Reality Check

I was just in the supermarket and stopped to admire a most beautiful basket of abundantly ripe peaches – not rotting, but probably mere hours from turning.  I thought to myself ‘these would make an amazing cobbler.’  In that moment, one of my several inner people (I’m not sure which), slapped me hard across the face and screamed in my ear.

            “B*tch, pay attention because you clearly don’t understand who we are right now.  You just pissed all over a commitment, negating months of discipline at that McDonald’s counter and bought a birthday cake from Yesterday’s Baked Goods, which you wholeheartedly plan to polish off in one serving.  You clearly comprehend you’re hungry, but these particular actions demonstrate you’re lazy and greedy also.  Get into it!  Now stop fantasizing about these damn peaches, take your lazy, greedy ass home and get fat.”

My inner people are so rude sometimes.

In The Balance: Rose Etta’s Seven-Up Pound Cake

This cake recipe, requested by my dear friend, Rose Chapman, finally appears after waiting years for its formal introduction.  It remained in passive development for the better part of two years, not for tweaks and revisions. It is among the older recipes in my files, bearing a 20-year time stamp.  I can’t cite an exhaustive search for the original hard copy, which is basically four lines, scrawled on the back of an Emerson College R.A. training schedule, circa 1995.  It was not held up in copyright negotiations with Dr. Pepper Snapple Group.  That particular dance has yet to start, but will probably be settled quite swiftly in the space of two brief emails.  There is only one clear explanation for the delay – the reluctance to hold myself accountable for examining a plethora of personal issues that litter the path along this particular stretch of my journey. 

 

I am always reluctant to employ that widely-used, canned response to justify shortcomings because while shit most certainly happens, a quick flush and thorough wipe greatly reduces much of the negative fallout associated with the occurrence.  Furthermore, we have a reasonable expectation and are able prepare because we recognize shit happens as a result of what we introduce to our bodies.  We are rarely shocked when shit happens.  Either a properly functioning sphincter or bubble guts make an announcement by which we can also determine how much time we have to reach a suitable outlet.  It will never largely impact nor change the course of an entire day unless a colon is indecisive, a bowel angry, or an insulting meal disrespects one or both.  In those rare circumstances we adjust our schedules accordingly, camp on or near the bowl and patiently wait with a clear understanding that shit must end, but I digress.

This delay is simply the result of my failure to remove obstacles that block my progress, which is unacceptable because I fundamentally recognize all obstacles are self-constructed and failure is born of laziness and fear, another self-inflicted construct.  Power to navigate and achieve a desired result is mine in all situations that respect and maintain what I have come to understand about the universe, which in no way imposes restrictions.  I have every right to challenge or upset balance in the universe as long as I am willing to accept the response.  If ever I develop a desire to rouse sleeping dogs, the universe will buzz with new and exciting challenges, requiring I expend energy previously untapped.  Laziness continues to hold me at bay, but I still manage to kick a slumbering canine every now and then, most often one that bites me on the ass, eliciting a new set of responses, but again I digress.

In this moment, I am unwilling to do the work to expose a specific reason for the delay, but I will report I was not perched on a bowl the entire time.  Is that even possible?

3 cups sugar

3 sticks butter or margarine (I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter works beautifully!)

6 eggs

3 cups all-purpose flour
¾ cup 7up or Sprite

3 teaspoons lemon extract

Cream sugar and butter until smooth and creamy.  Add eggs, one at a time, beating thoroughly after each until there is no trace of yolk.  Add flour and mix.  Combine 7up and lemon extract and mix into batter until smooth.  Bake at 325 degrees in a tube pan for 1 hour or until it’s done.  (An hour is never enough in my slow oven)

Cool 15 minutes and remove from pan.

I am pleased to announce this recipe joins others in my much-anticipated collection, If I Tell You, I Have to Kill You: Whispered stories and recipes.  “In The Balance” is the story of a church meeting, called to discuss a moral response to the pregnancy of 15-year old, Rose Etta Johnson.  In the fellowship hall of Bethel Baptist Church, members consider how the congregation should proceed in the wake of Rose Etta’s indiscretion. Riley Hickson, a very active, contributing member of many years, very bluntly, in the most colorful language, challenges the “Hawthornian” pastoral recommendation with a question.

“Is that what they did to your fast-assed momma?”

Protect Your Helping Hand From Abuse

"No Good Deed Goes Unpunished"

~Letitia Baldridge

There are some among us who apparently believe they are not bound by established principles and practices, observed by humans for ages.  There is a litany of phrases, quotations and exhortations dedicated to guiding our interactions. E.g. "One hand washes the other... You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours... Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." The duty we owe our fellow humans is clearly established.  John Donne wrote about it.

No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as a manor of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.  

Joan Baez sang about it.

No man is an island, no man stands alone
Each man's joy is joy to me
Each man's grief is my own
We need one another, so I will defend
Each man as my brother
Each man as my friend

Still, there are individuals, groups even, demanding our time, expecting our attention with no thought of how we are impacted.  They call us in times of need, but are absent when roles reverse.  In the past, I became hurt or angry when abandoned by those I had rushed to assist.  One day, it became clear that something needed to change. I stopped rushing, especially to those who were clearly taking advantage.  I forced myself to consider the motivation factor. Weighing my sacrifice against the expected outcome, my behavior gradually changed.  I remained available, but on my terms, according to my ability, shocking many who had come to expect a much different response. 

When faced with an opportunity to be of assistance, I truly believe most people will avail themselves, motivated by empathy or duty.  It's lovely to feel morally obligated, but have clarity around your motivation and what you expect to accomplish. I'm not suggesting we extend kindnesses with an expectation of reciprocity.  Very often, things are not received in the same spirit they are given, and our gifts may not come back to us packaged the same way.  Altruism makes sense to me because blessings often appear unexpected and are hardly ever an obvious reward for a specific deed.  We should therefore extend ourselves for the benefit of others whenever possible, employing everything at our immediate disposal. Christians are encouraged not to grow weary in well-doing.  At an appointed time we will reap the harvest of all we've sown.

... HOWEVER... 

Should you notice individuals who rely on your kindness, yet consistently disappear or disappoint in your time of need, I challenge you to use discernment when extending yourself.  Always decline if you are to suffer extreme inconvenience or discomfort. When volunteers are requested, remain tight-lipped, while carefully considering how you might be impacted.  Know your motivation and release any expectations.  An emotional response is attached to any action requiring sacrifice.  In the spirit of Altruism, you may derive great joy from serving others or intense anger at realizing you've been used and bamboozled. Anger is an appropriate response, but only if self-directed.  After all, you are ultimately responsible for your decisions.  

In direct opposition to Altruism, a measure of selfishness is essential to survival.  We must first attend to our own needs.  Any flight attendant will tell you.

In the event of decompression, an oxygen mask will automatically appear in front of you. To start the flow of oxygen, pull the mask towards you. Place it firmly over your nose and mouth, secure the elastic band behind your head, and breathe normally. Although the bag does not inflate, oxygen is flowing to the mask. If you are traveling with a child or someone who requires assistance, secure your mask on first, and then assist the other person.

Celebrating Discipline

Today marks the passage of six months since I resolved to remove a certain fast food menu from my diet.  Because I cook, I haven’t particularly missed the food, but nothing can replace the entertainment offered at urban locations.  To honor the milestone and memories, I offer this repost from 2006.

Becky Comes to Bed-Stuy

Corner of Broadway and Monroe Ave, Brooklyn, NY

I don’t have what many consider a morning routine. I prefer to be led by the spirit. However, I am one of those people who prefer a morning shower to one the night before so my morning usually involves contact with soap and water. The only other thing that I may do is eat. It’s no secret that I love to feed. I get joy and comfort from the table. While I’m not a huge fan of fast food, I do love the sausage, egg and cheese on griddle cakes, served up at the golden arcs. I would mention the sandwich and restaurant by name but there will be neither free advertising here nor lawsuits. Remember Mr. McDowell from Coming to America?


A few mornings back I decided to head over to the arcs at the corner of Broadway and Monroe. With the J train lumbering over head toward Broadway Junction, I stepped over Joe, the junkie, with his dirty cup of loose change and through the door. I am thoroughly impressed with the customer service at this arcs location. All the workers are polite and they hustle to fill orders as quickly as possible. It does my heart good.


On that particular morning, after receiving my order, I sat at a table to enjoy my meal. I usually sit near a window because, every once in a while, someone passes by that makes me further appreciate God’s goodness. As I was restacking my sandwich for uniformity, I glimpsed a blond head in my periphery that caused me to take notice. It’s not that blond hair is completely foreign to the hood. Floquita has a honey-blonde weave and Rayquan dyed his fade platinum for the prom (“How you doin’, Rayquan.), but this blonde head was very definitely attached to BeckyHeatherAshleyJen.


DISCLAIMER: Just to set the record straight and reassure my white readers… I am not prejudiced. I know and like quite a few white people, male and female. I try to remember and use the names of those I know. Most others will get a name I think best describes them. The women are sometimes BeckyHeatherAshleyJen, Becky for short. I know it’s not right, but all black men were LeroyWillieEarl for years!


Just as I heard “Next guest” being called, I watched fresh-faced Becky, blond locks brushing blue-blazered shoulders, leather bag bouncing against linen-clad thigh, march straight up to the cashier, stepping ahead of Boomshika, who was shuffling toward the counter, head down counting change.


She offered a stark contrast to Becky, with her head wrapped up, syrup bottle-style, in an oversized tee-shirt – very obviously slept in, over a pair of dusty jeans. Boomshika looked up and blinked real hard. It was almost like that moment in Color Purple when Shug is singing outside and hears church choir in the distance.


“Bitch, I’m next!” she says.


Becky says, politely, “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you,” and steps aside without ever looking at the person to whom she’s offering an apology.


“What the hell do you mean you didn’t see me? I’m right here,”


“Kick her ass, Shika,” said a voice off to the side. I turned my head slightly to peep Nay-Nay, a tiny sister, dressed much like Boomshika, black hair in a doobie with gold bobby pins. “Maybe that’ll help her see better.”


What Shika and Nay-Nay don’t understand is that Becky really doesn’t see them. She doesn’t have to. She walks erect, looks straight ahead, usually oblivious to her surroundings, fearing little, secure in the knowledge that all is right with the world. It’s the birthright of white privilege. While I’m sure an ass whipping may improve her vision, she still wouldn’t see Shika and Nay-Nay and not just because they would be serving out their sentences. She would only see potential ass whippings in everyone who looked like them.


The manager, sensing something might jump off, stepped to another register and quietly filled Becky’s order. She was out the door, change from her order in Joe’s cup and halfway to the Gates Avenue station stop before Shika and Nay-Nay realized she was gone. They were too busy complaining about “these white bitches moving into the neighborhood.”


One thing we all need to realize is that Becky is moving to neighborhoods that her parents and grandparents abandoned years ago during the white flight to surrounding suburbs that began after WWII. It continued well into the 1970s. As Black families started to move into their communities, white folks fled. In the New Jersey communities where I grew up, Jews abandoned their temples, many of which are now Baptist churches. The same holds true of Bed-Stuy. The mere fact that it borders the predominately Hebrew neighborhood of Crown Heights lets me know it was once occupied by Rachel and Reuben. They aren’t really white, but we’re supposed to pretend.


Another thing we should note is that Becky will never see us until our presence impacts her existence in some significant way. She can go though her entire life without ever having contact with a person of color. She can go on a job interview, to a bank for a loan, to a realtor for a house or apartment, to merchants and vendors, always seeing someone who looks like her. It’s what she expects, even when she moves to the hood, which she’s doing as quickly as a white girl can get a loan. Yes… that fast.