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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!”

My life as a little person

CNN, New York, NY.

Cara Reedy says she has learned to stop internalizing her anger and to direct it outward.

From the moment I was born, people around me were saying, “Oh, God.”

The nurse exclaimed it when I finally arrived, a month late (a habit I have kept). That’s how my parents found out that I was a little person, a dwarf, of short stature. They were shocked and upset, knowing that my life would be hard. My maternal grandfather told my mother, “I don’t care how tall she is, she’s my first granddaughter, and she’s pretty. ”

They didn’t find out I had achondroplastic dwarfism until a few months later. “Achondroplasia” is a word that haunted me in my childhood. I never wanted to hear it. It wasn’t who I was. I was not different.

According to a 2009 report by Richard M. Pauli from the Midwest Regional Bone Dysplasia Clinics, achondroplasia happens 1 in every 25,000 births. It doesn’t really matter how often it happens, we happened, and we’re here.

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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.

Obsessions: Trinidadian doubles

CNN, New York, NY.

The Bedford Stuyvesant neighborhood in Brooklyn has been home to a vibrant Caribbean and African American community since the great migration of the twentieth century. African American people moved to northern states to escape the racial segregation of Jim Crow laws, while at the same time Caribbean people moved to New York for better employment opportunities. The slow Southern charm mixed with the warmth of the Caribbean people make it a neighborhood unlike any other.

When I arrived five years ago, I was a Caribbean food novice. I soon caught up and caught on to the wonderful flavors. My favorite discovery is doubles, a Trinidadian street food that is a Bed Stuy breakfast tradition.

Despite its plural name, a double is a singular sandwich made of two pieces of fried bread (bara) filled with curried chickpea stew (channa) and then topped with tamarind chutney, kuchela (chutney made of green mangoes) and pepper (a vinegary sauce made from scotch bonnet peppers).

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Swap Meet Rage

When I was six, I had my first bout with rage. I was made fun of pretty frequently by adults and children alike. My mother and father told me to just ignore it, keep walking, pretend you don't hear it. I became very skilled at keeping a straight face. My brother Chris, rarely ignored the taunting. His rage and physical brawn scared a lot of kids away. School was not so bad in the beginning.

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Semi-Professional Paparazzi

You may not believe it but the paparazzi struck again.  This time a professional, well a semi-professional, he has a business card (see above.)  I met Ken walking to the subway, one morning.  Morning punctuality is not a skill I will ever lay claim to, so I was rushing as always.  I was on the home stretch and in real danger of being on time and that’s when Ken’s SUV rolled up on me.  His car pulled up right next to me, but I kept moving with my head forward giving him the sideeye to check his distance.  (No one is going to make a Lifetime movie about me.)  Ken leaned out of his window, but I kept walking without acknowledging him.  Ken slowed down some more and started yelling Hey, Hey.  I kept my pace up and refused to look directly at him.
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My Paparazzi

Occasionally random people decide they must have a picture of me. It feels like I am being followed by paparazzi.  They appear out of nowhere with their phones, sometimes hiding behind poles, sometimes blatantly flashing in my face.  I assume they need the photos to show their friends, because I am not famous (yet.)  I don’t understand the compulsion to take pictures of me getting toilet paper at Walgreens or looking haggard on the subway.  But as my mother always says, there is no accounting for taste.
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Hungry for Home: Provel cheese

CNN, New York, NY.

When I moved to New York eleven years ago, I got a lot of blank stares when I told people I was from St. Louis. Some people would say genius things like “Oh right, you have that arch,” or my favorite, “I’ve been in the airport, is there anything in the city?”

People went out of their way to tell me I spoke weirdly. Cab drivers consistently tried to take me on long rides around the city, thinking I was a tourist. I got really homesick after six months.

To cheer myself up I decided to make a St. Louis-style, crisp-crust, square-sliced pizza. I went to my local grocery store to buy supplies. They had everything I needed except the most important ingredient, Provel cheese.

Provel is a little hard to describe. It’s processed, gooey, a little smoky and when heated is takes on the qualities of molten lava. It’s really just delicious and it tastes like home.

I looked all around the store, but there was none to be found. My neighborhood market was never that well stocked, so I had the brilliant idea of going to the fancy grocery store. Their cheese selection was amazing; of course they would have it. I ran up the street knowing I was that much closer to achieving my goal.

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The Other One

I share my body with another person.  Well, she’s actually a monster that takes control in the morning.  My parents met her when I started pre-school.   Morning always began with one of them standing beside the bed calling my name sweetly “Cara, Cara, Cara time to get up.”  When I didn’t move, they added a gentle shoulder tap to their effort.  I still didn’t budge, so they resorted to mild shaking.  Eventually, the shaking worked and the monster woke, crying wildly.  My poor parents tried to have a rational discussion with me, but I was asleep and the monster was incapable of being rational.  After a considerable period of the monster’s hysterics, my parents gave up and dressed me while I was lying down.

In grade school, the monster adapted and turned the morning routine into a game, a competition if you will. Her strategy was to stay quiet and hit the snooze button as fast as she could. The hope was they’d forget about us.  Judi and Sid (my parents) never did.

My dad started the game every morning with a wake up call.

Dad: Cara it’s time to get up.
Monster: Uh Huh
Dad: The next time I pass by your room, you better be moving.
Monster: Uh Huh
Dad: I’m serious, the next time I pass by your room, I better hear some movement or you are in trouble.

The monster saw my father’s ultimatum as a challenge and responded with the “Fake Out” (Sit up in bed while my dad passed and then immediately lie back down.)

Enter my Mom, signaling the counting portion of the competition.  Judi is known for having her share of issues with the morning.  So, while she rushed frantically to dress herself, she screamed numbers across the hall as forceful encouragement.

Mom: Cara you have until three to get out of that bed. One….Two…Three. Get Up, Are you Up?
Monster: “Uh huh, I’m up , I’m Up.” (I wasn’t up.)
Mom: I don’t hear any feet on the ground.
Monster: I’m getting dressed on my bed.

Time Out:
My parents had a short strategy session in their bedroom.  This bought me and the monster another minute of uninterrupted sleep.

Mom: I don’t think she’s up.
Dad: Of course she’s not up. I’m going in there!!! (The final escalation)

My father stormed across the hall yelling threats.

Dad: I’m coming in there!!!! You better be up or else you are in deep trouble!!!!
Monster: Zzzzzzzzzzzzz (The monster held her ground and laid there motionless.)

Angered by the lump in the shape of his daughter, my dad ripped off the covers and forced the window shades to the ceiling.  While the shades were flying up, the monster pulled the covers back over our head. When my father turned around and saw the monster unmoved by his dramatic play, he flew into a no holds barred freak out, yelling threats at the top of his lungs.   The threats quickly turned to full grounding; life would be limited to school, homework and reading.  Realizing she had been defeated, the monster dressed us as fast as a lump could. (It was like watching paint dry, but at least we were vertical.)  This was our morning routine through high school.

In college the monster adapted again and was now a foul-mouthed old man.  On our own, I, not the monster, was responsible for getting us up.  She got up begrudgingly, although there were times she forced us to skip morning classes.  All my friends and roommates knew it was best not to acknowledge me until couple hours after we got up. They were never quite sure what would come out of my mouth.

After college, my friend Reuben and I lived together.  He too, has a morning monster. But, our monsters had an understanding that talking was not permitted before work. Grunting was our sole communication tool. As a result, our monsters co-existed for three years, with only a few minor conflicts.

I live alone now and that’s probably best for everyone.  After all these years, the monster has not changed, so I guess this is it.  I am tied to her for the rest of my life.

A couple of days ago, an unlucky woman had the misfortune of meeting the monster.  We were walking down the subway steps as the woman was walking up.  She stopped and stared when she saw us. Since the monster is not visible, I can only guess she was staring because of my height.  The woman began to point and laugh.  Monster, who was still in control of all my major functions, turned to her and said “@*$& @#$%$ @#%$@# you bad wig wearin #*&!##$.”  The woman was stunned into silence and frankly so was I.  But, the train was pulling into the station, so I had no time to apologize for the monster’s outburst. We quickly ran down the rest of the steps, leaving the woman to pick her bottom lip off the ground.

If you encounter us in the morning, please remember, I am not in control, she is.

Space Invaders

I don’t understand close talkers.  The ones who get so close to your face, you can see their tonsils and smell their breakfast.  Due to my height, many people believe it is a requirement to get right in my face to hold a conversation. (Is there a manual out there being passed around entitled “How to talk to little people?” If this is the advice being disseminated by said book, all copies must be thrown out.) There are three types of close talkers, the leaners, the kneelers and the chairs.

The leaners, get right in my face to start a conversation. Many of them double over and put their hands on my shoulders.    I must first state, I am an extreme germaphobe.  When strangers and known dirty people get too close, the leaning over touching thing sends me into code red . If you have known me for any length of time you can recognize the signs. My face and body tighten up.  My lips get stuck in a pursed smile.  Meanwhile, my brain has shut down and there is a ticker tape in my head repeating “Why are you so close?, Why are you breathing on me? Have you washed your hands lately? Did you just try to hug me? Back Up!!!! Back Up!!!!”

It’s a scientific fact that sound travels, we don’t have to be so close.  But you can’t tell the kneelers that.  This close talker group believes it’s appropriate to kneel in bars to speak to me.  They always say, “I want to look you in the eye,” as they get down on their knees.  Some of them attempt to hug me while they’re down there.  Thru my pursed lips, I ask them to please get up off the ground, because  A. They are blocking the bar.  B. Everyone is staring.  C. No one is really tall enough that I can’t see their eyes if standing.  Somehow the kneelers never hear my pleas, despite being right up in my grill.

But, my absolute favorite close talkers, are the ones who ask me stand on a chair. Again, so we can look each other in the eye. (There are a lot of people in the world, hung up on direct eye contact.)  My reply is always, “I can see your eyes from down here, just tip your head a little to the south and I’ll tip mine a little to the north.”  Some of them try to insist, by grabbing a chair and patting the seat.  I refuse and they insist, until I excuse myself to “use the restroom.”  Honestly, I am not that interested in the conversation that I’d hold it standing on a chair.  Would you stand on a chair if you were talking to Yao Ming? Would you feel like a fool if you did? Because, you sure would look like one.

Despite the close talkers, most of the time I go about my day like everyone else until some genius asks me to stand on a chair.

Grandpa Reedy

Yesterday would have been my Grandpa Reedy’s 110th birthday.  He was born just after the turn of the century, the last of nine children in Natchez, Mississippi.  My great-grandmother was already a grandmother, when she gave birth to Grandpa.  His father was nicknamed Shakespeare, due to his propensity for getting drunk and reciting Shakespeare from his front porch.  This must have left quite an impression on Grandpa, because Shakespeare was one of his favorites.

Unfortunately, his father died when he was twelve and his mother sent him to live with his older brother in Missouri.  At this point, his life became difficult.  His brother was not what you would call stable.  (He dropped out of school in the sixth grade, to free up time to gamble and run the streets.)  There is only one story I could get out of grandpa about this period in his life.  One year his brother asked him what he wanted for Christmas and grandpa said, “Candy” thinking he would understand that meant chocolate.  His brother apparently didn’t realize this and bought him a box of hard candy.  Since that was his only gift, he had a hard candy Christmas that year.  Despite all of this, my Grandpa put himself through high school, college, masters and Phd programs.  He was a great teacher, an avid reader, latin scholar, fantastic storyteller, lover of Barbra Streisand music, Shakespeare and food.

When I was growing up grandpa lived two hours away in Jefferson City.  My father went to visit pretty regularly and I always jumped at the chance to go with him. Because to me,  grandpa’s house was magical.  It was a shrine to his past life, like a museum.  The playroom where my father and his brothers played was exactly how they left it, toys and games on the shelf ready to be played. My Uncle’s slide was in the side yard and his bed still had a chain of gum wrappers on the headboard.  Soda was never in a can, only glass bottles.  (The fact that there was soda at all, was pretty exciting to me.)  My grandmother died before my father met my mother, but her dressing table was exactly how she left it (including hair trimmings from a do it yourself haircutting session.)  Her study, which still smelled a little like her, was filled with books, plays she had written and her typewriter.   The whole house seemed like this other world, stuck in time, like a living time capsule.

Food was an obsession of my grandfathers. (side note: he was skinny)  I think it comforted him and it became a way we connected. During our visits, there were three things I knew we’d eat; spaghetti, Duff’s Buffet and Zesto’s Ice Cream.

Grandpa made the best spaghetti.  It wasn’t traditional Italian spaghetti. His was sweet, garlicky, salty, smoky and decidedly southern.  He was not a spaghetti snob, he was an addict. (As am I.) I always hated when my family went out for pizza. It felt like a wasted visit to an Italian restaurant.  I found out Grandpa and I had the same feelings on the subject, during one of his visits to our house.  The family was deciding what to order for dinner.  The consensus was pizza, that is, until grandpa announced, “I don’t know what the big deal with pizza is anyway.  It’s not that good. I prefer spaghetti.”  “I thought in my head me too, me too.”   We were partners in spaghetti.

At some point during every visit to grandpa’s house my father would say,  “Who wants to go out for dinner?”  My grandfather’s response was always “How about Duff’s?”  My father attempted to protest, but I was usually already yelling “Yes, yes, yes!” in a fit of excitement.  He was outnumbered and he knew it.  Duff’s is a prime example of what’s wrong with American food.  Of course it’s a buffet, but with a twist.  The steam tables were motorized lazy susans, kind of like an airport baggage carousel.  When it’s your turn you stand between two gates at the steam table of your choice and grab food with tongs.  If they are out of fried chicken, you just stand there while the table rotates around.  The workers behind the wall refill it, kind of like baggage handlers.  As a kid, I thought that was awesome. There was an unlimited supply of fried chicken, spaghetti, and fruit punch coming from the wall! (And no mom to stop the gluttony!)  My grandpa and I were in heaven, my dad not so much. Once we had our fill of fried chicken, we went to Zesto’s, the local ice cream store, because everyone agreed on that!

Grandpa was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when I was 11 and eventually died when I was 13. His decline was pretty rapid and brutal.  He lost his ability to walk, read, speak and eventually eat.   I prefer to remember our times eating spaghetti and pigging it up at Duff’s.

I’ll end with my favorite rhyme of Grandpa’s

Here comes that woman down the street, flipping and flopping her great big feet. (This was usually said, while sitting on the porch, smoking a pipe and people watching.)

Bed Stuy: The Seamstress

Recently, I have had a couple of strange encounters that makes me think I may not be the only black, female, little person with a red afro in Bed Stuy.

The other night, I got off the subway and headed towards the corner grocery store.  As I  approached the store, I heard this woman frantically screaming.  This being a fairly common occurrence in Bed Stuy, I didn’t turn around right away.  But this woman just kept screaming “Miss, Miss.” “Excuse Me!!!”  Um Hellooo..Miss.”  When I finally turned around to see the crazy lady, she was right behind me and out of breath.  I realized I was the “Miss” and I had never seen this woman before in my life.  I said “Hi” and then she said, “My daughter is graduating from High School and I need a seamstress.”  My face must have said “Huh?” Cause she asked, “Aren’t you the seamstress?”  I said, “No, sorry.”  My response didn’t seem to faze her, because she continued. “I need someone to make an outfit for my daughter, we didn’t realize she was going to graduate until today. We only have two weeks.” It seemed she was under the delusion, if she pled her case well, I might agree to be her seamstress. (Like I was lying about my identity and just refusing to take her business.)  I said, “No, I’m sorry that’s not me.”  Then she said,  “I should have kept her number.  Well, I thought it was you.” Then she muttered under her breath, “There must be another one, I need the other one.”

Two days later, I ran into my elderly neighbor (persistent suitor) on my way to the subway.    He asked, “Can I drive you to work?”  I said “Oh, No Thank You.” (exaggerating how thankful I was.)  Then he said, “I have a car, I can drive you.”  “You wouldn’t have to pay for a cab.”  I said “No thanks, I’m fine, I take the subway to work.”  Then he said, “You have that store over on Fulton, it’s a quick ride.”  I said, “No, I work in the city.”  “Oh, someone told me you had  a tailoring store over on Fulton.”  “Nope, that’s not me.”

Hmmm……… Me thinks we may have another Pam situation on our hands.