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
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| 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.
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.
