Category Archives: Just Me, Being Me

No Arguments Here

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This morning I’m standing in line at one of my usual breakfast places. That there is a long line, long by my standards as a regular, tells me someone came in with a large order that is slowing down the usually quick and efficient process of the line cooks. It happens sometimes, you deal with it or you walk away. I was contemplating between the two options when one of the line cooks spies me at the back of the line and smiles. He holds up one finger, then two fingers, his head cocked to the side in an unspoken query. I smile back, wave and then nod, holding up one finger. In this particular restaurant they have two things I like to order for breakfast. Isidori, the second line cook, is silently asking if I want my breakfast sandwich (#1) or my omelette platter (#2). Thus, I just as silently respond yes, I would like the sandwich. He smiles and indicates with his head to go ahead to the cashier.

Ah, the sweet perks of being an engaging regular! I am spoiled sometimes.

I blow a kiss to him in gratitude and go to pay for my meal. I stand adjacent to a woman who is ticking off the various items ordered to Cristina, the cashier, making sure they have everything. Now I know who had the big order. Cristina asks about the size of a coffee ordered and the woman calls out to someone on different line.

“Margie! What size you want your hazelnut coffee again?”

Now, saying she was loud, really does not do it justice. Seriously, I felt my ears pop as though I were in a rapidly moving elevator. At least six different people in my line of vision reacted to the decibel level of her voice by turning their collective heads either towards or away from her and vocalizing some form of exclamation and/or expletive, including my leaning away from her with “Well damn!”

As the nearest person to her, I received the venom of her stare.

“Please! I weren’t that loud.”

I mentally bit my lip resisting the urge to inform her folks on the other side of the International Date Line, where it is the middle of the night, are likely waking up wondering why they are thinking about hazelnut coffee. Luckily, she was spared my snark when her friend came over and settled it.

“Yeah, you were. What the hell wrong with you screaming like that?”

She glances around at various raised eyebrow/“you crazy”/WTF reactions to her. You can all, but hear the “Whatever!” going through her mind.

“Raivenne, here’s your breakfast honey.” Isidori and Cristina in their usual efficiency already have my food cooked, coffee poured and items bagged.

“Thanks Cristina, here you go.” In my usual efficiency have my credit and restaurant discount card at the ready as I walk around the two women and pay for my breakfast.

“Have a nice day,” Cristina hands me my cards and my bagged order. “See you tomorrow?”

“Thanks, maybe. Enjoy your day.” I take my items and start turning to leave.

“Wait, I was in front of her, how she go first?” Ms. Decibel wants to know. At least her voice has returned to a volume more acceptable for human conversation.

Cristina looks at her in confusion, clearly not understanding her question.

“Because she’s Raivenne…” she states as though it should be obvious.

I smirk and walk away, who am I to argue with such infallible logic?

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Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler!

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Happy Mardi Gras!

When most of the world thinks of Mardi Gras they are rightfully only thinking of the very last day big party day and night for which it is named, the ever popular Fat Tuesday. Those last hours of enjoying ones vices before the 40 days of self-sacrifice that is Lent beginning with Ash Wednesday, the very next day.

When I think of Mardi Gras it is always New Orleans 2001. I have yet had the pleasure to attend any of the balls, but I have enjoyed many of the local community parades that flow through the streets. There were the family friendly local fetes held by smaller Krewes in various parishes and of course the big parades held by the major Krewes along Charles and Canal Streets. My very first parade was the Bacchus Parade always held the Sunday night before Mardi Gras. The streets were as packed as any in New York City on a major parade route. So many people all crowded together, I felt right at home. I pushed my way towards the front and had a blast watching the colorful floats, the amazing costumes and high school / college bands. There were even gaily decorated Clydesdales prancing in tune to the joyful music. Naturally, there were the drunk and rowdy young and old. One poor child – okay college kid –had far too much alcohol and was not-so-quietly being up held by his friends as he gave back the liquor consumed.  Yup, just like being home on St. Patricks’ Day, yet not.

This is Bacchus, so yes, there were brightly colored beads a plenty casually tossed out to parade watchers. I quickly noted those were beads that could be purchased by the dozen for a dollar at any given store in the Quarter.  However, they were very selective in which revelers were tossed the pretty beads, the “Bacchus Beads” with flashing lights and better decorations.  And you guessed it; the young women upholding the infamous tradition of flashing their breasts to “earn” beads were generally the major recipients of these.  I planted myself next to one such young lady sitting on the shoulders of what I presume is her boyfriend. As the beads were flying down, I would snatch them in mid-air if they looked interesting. If I liked the beads I kept it, if I already had that design or did not want it I tossed it back to her. Suffice it to say she and her boyfriend were not initially happy, but they got over it as I partially shared. Hey, it was not my fault she was too drunk to figure out how to flash with one hand and reach out with the other and he could not hold on to her with one hand as she squirmed about trying to grasp beads. I simply took advantage of the opportunity.

That year the Bacchus Parade, known for having popular celebrities as its King, had chosen Nicholas Cage. We could hear the approach of the float he was on before we could see it. The noise level surrounding it was that intense. It took a good twenty minutes from when I first noticed his float until the monster was directly in front of us. Each step of the way the noise level increased. Between the bands, the revelers and those on the float itself, by the time it was before us, it was just deafening wall of sound and it was wonderful!

And all of that was nothing compared to the day of Mardi Gras itself. Getting up hung-over and groggy from partying that Monday night, it was pretty much a literal, was, rinse and repeat as we showered, ate, shopped, watched other parades and yes drank. There was this current in the air, this excitement, this tangible thing that my late-husband and I felt as the day grew on.

And then the sun set and we hit Bourbon Street in the French Quarter and…

Oh.
My.
God.

It made the crowds at the parade look paltry for the sheer amount of bodies per capita. The closest thing that can come to it is Times Square in New York City on New Year’s Eve and really that doesn’t capture it. There just aren’t enough and yet far too many words to describe the throng of bodies on the streets, in the side alleys and hanging from the wrought iron balconies of the beautiful French Quarter. The various states of sobriety, questionably legal substances and dress, or rather undress, especially from those in the balconies. Yeah, I’m leaving those in the purview of my mind’s eye. Like Vegas, some things will indeed stay in New Orleans.

Today I wear the traditional purple, green and gold colors of Mardi Gras in honor of the day and the memory of the wonderful times I had there. A couple of people have commented on the beads adorning my neck knowing what they are and where they are from. I will not confirm nor deny whether or not I have engaged in such technically illegal activities as earning them the traditional way or not. I will say that I have collected a vast assortment of beautiful beads in my visits and leave it at that.

I haven’t been to New Orleans since 2007 or Mardi Gras since 2005 and I wistfully gaze at my New York City skyline knowing it is definitely a too late for this year’s Carnival. Oh, but something tells me my Tuesday, February 16, 2015 Slice of Life may contain a post direct from N’awlins. Oh yeah….

I’m putting out the siren call of Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler right now.
Who’s with me?

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The “A” Word

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Friday night/Saturday morning, I am on my way home on from hanging out with friends. I hear the train I need pulling into the station as I’m paying my fare at the upper level. Normally, I do not run for trains, but it is 3:30 in the morning and I am well aware that  if I miss this one, there will not be another train for at least twenty minutes. A woman racing down an adjacent set of stairs and I curse simultaneously as the train we want pulls out of the station without us on board. We give each other the “Oh you too, huh?” empathic smile that all mass transit users know so well and strike up a conversation. I am a born and bred New York City; she is a transplant from upstate, living here for less than two years.  We touch on BBC television and learn that we are both Cumberbitches, not Cumberbabes – either you know or you don’t, I am not explaining the phenomenon that is Benedict Cumberbatch, just know it is very real.  We a good few minutes on classic books version Hollywood interpretations and that’s when it happened…

She shakes her head knowingly, “That explains it.”
“What explains what?” I ask.
“You read a lot. Good books, not just trash novels, it’s why you’re so artic…”

I am going to gather she stopped short at that point, less because her brain kicked in and more because I’m sure my expression went from amicable to apoplectic by the second syllable of the classic “A” word used with well-spoken blacks: Articulate.

Was it because I did not interject “like” and/or “you know” every fifth word or so? Perhaps it was my lack of “neck roll”? I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I popped a capillary in my efforts to restrain my disbelief at hearing this.

Worse, I am hearing it from someone less than 30 years of age who damn sure should know better considering this nation has been led by a black president these past five years.  Political party differences aside, our nation is not in the habit of electing those who cannot properly conjugate a verb. Clearly, Barack Obama is an ethic fluke, as this is not the same English spoken by the majority of educated people in this country.

“I mean, I mean….” She starts the familiar back-peddle seen often when people are caught hoisted on their own petard.

“Oh, I know what it is you meant.” I stop the peddling in its tracks. “I don’t know what you were exposed to in (name of city redacted to not paint all of its denizens with the broad brush of cultural ignorance), that gave you such preconceived notions, but for the record, it is not a compliment to be somewhat surprised that a person of color can speak well as though it is such a foreign concept. And, it is incredibly condescending  and patronizing for you to think we should feel complimented that it’s noticed and meets your unasked for approval. This conversation is over.”

It is amazing that this still requires clarification, but here it is: we (black people) get a little pissed-off when white people call us “articulate.”

It perpetrates the stereotypes that blacks speak mostly in slang, in Ebonics, in anything other than standardized English. It is divisive, separating us into an “us” and “them”.  It is the stereotype is perpetrated within less affluent black communities every time a well-spoken black person is accused of “talking white”.  The stereotype that equates articulate styles of speech as belonging to “white” rather than belonging to “intelligence”, as though one was still the exclusive dominion of the other.  Blacks do not assume every white person has a major in English, why is it still a thing of note to some when encountering those of us who have proper command of diction and enunciation?

Here we were in 2014 Anno Domini and yes, this is still a conversation that needs to be had.

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This Is A Beauty No One Is Sleeping On

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The upcoming Disney movie Maleficent starring Angelina Joli is already getting a lot a buzz. Clearly Maleficent is going to be to Sleeping Beauty what the Broadway musical Wicked is to The Wizard of Oz. While the movie is by no means a musical, like Wicked and The Wizard of Oz, it already has its defining song:

I first heard a snippet of this on Sunday and was completely blown away by it. This rendition is beautiful, lush, beguilingly serene and yet unnerving, haunting and almost menacing in its feel.  This is especially true in contrast to the lighthearted, gay feel of the original.

And for those who may not know or remember it, here is the original version for comparison:

Lana Del Rey’s haunting take on the classic and much beloved original is akin to hearing a siren’s song across the seas knowing you are headed towards your doom if continue to listen, yet not being able to tear yourself away.   It is absolutely perfect for Maleficent and makes me want to see the movie even more.

Still Breathing

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It’s been two hours,
I’m trying not to let the sadness bombard
Wondering how to heal this heart so scarred
My body gasps for air, but it’s too hard

It’s been two hours, and I want to stop breathing

It’s been two days,
I’m worn out from the sleep denied me
From the fullness of the pain inside me
When I’m as empty as the bottle of Jack beside me

It’s been two days, wondering why I bother breathing

It’s been two weeks,
I said I wouldn’t write another word
About you and all that has occurred
Yet fresh tears making new lines blurred

It’s been two weeks, the hurt tells me I’m barely breathing

It’s been two months,
No longer needing Mister Daniels to cope
For the first time not wanting to wallow and mope
Resolving to end this broken heart trope

It’s been two months, and yet I’m still breathing

Hell yes, I’m still breathing…

The Clothes Make The Man Or Woman

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So this has been making the rounds of social media:

your_body
Someone recently responded as follows:

It’s a nice idea, but in a world where “the clothes make the man (or woman)”, it’s just not entirely practical to wear whatever in the eff you want, whenever you want, in spite of how it fits or what true messages it conveys. People think they are being individualistic or letting their personality shine or showing confidence with some of the unflattering things they wear, when in reality, they are letting their clothes define them and allowing their true selves to be buried under their latest fashion concoction. In other words, if one wears things that don’t flatter them, people tend to see the clothes (or lack thereof) instead of the person. So there’s my two cents.

I agree, if you are a CEO, you will be perceived as being more respectable and trust worthy in a business suit, than in jeans and a polo shirt, even if the suit is more ill-fitting than the jeans and shirt would be. Does it change how do business if you choose to wear to work because you are more comfortable than in a suit, no. But let’s be honest, how you are now perceived in knowing your business does change and it does matter and thus the suit. Even many  of those in the creative fields, where the rules of dress are very open, will attire themselves in a way more ‘suited’ to the situation, when conducting certain business transactions. We all understand that it is not necessarily fair or practical, or that matter makes sense, it is just the way of business perception.

However, where I disagree is in wearing  what’s flattering. What is flattering on a person is akin to the adage of beauty being in the eye of the beholder. It is very subjective.

Let’s go back in time and check out Cher’s infamous feathered concoction or the swan dress worn by Bjork at the Academy Awards in different years. Both outfits were considered “flattering” to the respective woman, but inappropriate to the occasion. Uh, it was the Oscars, the epitome of the art of movie making – a place where one would think individualism and being different would be celebrated. Yet both women were mocked for being just that – different. There is some mystical point you’re “allowed’ to color outside the lines before the one’s individualism becomes something bane to the sensibility of another. But who gets to decide that line?

Using the recent mini fashion storm with Gabourey Sidibe and the gown she wore at the Golden Globe being the perfect example. Gabourey wore what she wanted showing her individuality. Some loved what she wore and said it fit well. Others hated it and said  she could have worn something more ‘flattering’.  The same arguments pro and con were made of Melissa McCarthy’s gown.   The only persons whose opinion were correct in either case were Gabourey and Melissa’s.

Here is where the point of the post would be truly tested: Lady Victoria Hervey wore a body conscious gown to the Golden Globes after party where the world could see she was naked underneath.  Now Imagine the firestorm that would have erupted had either McCarthy or Sidibe decided she wanted to wear something any where near as sheer and/or revealing. They would not do so because they are very much aware that the fashionistas and especially Twitter would eviscerate them. The issue becomes a) why they will be taken to task for doing the same and b) who are the hell are those who would take them to that task are in the first place to be able to do so with impunity?
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Verbal Diarrhea Diaries: I’ll Be Damned

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So, a guy emails me through an online dating site:

“I am going to assume that my profile is too casual/risqué for you, but I thought I’d shoot you a line anyway. (You have a fetching smile.)”

Of course I check out his profile. He states he wants a FWB, not looking for serious dating and is desirous of a woman with intelligence.

Got it – he wants a fuck, just not a dumb one.

My response?

“Hello,

My dentist and I thank you.

“Check you out!” as the kids say, throwing down the gauntlet on the opening play.

If I respond in the negative I come off as looking prudish, yet a positive one is indicative that I am open to only being someone ‘beneficial’. If I am open to such with you, who else have I been beneficial to? Providing I am someone simpatico to your intelligence and views to be worthy of said fornication.

Damned if I do and damned if I do. Fiddley-dee, whatever is a woman to do?

Oh, I can pick up that gauntlet and cyber strike you across the face with it. (Insert emoticon with tongue sticking out here.) [<– Yes, I actually wrote it out as such.]

Ya gonna take that?

Rai”

This is not to say I would or would not go for a roll –or a few- in the hay with him. He is attractive and arrogant and just the sort of ego balloon I like to stick my pins in and pop.

Regardless, one has to prove worthiness of my wrapping these thick juicy thighs around, and that ain’t the way, Bub.

Two Black Suns

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In light of the weekend’s Micheal Dunn verdict in Florida, I feel the need to bring this post to the forefront again.

NY Daily News: NYPD Allegedly Assault Staten Island Family – Killed Parakeet

I am the mother of two suns.
Two black suns.
Two black suns in this country, this United States of America.

My late-husband and I together did our best to navigate them through the minefields.

In their Sesame Street days, they are taught – this is the land of opportunity. They learn, that the color of your skin shouldn’t matter. And we said shouldn’t matter because even at that young age of theirs, neither of us as black parents could get past the ugly truth lodged in our throats and say that it ‘doesn’t matter’.

In their grade school days, they are taught – this land of the free. They learn that some of us have to work twice as hard most times to afford it. When in stores, they learn do not touch anything unless you have the money to buy it. We do not yet teach them that they are not being watched because someone might think they will break it, but because someone might think they will steal it, but they learn.

In middle and high school – they are taught this home of the brave. They learn as long as they are brave within the accepted boundaries, and those boundaries are fluid. They learn that the police officer who was their friend in day care and grade school, may not be so now that their voices have dropped and their awareness of the world at large has risen. They learn this even when sometimes that officer is an officer of color.

I am the mother of two suns.
Two black suns.
Two black suns in this country, this United States of America.

Our parents and my generation learn for the all the Martin Luther Kings and Malcom X’s there were the Emmitt Tills. That for the Rosa Parks there were the Eleanor Bumpers, for the Jesse Jacksons there were the Michael Stewarts, Yusef Hawkins and right around the corner from where my parents used to live when my sons were still children, Anthony Baez.

And as my sons made their way to manhood they learn that there are too many Rodney Kings, Amadou Diallos, Patrick Dorismonds, Abner Louimas, James Byrds, Sean Bells and now Jordan Davis.

In between what they are taught in school they are taught manners and respect and pride and faith, yes because it is the right thing to do. But they learn it may also keep them alive.

Yes, we were strict. Yes, we had rules. They learn to think of others as well as of and for themselves. They are taught responsibility and, like all children/teens/young adults, begrudgingly learn it.

They eventually learn curfews are not because I did not trust them to go out into the world, but because I did not trust the world to give them back to us. With one son sometimes too nice for his own good and the other sometimes too hot-tempered for his, if they are in the house, I am not worrying at 1am, at 2am, at 3am. I am not worrying if this will be the night, the night that the nightmare comes true and we get the call. The call that is the nightmare of every parent that must raise black boys to black men.

The nightmare that became the unfortunate reality for Sabrina Fulton and Tracy Martin – because like Stewart, Hawkins, Baez, King, Diallo, Louima, Dorismond, Byrd, Bell and Davis we know there are far, far, far too many Trayvon Martins out there never heard about in the news.

I am the mother of two suns.
Two black suns.
Two black suns in this country, this United States of America.

They were taught that red of our flag is for the valor in fighting for the right to live free; the white for the purity and innocence of our thought and purpose and the blue for the justice to protect those rights. Though as black men those inalienable rights wouldn’t be put to paper for them for another 100 years, and to some form of actuality for another 100 years hence. They learn it can also be the red of their blood on a baton, the bullet from a gun, the edge of a blade or a fist from the white-hot rage of someone having his or her worst day that encountered them having one of the worst of theirs and the blue of their body growing cold in the morgue from the result of that confrontation long before I get the call.

They learn that their All American names will get the door to open. Then they learn that their not so all American looks will sometimes have those same doors close in their faces.

They are taught that though it is certainly better than it has ever been, they learn that there is still quite some ways to go.

My suns are now adults, living their lives as men. My late-husband and I did the best we could with what we had. We got them through the minefield to black adulthood relatively unscathed. I no longer have nightmares of the call. I go to sleep at night trusting we will all safely see the morning unharmed. However, I am guessing, so did did Evelyn Lugo when chaos crashed through her door.

Things like this happen and a mother’s worry does crop up again on such occasions – after all…

I am the mother of two suns.
Two black suns.
Two black suns living their lives as black men in this country, this United States of America.

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To Dream Or Not To Dream…

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You unexpectedly run your fingers gently along the side of my face and, knowing me well, before I can think to question you about it, you place your lips upon mine and we kiss.

Gently.
Passionately.
Tenderly.
Hungrily.

When we slowly pull away we are breathless and I open my eyes to the dark emptiness of my room.

And realize it was only a dream.

Now, I lay awake undecided.

Am I more afraid that I won’t have that dream again…

…Or that I will.

Verbal Diarrhea Diaries: Tinkering Around

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Some of my holiday cards arrived at my job. The glitter from one card fell out of the envelope and dead into my lap, highlighting an area that really does not need attention called to it, especially while I’m at work. When one my of co-workers jokingly asked what happened it went like this:

Me (looking down seeing the extent of mess for the first time): Well, you know how with fairies their kisses always leave a trail of sparkles?

Him (cautiously, knowing it’s going to be bad): Yeah…?

Me: Well, Tinker Bell was attempting cunnilingus again as I was getting dressed. The little bitch is sooo good, but won’t take no for answer when I have to go to work.

Him (laughing): What?

Me: I look like I’ve been vajazzled under these pants.

Him (groaning): Dammit, I had to ask.

Me: That’s what you get for looking at my crotch.