammed continued to talk non-stop. While he was rambling on, I laid my duvet on the floor, so he would have somewhere to sleep. Apparently, the threat of sleeping on the floor is the only thing that could get his attention. He immediately started complaining about his back and how he couldn’t sleep on the floor. His back would be a nightmare the next day… blah blah blah. I being the naïve girl said fine, you can share my bed.

In addition to his leather pants, Muhammed was also wearing a silk shirt and square toed boots. He was decked out in his 90’s finest.  It was a little too much, even for back then.

I made some ground rules for sleeping in my bed.  They are as follows.

1.  He had to take off the weird leather pants.

2. He had to sleep over the sheet, but could sleep under the duvet.

3. There would be no touching of any kind.

Muhammed took off his leather pants and his silk shirt, to reveal his tighty whities and wife beater undershirt. He turned out the lights, got into bed and almost immediately fell asleep. Muhammed snored so loud, the bed vibrated.  He was also not a restful sleeper, so I spent the night being shoved up against the wall. He rolled on top of me a couple times and I thought I was going to suffocate from the weight. He was a hefty kid. Frustrated, I kicked him hard in the back a couple of times, but he didn’t budge or skip a note of snoring.  I finally fell asleep as the sun was rising. About twenty minutes later, I awoke to a commotion in the hallway. There was a lot of screaming and banging and I didn’t recognize the voices. I also didn’t really care, I was exhausted. Muhammed was still snoring.  Suddenly, a tiny English woman who looked like she belonged on the cast of East Enders came bursting through the door screaming “Time to change your sheets.”  She had a cigarette hanging from her lips and a polyester dayglow smock over her clothes.  I kicked Muhammed in his back, trying to rouse him from his snoring slumber. He finally woke up startled and jumped out of the bed in his tighty whities.  She screamed “Cheeky Monkey” and wagged her arthritic veiny hand at me. Muhammed was trying to get his leather pants back on, but leather is not something you just jump into. It’s more of a grinding motion.  She continued with “I know what you were doing last night.”  I denied it, which only made her laugh harder. This was the beginning of my relationship with the cleaners at 86 Queensgate.

 

Too much Facebook leads to envy and depression

CNNMoney, New York, NY.

Constantly checking Facebook to see what your friends are doing could lead to some serious depression.

A recent study conducted by researchers at Nanyang Technological University, Bradley University and the University of Missouri Columbia found that heavy Facebook (FB, Tech30) users can experience envy — which can ultimately lead to extreme sadness.

The researchers surveyed 736 college students and found that, basically, if you quietly stalk your friends on Facebook and then realize that your life doesn’t measure up to theirs, you feel bad about yourself.

“If Facebook is used to see how well an acquaintance is doing financially or how happy an old friend is in his relationship — things that cause envy among users — use of the site can lead to feelings of depression,” said Margaret Duffy, a professor at the University of Missouri School of Journalism.

Read full article

The most ridiculous things people do to their company iPhones

CNNMoney, New York, NY.

Company phones are supposed to be a convenience for the employee and the employer.

They’re electronic leashes that bind people to their jobs no matter how hard or far they try to run — but they’re free smartphones that can save people thousands of dollars a year in wireless bills.

So, you would think that people wouldn’t care that much about the type of company phone they are issued. You would be wrong.

In my experience as an office administrator, I’ve found that people care a little too much. They worry about the color and the generation. Will they get the one with all the latest features? Can they upgrade early because the new model is cooler and fancier? Since the company is paying, cost is no object.

Read full article

Philadelphia: The Salad Dressing King

When Reuben and I settled in Northeast Philly, we had a local called Arugula.  They had great chicken cheesesteaks and cheap drinks.  It was a diner/bar at the bottom of a hill in the center of a three-way intersection.  They had cloth napkins, vinyl booths and a jukebox that seemed to be stuck on “Hey Nineteen” by Steely Dan.  You would find us there almost every evening drinking beers and chatting with the bartender, Tracy.  Tracy was a pretty woman with long bleach blond hair.  She is one of those women who is pretty in her youth, but because of smoking and drinking wasn’t going to age well.  She was thirty, which already seemed pretty old to me. I was 23.

One afternoon, I got off early from work and raced back to Northeast Philly. I got back too early to pick up Reuben from work.  My young dumb self rationalized it would be best to wait for him at Arugula. I mean, Reuben worked just up the hill from Arugula and who doesn’t love a little day drinking?  Home was an extra two minutes away and I had to pick him up in an hour, makes sense, right? Oh 23, dumb, dumb 23.

When I got there, Tracy greeted me with her normal enthusiastic “Hey!!!”, like I was Norm at Cheers. I ordered a pint of whatever was on special.  There was a man at the end of the bar who looked like a construction worker, his name was Gary. He had a perfect Fu Manchu and was wearing a t-shirt with no sleeves. The Fu Manchu has always been a popular choice in Philly.  This was the late 90’s, pre-hipster ironic facial hair. Gary was Tracy’s boyfriend. The three of us chatted it up, mostly about traffic.

About a half-hour later, the front door opened and an older gentleman walked in.  Tracy said, “Hey Morty!”  I had never seen him before.  I also had never been to Arugula at 3 pm on a Thursday. Morty was an older gentleman in his early to mid 70’s.  He was wearing pleated light blue Bermuda shorts, an elastic waisted shirt, white knee-high dress socks, dress shoes, and a straw fedora.  It was everything you would expect from an elderly man named Morty in Northeast Philly. He sat down and ordered a whiskey and we continued chit-chatting.  Eventually, Tracy and Gary broke off and were having a private conversation at the other end of the bar.   That left me and Morty to chat.  We talked about everything. I didn’t have much to say, I was 23 and answering the phones at a Medicaid HMO. Morty had a lot to say. He was divorced with two children. He referred to his ex-wife as “That Bitch.” It seemed a little harsh, but who am I to tell my elders how to speak. He also told me about his business. He, along with his brother, supplied the finest restaurants in Philadelphia with their salad dressing. Morty then referred to himself as the “Salad Dressing King of Philadelphia.” Then Morty started droning on about his new Cadillac.  He begged to go out and look. I knew he wouldn’t shut up until I looked, so I went to the front door and stared out the window. It was big and white and looked expensive. He started listing off its features, leather heated seats, sunroof, and a cd player. I pretended to be impressed.

The jukebox started playing Beat It. Tracy started singing and my attention went back to the bar. I was finally relieved from Cadillac talk. Tracy grabbed Morty’s fedora and did the Beat It dance behind the bar. Then Morty got up and did a little dance in front of the bar. It was a dance you might see a grandpa doing at a Bar Mitzvah. Morty really seemed to be enjoying the company, because he started buying the drinks. (SCORE)  I was having a great afternoon.  I got off work and I was drinking for free.  Life was grand at 23.  Tracy went back to Gary, so Morty and I were alone again.  He seemed to be getting drunk and started slurring his words.  I guess six whiskeys is a lot, what did I know.  We continued our chat, but Morty was making less and less sense. Then out of nowhere Morty leaned over and whispered

Morty: I want to take you to Jersey.
Me: Oh really, why? (I swear to you I was this innocent.)
Morty: I want to rent a hotel room and tie you up.
Me: Um……..Um…..

Morty smiled a very drunk horny smile.

I blurted out “I have a boyfriend!”

Morty’s face changed.  He was enraged.  The same venom with which he spoke about his wife, he leveled at me.

Morty: You are lying!!!!  (He was spitting and gesticulating.)
Me: I swear to you I am not. (I totally was.)

I yelled to Tracy and said, “Hey, don’t I have a boyfriend?”  Praying she would catch on. She did and said, “Yes, she does, they live together.”

Then Gary got in on the action and said: “Oh her boyfriend is so nice.”

Morty was screaming at me at this point about how I led him on. He paid his bill and stood at the door screaming some more. He called me a cock tease and a bitch among other things.  If he hadn’t been wearing orthopedic shoes and white dress socks, I might have been scared, but instead, I was just stunned.  I was nervously giggling. I didn’t think it was funny, but I was so shocked I was no longer in control.  I think it made him angrier, because Morty stormed off in his Bermuda shorts, but not before flipping me the bird.  This man looked like one of my Grandpa’s friends and he was calling me a cock tease.  How do you even process a grandpa calling you a cock tease? When the Donald Sterling scandal came out, I thought of Morty. He’d be in his 90’s now.

I Lied To You

When I was 18, I ran away from St. Louis.  I ran away from it’s racism.  I rarely spoke about it, when I was there.  Mainly because I knew what many of your reactions would be. “Don’t be silly.”  “That isn’t what is happening.”  “That’s not racist.”  “You aren’t like the others.”

I was the only black kid in my grade at Catholic school and one of four in my high school class.  It takes a lot for a kid to speak up when you are the only one.  I was already advocating for myself because of my height.  Speaking up about race was too much.  So, I lied to you and I am sorry for that.

I let the comments “You are cool for a black person.” and “You aren’t like the rest of them” go.  I didn’t know what to say.  It hurt.  They were little gut punches, but I kept it to myself.  I feared being ostracized and that wasn’t something I was willing to risk back then.

The one time I did speak up was in religion class at Nerinx.  We were getting ready for prom, which was being held on a river boat.  Our teacher asked how we were feeling about it.

A girl raised her hand and said

I am scared. We are going to be downtown, where the black people are. I am afraid I am going to get raped. My father said all black men want to sleep with white women.

Once again, I was the only black kid in that class.  I was sick to my stomach.  That girl was talking about my relatives.  I am sure she didn’t think it through and didn’t really mean it. But, never the less she was talking about my father, brother, cousins and uncles.  That is a lot for an afternoon religion class.  The teacher asked for comments from others, so we could discuss.  The teacher never addressed the racism.  She just left it hanging in the air.

I raised my hand. I was too upset to control myself and I said

My father and brother are both black men and they wouldn’t touch you with a 10 foot pole.

The teacher freaked out and said

Cara that isn’t constructive!

But, I was seventeen and that’s the best I could do.  The racism was still never addressed.

I went to Loyola in Chicago and it was better.  There were more black people and we could discuss the issues freely and openly in class. But, I still held my tongue in private, when my friends made comments about black people.

I didn’t start getting really honest with myself, until I moved to Bed Stuy five years ago.  I watched as the police pulled over my neighbors for walking down the street.  I watched as they questioned them, while their children stood next to them.  I sat with teenagers being held in the subway by police, because they are black.  Fifteen and fourteen year olds, on their way to school, but now they have the indignity of being frisked.  This is all before they reach their first class.  Imagine what that does to your psyche in high school.  I think it would be pretty hard to concentrate on your studies after that.  Bed Stuy has made it impossible for me to hide from the state of my people and I can no longer be quiet about it.

So, I will apologize for not being honest.  We are friends and I should have said something earlier.  I didn’t have the words or the courage.  I am saying it now and as a friend I hope you will accept my apology.

For those of you who say your children will never talk back to cops.

Ummm… Remember, I hung out with you and watched you talk back to cops. I saw you drinking underage, drunk driving, peeing in the street and smoking marijuana.  Some of these activities happened in junior high (and some as early as grade school.) I know you. Why would your children be above that, you weren’t? It’s part of growing up. I know I did my fair share of rabble rousing.

Sorry Mom and Dad.

For those of you who ask “Why protest in the mall and disrupt business? What does that do?”

Remember the Civil Rights movement.  Do you remember Rosa Parks? The boycott she started crippled the Montgomery municipal bus system.  We all think that’s pretty cool now. Well, why not now in St. Louis? Rosa Parks was a badass.  So are Amy Hunter and Antonio French.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montgomery_Bus_Boycott

Protesting peacefully in malls during Black Friday is fair game.  What point would it be to protest in a corner.  Social change is supposed to hurt. It’s like surgery to fix a ruptured tendon.  It’s messy and will get messier if left unattended.  You have to listen.

The black community is standing with an open wound and please if your next comment is “Well it’s their fault.”  Just don’t comment, until you read about the Jim Crow laws.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Crow_laws

and in St. Louis’ history

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shelley_v._Kraemer

http://www.stlmag.com/Mapping-the-Divide/

This is my neighbor who fought against blockbusting in University City.  His wife Joy and daughter Denise are still fighting for change.

http://www.stltoday.com/news/local/obituaries/larry-lieberman-dies-fought-block-busting-helped-delmar-loop/article_79382c7a-3578-5a70-bd53-8f9dde15dda7.html

After reading these articles, If you still think it’s all black people’s fault, you aren’t looking for change and your comments will not be constructive. Don’t bother.

Some black people’s reaction to injustice has not been constructive.

Rioting is not constructive, because it’s like depression; anger turned inwards. That doesn’t mean you get to shut down and pray that this one blows over quickly.

If someone is sick do you say,

“Oh well sucks to be you, it’s your fault.”

If a person says “Hey I don’t feel well?”

Do you say “Suck it up?”

I went to Catholic school with many of you and I have seen your Facebook posts about attending church.  Are you listening, when you go?  Or, are you tapping your foot, thinking about the doughnuts afterwards?  I am not going to lie, I think a lot about doughnuts, while in church.  But, I still remember the hours of religion class I spent with you learning about Jesus.  We were taught, Jesus was kind, forgiving and willing to lend a hand.  That’s what I remember from my years of religious education.   I also remember the annual Lenten Jesus Christ Superstar screening in grade school and giggling with you about the ridiculous clothing.  Weirdly, as an adult, I dress like I am in the touring production of JC Superstar.

This isn’t the time to talk about it.  

When, tell me when? Let’s make an appointment. I’ll show up, will you?

This isn’t how to go about it.  

How, tell me how?  Let’s have a discussion.

This doesn’t effect me.

Well, then we aren’t friends.  Because if my pain, isn’t yours, then you aren’t really a friend.

We are too young to be this closed minded.  The language some of us are using sounds like we were raised in the Jim Crow South.  WE WEREN’T!  WE ARE TOO YOUNG!  WHY ARE WE ACTING LIKE OLD PEOPLE?  We should be excited that America might finally have equality.  We should be joining in and figuring out how we can help.  This is exciting.  This is democracy.  You should be teaching your children about it.  This is how we keep moving. PROGRESS

When you decide you want to talk about it and realize that my pain is yours, I will be waiting right here.  I have known you for years, this is personal to me.  You should respect and validate my feelings.  They are my feelings, they can’t be wrong.  Note: I didn’t say opinion, I said feelings.

Holy Hate Speech Hannah


Her name is Hate Speech Hannah.  I met her over a year ago on my way to work.  When I got to the bottom of the station stairs, there was a train at the subway.  I had to catch it, because if I missed it, it might mean another fifteen minutes before the next one and I would be late. A train service is spotty at best.  So, I ran through the turnstiles and onto the crowded subway car.  My success turned into a loss as soon as the door closed.  There was a woman screaming, in the middle of the car.  I could tell where the sound was coming from, but I couldn’t see her.  I plugged my headphones into my phone and then the screen went black.  The battery was dead and I was trapped listening to the screaming.  I began to pray and the crowd shifted.  I got my first view of Hannah.  An older middle aged woman with soft features.   Her hair held in a net to keep the wash and set in tact.  She was dressed like a nice old lady; fashion bug sweater, polyester ankle length skirt and sensible shoes. If she wasn’t screaming hate, you might look at her and think “Oh what a nice lady.”

Hannah’s preaching (screaming) quickly turned to gay people and how we must repent for giving them the right to get married.  “Marriage is between one man and one woman, we will have hell to pay for this, because the bible tells me so.”  I began quietly praying (begging) she would get off at the next stop. She didn’t.  She got more aggressive with her rants, spitting and sweating while beating her hand on her bible.  The whole car was collectively groaning.  One poor lady became completely frazzled because Hannah was screaming and sweating right in her face as she attempted to study for her morning exam.  I couldn’t take it any more, so I lost my cool and started yelling back “Shut Up.”  Hannah was initially stunned silent, then the anger washed over her face. Indignant, that anyone would question her right to preach the “word,” she rebuked me and screamed louder. I continued to interrupt her sermon with “No one cares and please stop screaming hate.”  The other passengers didn’t quite know what to do.  Hannah rebuked me again.  “I rebuke you, I rebuke you, in Jesus’ name I rebuke you,” so I took her picture.  Hannah turned around, so I couldn’t get a picture of her face.  That actually took the pressure off the young lady trying to study, because Hannah’s butt instead of her mouth was now facing her.

Hannah continued to scream her hate, twenty minutes into my ride.  I stopped interrupting her as much, until a young man got on the train and started his own campaign to rid the car of Hannah’s sermon.  He screamed back at her to “Please knock it off.”  Reinvigorated, I started tag teaming with him.  We had a little movement going.  Others joined in.  Hannah was suddenly outnumbered and she didn’t like it.  Her voice went hoarse.  She was defeated and she knew it. Hannah got off at the next stop, but not before she rebuked me again.  I smiled and waved at her as the subway doors closed.

Yesterday, I got on the train and guess who was there, that’s right, my old friend Hannah.  She was still screaming hate, but it was muffled by the sweet sounds of Jamiroquai coming from my headphones.  I grabbed the pole in front of an older lady.   The lady had had it with Hannah (she didn’t have headphones.)  Frustrated, she started screaming back at Hannah.

“Listen, I read the bible.  What you are saying is nonsense.  Love thy neighbor is what it says.”

Then the old lady turned to me and said

“Some people read the bible, but they don’t understand it, she needs to make a prayer closet and go in it when she feels this nonsense coming on.”

The old lady continued screaming at Hannah. Realizing she had already lost the car, Hannah got off at the next stop.  If you see her in your travels, tell her the rebuked says “Hello!”

Miss Barbara

This morning I was leaving for work and Miss Barbara, my next door neighbor, was sweeping the sidewalk as is her regular routine.  Miss Barbara is the block holder of the gossip, the car watcher and the child corrector. Cars are never stolen on our block. The teenage boys fear her because she karate chopped one in the neck and kicked him down the stairs, when he threatened to steal her purse.  She is 98 pounds, 69 years old and a lean mean fighting machine.  She is the eyes, ears and muscle of our block.  You want to know something, you go to Miss Barbara.  This morning she greeted me as she normally does.

Miss Barbara: Hey Baby

Me: Hi Miss Barbara, how are you this morning?

Miss Barbara: I am fine, it’s going to be a hot one.

Me: Yes it is

Miss Barbara: Do you see that lady over there?

I immediately know this is going to be good. Miss Barbara directs her eyes down the block to a middle age woman who is larger than your average lady.  Definitely full-figured.  The woman is wearing a T-Shirt that just covers her bottom and it looks like she isn’t wearing shorts.

Me: Yes
Miss Barbara: Don’t you know she left out of here yesterday in nothing but a pair of panties and a T-shirt tied up to her waist.  Going to the show over there. (West Indian Day Parade)
Me: No
Miss Barbara: I tell you the truth she did.  It was ridiculous.

I tell Miss Barbara Goodbye, while giggling a little.  Miss Barbara was giggling too.  She always tells it like it is.  I look forward to my conversations with Miss Barbara everyday.  I get a little dose of home every time I talk to her.