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.

PSA For Women Of A Certain Age

 

I just finished an early morning conversation with a friend who just last month dropped off her youngest to begin his freshman year of college.  Here is an abridged transcript:

Me: Hey girl! What the hell you want this early?
She: I'm pregnant.
     {silence}
She: You there?
Me: Yeah.  You need a ride to the clinic? (same question I asked nineteen years ago)
She: I thought about it, but no.
Me: What did T (her husband) say?
She: He's sittin' on the side of the bed, crying.
Me: {Laughing} So what y'all gon' do?  Are you really up for this?
She: Not really, but my mom will help out. (basically the same thing she said nineteen years ago)
Me: She just moved to a senior community!
She: And she'll be operating a day care center out of her apartment.
Me: {Laughing} That's not a bad idea.  Have you told her?
She: No. She likes to laugh at the wrong sh*t and this ain't funny. (Pause) Will you tell her?
     {Silence}
Me: Yeah, give me her number.  {laughing} We gon' kee kee this morning!
She: Y'all can kiss my @ss!
Me: {Laughing} Call me later.
She: You call me!
Me: Girl, whatever! Bye.

Ladies, it ain't over till it's over.  Keep taking those pills or whatever it is you do until your estrogen level has plunged to undetectable and you have a goatee. BEWARE OF THE "OOPS" BABY!

Country Chicken Marsala

For Chris Jakes

Essie Snell on Jekyll Island, 1996

My grandmother is celebrated for the things she does with chicken.  Obviously, as a southern woman, her fried chicken is something special, but whether baked, stewed, smothered or fricasseed, her foot finds its way into the pot.  My stepfather was a fan of her creative chicken and rice “pots.”

In the tradition of creativity with chicken, I present my own spin on Chicken Marsala.

Ingredients

• 3 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves
• 2 teaspoons salt
• 2 teaspoons ground black pepper
• 1 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1 teaspoon Old Bay Seasoning
• 2 teaspoon Italian seasoning (divided)
• 1 teaspoon sage
• 1 tablespoon white vinegar
• 4 tablespoons olive oil (divided)
• 8 ounces sliced baby Portobello mushrooms
• 2 tablespoons of chopped fresh garlic
• 3 tablespoons of all-purpose flour
• 1 ½ cups of wine (whatever is on hand, but I like to use a Cabernet Sauvignon.  I’ve also used cooking wine or Holland House Marsala Cooking Wine)

Directions

1. Slice chicken breasts into bite-sized pieces and combine with all the seasonings, reserving 1 teaspoon of Italian seasoning.  Add 1 tablespoon olive oil and vinegar, mix and let marinade for at least one hour.
2. In a large skillet, sauté fresh garlic and remaining Italian seasoning in 3 tablespoons of olive oil for five minutes.  Add mushrooms, cover and simmer for five minutes.
3. Add chicken in an even layer, sprinkle with flour and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally until chicken is no longer pink.
4. Add wine and let simmer, stirring occasionally until a thick sauce forms.
5. Serve over pasta

Conquering the Red (Velvet Cake) Dragon

The very best way to make a bad thing go away is to stop looking at it, stop listening to it and stop talking about it. It worked for me.

The Red (Velvet Cake) Dragon

During my time in the kitchen I’ve learned that a story rests between the lines of every recipe.  With each preparation comes a new story.  This story is about Evil and a Red Velvet Cake.  

I met Evil several years ago through Albert, a mutual friend for whom Evil harbors deep resentment and animosity.  Albert unknowingly taps into the insecurities, paranoia, envy and self-loathing that propel Evil’s attempt to best his perceived opponent at every opportunity.  Though never successful, he convinces himself otherwise.  He delights in Albert’s personal disappointments, vehemently distrusts him, yet continues to cultivate a “friendship,” motivated by a misguided belief that one must keep enemies close.

After our initial meeting I didn’t see Evil again until this weekend.  We almost met socially the night my best friend, who works with Evil’s former partner, invited me to an office movie outing.  Though expected, Evil failed to appear as he was frolicking on Fire Island. Our interaction has always remained confined to online chats and, most recently, text messages.  Last week he invited me via text to his mother’s birthday party and asked if I would bake Red Velvet cupcakes for the occasion. I accepted and agreed if he would supply a muffin pan.  He agreed to purchase one in the days to follow.  When the pan failed to appear I purchased my own, curious to see if my recipe translated to cupcakes. I wasn’t extremely motivated to add more finger foods to his “planned” menu.  I tried, but failed to create cupcakes.   

Contacting Evil the night before, I told him it would have to be a cake. He was amenable and graciously offered to send a car for me which I declined. Besides being a devoted strap-hanger, I had decided to drop off the cake and return home.  I didn't have a good feeling about the evening.  I didn't even put effort into my attire.  To appease him and keep options open, I agreed to accept the car service upon leaving the party since there was "a driver on stand-by."  Because he's pretentious and claims to be the bastion of exquisite taste, I expected he might pay me for my services, but didn't count on it. Since nothing he'd done so far indicated he had an ounce of social grace.  I hadn't even received a written invitation with the basics, like time and location of the event.  I knew he lived somewhere in or near Queens and decided the ride home could potentially serve as payment, but still prepared myself for the MTA.

We met in Manhattan and proceeded to the Gramercy Square apartment of Len, a man Evil is ardently pursuing -- so much I became exhausted watching him hover about.  He exuded such frenetic energy that, being no stranger to recreational drugs; I asked if he’d been doing bumps.

“He’s been this way since I met him,” Len said.

“And you’re not tired?” I wanted to ask, but his phone rang.  During Evil’s attempt to engage me in mindless chatter, I passively ear-hustled Len’s conversation and heard “rehearsal dinner in Asbury Park.”  Being from that area, I was intrigued to find out who he knew in my neck of the New Jersey woods.  I didn’t know his friends, but discovered he was also a Garden State native, providing a springboard to conversation I actually found engaging. Our talk continued as we walked toward Union Square to meet Len's friend Nicolette.  She would accompany us on the trip.

The train ride was hateful.  Two people, who infrequently leave their borough, were schlepping out to Queens on not one, but two trains. Nicolette was GAGGING! Queens is clearly not her ministry, but that wasn't her major cause for concern. They had another timed event to attend and Evil purposely misrepresented the distance, knowing his invitation would have been politely declined. The Manhattanites were a bit flustered, but I’ve learned to recognize a scam. I remained cool, texting Albert all the way about how Evil was clearly bamboozling the unsuspecting couple.  I was curious to see how things would play out.

We arrived at the home, a lovely space that, besides being moderately clean, was hardly party ready. There were certainly no finger foods.  I even had to rummage in kitchen drawers for a cork screw. UNACCEPTABLE!  He floated about, attempting to make the place "sexy" as he calls it and I conversed further with Len and Nicolette, discovering common interests and cultivating mutual admiration.  I like them a lot. I even learned things that will benefit me professionally. In fact, we got along so famously, they invited me to accompany them to their other event. I gladly accepted, realizing my function for Evil was served the moment I poured frosting on the cake. To my surprise a car did arrive and Evil relayed the destination to a very professional driver.  I began to believe maybe he had some class after all.  When Len paid the driver from his own pocket, I regained faith in my gut.  

In my haste to depart, I left phone and glasses sitting on a table, which I didn't discover until I was safely home for the night.  Evil, upon discovering my phone, promptly read the text messages that I admit were unflattering. One in particular was "He's not actually related to George Washington, but a distant, distant, distant relative, named Lester Washington... and he was a big liar." It must have upset him greatly, justifiably so.  I went online to shop for a new phone.  Surprising me yet again, he offered to deliver my phone and glasses yesterday, for which I was grateful. When he arrived, I handed him a thank you card for inviting me to his home and even apologized for the messages he read, while making it clear he had no right to invade my privacy. I told him my annoyance at the situation had more to do with my own failure to gain clarity than his blatant disregard for the feelings of others.  That came as no surprise from someone so ridiculously self-centered.

.

"Everyone says that," he replied without apologizing.

He sat with me for more than an hour, during which I was my usual gracious and humble self. I allowed him to spew a convoluted philosophy on life while attempting to point out absurdities, but he wouldn’t hear it. He continued to chatter incessantly and guzzle Aunt Jane's Iced Sweet Tea.  He even ate a piece of the glazed lemon pound cake I'd baked yesterday afternoon -- the very first piece. At the end of his visit, he rose, we embraced and he departed. More than an hour later, I discovered the phone battery missing. I laughed, because I never believed I would see that phone again anyway. 

Though disappointed, like Anne Frank “despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart” and pray Evil finds peace from what appears to be absolute misery.  I am grateful for every lesson, especially those that reveal potentially harmful intentions. Perhaps peace comes at a cost, but anything of value should.

Obituary

RIVAL CROCK-POT

AGE 2 BROOKLYN

Rival Crock-Pot, 2, of the Flatbush Section of Brooklyn, passed away suddenly Friday, August 5, after suffering blunt force trauma by 4 frozen chicken breasts. Crock-Pot was purchased by Antwoine Shepard and Rodney Snell in 2009 at Pathmark, Atlantic Terminal, Brooklyn, NY. He was a lifelong resident of Fat Girl Snacks Headquarters in Flatbush.

Crock-Pot worked hard during a short life, slow-cooking Gumbo, Black Beans, Neck Bones, Turkey Wings and Barbecued Ribs.  It was about to make Buffalo Chicken when tragically struck down.

In addition to Mr. Snell, 4 chicken breasts, ½ Oz of Hidden Valley Ranch Salad Dressing/Seasoning Mix, a bottle of Frank’s RedHot Wings Sauce and 2 tablespoons of Butter, Crock Pot is survived by Presto Options Multi-Cooker, with whom it shared a shelf, Cuisinart Hand/Stand Mixer of the same cupboard space and Fat Girl Snack lovers everywhere.

The remains will lie in state on the kitchen counter while I run over to Bobby’s Department Store for a replacement. Interment will immediately follow upon my return in the trash bin behind the building. In lieu of flowers, please send donations or more small appliances to Rodney Snell, 2608 Albemarle Rd, Apt D1, Brooklyn, NY 11226.  Your gift will be richly rewarded with a hot meal.