Bed Stuy gets really loud in the summer. The whole neighborhood hangs out on their stoops and talks to each other. There is a constant stream of cars down my block blaring their radios so loud that sometimes I sing along. It’s kind of like playing name that tune. But, my favorite part of the summer is the BBQ Crew. Every day, from early evening through midnight, there is a group of men ranging in age from thirty to seventy that stands in front of the brownstone three doors down gossiping and debating the politics of the day.
I am not going to lie. Most nights I come home and turn on the boob tube. I need it, it’s like my daily detox. I don’t like to be disturbed for two hours. I have done this my entire working adult life. When I moved to Bed Stuy, I thought my tv time would be even quieter. There are only five people that live in my building. Bed Stuy was going to be my quiet space. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand what living in Bed Stuy really meant. Watching TV is like going to the drive-in. You are in your own car, but you can hear people at the concession stand and in the car next to you. You end up just getting annoyed and eating your way through the movie.
There is a group of men I call the BBQ crew who congregate in the yard of the brownstone two doors down. They range in age from 35-75. The old man who hits on me hangs out with them. They spend all night discussing the news of the day and gossiping while BBQ’g burgers and drinking. There are two voices that are distinct and can be heard down the block. One guy sounds like DMX and the other guy sounds like “Cedric the Entertainer.” I never hear the story they are telling just the punctuation of the point they are making. When DMX is emphasizing something he screams “What, What” in DMX voice. When Cedric the Entertainer thinks something is really funny he just repeats “Oh Lawd, Oh Lawd.” So all of my shows are punctuated with WHAT and Oh Lawd. Imagine watching the Golden Girls and Rose has just finished one of her St. Olaf stories. Then DMX shows up and says “WHAT” It’s like being in a club with a bad DJ.
My favorite is watching the news and having Cedric Screaming and Giggling while repeating “Oh Lawd” over and over again.
Infamously Short heads to the movies with a friend. Average heighted friends are not immune to the sideshow. Later in the episode, Infamously Short tangles with a socialite at Bloomingdales.
I have a thing for Doritos, specifically Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos. If you aren’t familiar, they’re in the purple bag. When I lived in Bed Stuy, I ate them at least once a week. Since the move to Washington Heights, I have probably had them twice in two years.
1. I got soft. I have laundry in my new building. In Bed Stuy I hung out in front of the laundry mat eating doritos while my clothes were washing.
2. There was no bodega in my immediate area of Washington Heights until this past winter.
I was craving Doritos last week, so I walked to Frank’s Market. They only had a giant bag of SSC Doritos and I can’t have a large bag in my house. Have a large bag = eat a large bag, so I bought some fancy chocolate and crossed the street to the new bodega. There was a man sitting outside on a bench. This seemed promising. Good bodegas have people hanging out in front of them. I approached the door and the man looked at me and got up from the bench. As I was pushing the door open, he was right behind me. He put his hand on the door over my head. A little weird, because he was totally in my personal space. I let the weirdness go, because maybe he was trying to help me open the door. (I don’t need help opening doors.) Who knows?
I found the SSC Doritos immediately, but I took a little time to inventory the rest of the store. Bodegas serve as the emergency supply line to the neighborhood and I wanted to know if this one was correct. Toilet paper, tampons, diapers and butter, it was all there. Satisfied, I walked towards the check-out line with my chips. I passed the man from the bench ordering falafel at the sandwich counter.
When I got to the check-out, the clerk was already ringing someone out. I stood a few steps behind and waited. The bench man finished ordering and walked towards the line. Then he stepped directly in front of me and put his butt in my face. The wale of his blue corduroys (it’s summer) was all I could see. I said“Really.” He didn’t move or acknowledge me. He must of been able to feel my breath on his backside. “Come on.” He shifted his weight to his left foot. I stepped from behind him and positioned myself right next to him. I looked up and said in a calm quiet voice “Did you mean to cut in front of me?” “Did you mean to go ahead of me?” He barely looked at me and said “Noooo.” His face turning red with embarrassment. “You didn’t see me there?” “Well I thought you were in line for a sandwich.”
He was the only one in the sandwich line and walked ten feet to get in the check out line.I answered “No” as I crossed in front of him. The clerk said “Hi Miss is that all for you today?”. I said “Yes, thank you.” The clerk rung me out and I walked back up the hill to my house eating Doritos. No word on whether the bench man enjoyed his falafel.
Last night I fell down a Youtube rabbit hole. One of my Facebook friends posted the Mikhail Baryshnikov/Gregory Hines dance scene in White Nights. This led me to Gregory Hines dance videos, then Sammy Davis, Savion Glover, Nicholas Brothers, Bill Bojangles, Sandman Sims….. The virtual dance party went on until three in the morning. Dance is an integral part of my life and continues to be part of my workflow. I don’t do well in offices, because breaking out in a dance performance is generally frowned upon. It’s weird, but it helps me concentrate and control my ADD.
I started classes at the Pelagie Green Wren Academy of Dance when I was 6. Mrs Wren was the first African American dancer in the chorus at the Municipal Opera of St. Louis. During her first year, she received death threats and had to have police protection. (The police protection would eventually become her husband, Mr. Wren.) She was tough as nails, but as graceful and beautiful as a bird.
I still remember my first class. I was so excited, I could barely contain myself. I probably didn’t contain myself. My mother dressed me in my dance uniform. Mrs Wren’s school was strict, we wore black leotards and very pale pink tights. When I arrived at the studio, I put my bag in the dressing room, waved goodbye to my mother and sat in the studio with the other girls. We were between the ages of 4 and 6 and all a bit nervous. It was the first dance class for most of us. I was a fan of Fame and hoped Debbie Allen would walk through the door with a stick and do a speech.
But then Mrs Wren came in and what happened next was so much better. The room was full of tiny girl chatter, until she yelled “Quiet.” The room went silent. First lesson learned, when Mrs. Wren yells you listen. She took attendance, calling each girls name. Then she told us to place our tap shoes against the mirror. “Quickly and then come back and stand here.” She stood in the front of the room and with her index fingers pointed to the floor. We did as we were told. Then one by one she placed us in lines shortest to tallest across the studio. There were numbers on the floor so we would remember our lines. She put on some music and stood in front. She said “Follow me.” She took us through some stretches. A couple of the girls lost focus and started talking. “Young Lady in the back.What is your name? Stop Talking.” The girl stopped talking. Normally, I am a chatterbox. I regularly got in trouble for talking to much in school, but not in Mrs Wren’s class.
We moved on to the ballet positions. “Watch me. Stand up straight. Look at my arms and my hands.” Do you see what my feet are doing? Mrs Wren walked around the room and inspected our feet and arms in each position. She corrected bad foot placement and lazy arms. After that we moved to the bars for plies. Somehow I wasn’t paying attention and ended up behind a tall girl, so as Mrs Wren was demonstrating the plies, I leaned out from behind the tall girl. I jumped back in once we started to do the plies. Mrs Wren noticed, but I didn’t notice she noticed, so as I was practicing my plie, I felt her hand on my shoulder. I was moved quickly to the front of the line. She said over here and moved me in front. She kept teaching while moving. No one missed a beat and I was back to my plies in seconds.
After plies we started tap. Shuffle. We did shuffles for ever, then shuffle step. Do you hear what my feet are doing? Do you hear that? She went through the lines and had us demonstrate a shuffle. If a girl didn’t get it she would make the sound until she did.
It was the early 80’s and Fame was a hit show. I envisioned Debbie Allen walking in the room with a stick and saying
adore tap dancing. It used to be a major part of my life. I took dance lessons from the ages of 6-18 at the Pelagie Green Wren Academy of Dance in St. Louis. Mrs Wren came into my life at age 6. She was a star. Tough as nails, but as beautiful and graceful as a bird.
Mrs Wren was tall, kind of looked like a bird and she always wore her hair in a bun. She was also fierce and didn’t suffer fools lightly, even 6 year old fools.
I really wanted to dance. I was obsessed with the movie Fame.
My writing process includes dance. Not shaking my butt a little bit to the beat. I mean full scale performance level dance. It helps me clear my head, so I can refocus. Dance has been a part of my life as far back as I can remember. Coco from Fame was my girl! I wanted to be her. I knew I could be her. I hadn’t yet figured out that my shortness was terminal and the world wasn’t ready for a tiny dancer. (See what I did there.)
My parents being supportive gifted me with a light blue leotard and matching stockings for my fifth birthday. They did not enroll me in a dance class. This unfortunately gave me license to roam the neighborhood in my leotard, stockings and tennis shoes. Coco walked around like that, why shouldn’t I? A year later, after many arguments about the appropriateness of leotards and stockings as playwear, my parents signed me up for dance class at the Pelagie Green Wren Academy of Dance.
Mrs. Wren was the first African American accepted into the chorus at the Muny (Municipal Opera of St. Louis), the largest outdoor theatre in North America. While she was there, the theatre had to provide her with a police escort for fear of racial attacks. I didn’t know any of this at six. I was just excited to have somewhere to go in my leotard.
Mrs. Wren’s school had a uniform. Black leotard with the lightest of pink stockings, pink ballet slippers and black patent leather tap shoes. I was nervous on the way to class. I had no idea what to expect. Fame was really my only frame of reference for dance class, but those were big kids. It probably wasn’t going to be the same.
When I walked into Mrs. Wren’s studio, I immediately knew I was in the right place. It looked just like the Fame set. But the best part was Mrs. Wren.She dressed just like Debbie Allen, but her voice and looks were more striking.I could tell immediately she wasn’t playing. This was the first dance class for many of us; some of us were barely in elementary school, so imagine the chaos. Mrs. Wren yelled “Quiet!” The room went silent. First lesson learned, when Mrs. Wren yells you listen. One by one she placed each girl in lines shortest to tallest in five lines across the studio. There were numbers on the floor, so we would remember our place. She started with the positions.
Then she yelled “Head to the bars quickly, shortest to tallest!” Everyone scattered and headed for the bars. I was so caught up in the scattering; I ended up in the middle of the line, (Behind a very tall girl.) Mrs. Wren demonstrated first position and said “Everyone watch and copy.” I leaned out from behind the tall girl to get a better look. Then Mrs. Wren said, “Second Position.” I was still leaning out, when I realized Mrs Wren was looking directly at me. I quickly jumped back in line, but it was too late, she grabbed me by the shoulder and walked me to the front of the line. Although it was a relief not to strain, I noticed something in the mirror.I was a half foot shorter than the next shortest girl.I knew I was short, but that’s really short.
I have been thinking a lot about Bullying lately. (I wonder why.) I spent a good portion of childhood being bullied. It was really awful and it has molded who I am as a person. Has it made me stronger? Sure, but it has also made me anxious. It has permanently changed the way I relate to people. Funny thing is bullies don’t fare much better.
How do we combat Bullying. The “We should all love one another doesn’t work.” Everyone isn’t going to love one another. Most of us won’t even like each other. We shouldn’t have to, to be respectful. The prepping of victims saying I love you, don’t worry about it. Those are awful people doesn’t work either. The Bullying won’t stop with that and the victim is continuing to be victimized. Then I started to think about what makes a bully successful and just like everything else, it takes a village.
There are five different types of humans in a bully ecosystem. Their definitions courtesy of Merriam Webster.
Bully-a blustering, browbeating person; especially: one who is habitually cruel, insulting, or threatening to others who are weaker, smaller, or in some way vulnerable
Toady-one who flatters in the hope of gaining favors.
Bystander-one who is present but not taking part in a situation or event.
Victim-one that is acted on and usually adversely affected by a force or agent.
Bullies are wounded people taking their pain out on everyone else. The group of people is being governed by one person’s feeling of inadequacy. That doesn’t make sense.
Toadies have low self esteem, but enough ambition to be the second in command of this dysfunctional power structure. They back up the bully. Even coming up with cruelty on their own, but only when the bully approves. They orbit around the bully hoping to always be in the sunlight of the bully. The problem is bullies are not loyal people. You can be the number 2 one day and replaced by another toady in waiting the next.
Contributors are freelancers, hoping to get a permanent position. Hopefully becoming a toady. Low self esteem, but a little lower than the Toady. Followers who act as henchman. The laughing chorus.
Bystanders are witnesses to the cruelty, but they don’t say anything one way or the other. Also afraid of getting caught in the backlash, they remain quiet.
Victims are by themselves. Any friends they may have had are scared off, because association may make them targets too. Some may have had a positive self esteem at one point until a bully gets a hold of them. They are different, something that distinguishes them from the herd.
Most people have exhibited behaviors from all four groups. It’s natural. What is unnatural is getting caught in a power structure that puts one person in charge by being mean and hateful. Why does cruelty mean power? It is exhausting for everyone involved. Why do we put up with this? Especially for children. Why are we allowing children to dictate how other children are functioning. I get it we all have to relate to each other and the world will never be perfect, but wouldn’t it be smarter to arm our children with tools to identify the problem and choke the power structure out. I am not advocating fighting physically. I am talking about strategies to stop the problem.
My first two years in New York I temped at Warner Music Group (Atlantic, Elektra and Warner). I was poorly paid, but after three months of unemployment, I could finally pay my rent and feed myself.
My first assignment was assembling press kits in the A&R Department at Atlantic. The department’s assistant was in the cube next to mine, so we chatted a bit while we worked.
Me: How do you like working at a music label?
Assistant: I love it!
Me: Cool! Is this what you always wanted to do? Do you want to move up?
Assistant: Yes, I do. Listen, don’t ever speak to the artists or ask for their autographs.
Me: Umm.. Ok. I hadn’t even thought of that.
Assistant: Cool, just don’t do it.
Me: Ok
In my head, I thought, Wait, did she just call me a groupie? I stopped asking her questions and focused on easier topics like lunch and the weather. On my last day of the assignment, the assistant asked me to cover for her next week. I gladly accepted, because cash.
The week was pretty uneventful until Wednesday, when I was walking back to my desk from the bathroom. I heard someone yell from one of the offices “Yo, yo, yo come here. Miss, Miss, Miss come here.” I looked around and realized I was “Miss.” I looped back, to find Fat Joe and his entourage packed into a tiny office. I was overwhelmed. That was a lot of manhood in a very small space whose attention was solely focused on me. I smiled a tense smile. I was nervous.
Fat Joe: What’s your name?
Me: Cara
Fat Joe: Nice to meet you.
Me: Nice to meet you too.
I feared this wouldn’t end well. I was talking to an artist. Something I had been warned about.
Fat Joe: So Cara….
Then like an Angel proclaiming Jesus’ birth I heard my boss calling out for me. My boss didn’t know my name, so he was just screaming “Hey.” I waved “Goodbye” to Fat Joe in the middle of the conversation and took off running back to my desk. I could hear Fat Joe yelling “Come on! Cara come back!” I went on with my work without acknowledging Fat Joe screaming my name from a few offices down. It was a perfect strategy since no one in that office knew my name. The noise of Fat Joe screaming, blended into the regular noise of the office, kind of like the noise the subway makes. A couple of minutes later Fat Joe’s record exec returned to his office and they began their meeting. I disappeared for lunch, so I wouldn’t see him on his way out.
A month later, I was back in that same department and I heard a woman’s voice in the distance say “Hi, how are you.” She repeated it over and over again. Her voice was getting closer with each “Hi, how are you?” Finally, she appeared from around the corner. It was Lil’ Kim! Lil Kim was at her peak back then. There was a half-naked, life-size stand up of her in the elevator bank. The elevator doors opened and there she was day in and day out, staring at me. When the real life Kim passed, she looked me dead in the eye and said “Hi, how are you?” Then kept moving down the aisle greeting everyone as she passed. It was a little surreal to go from stand-up Lil Kim, to the live version without any warning.
The star sightings were exciting, but they were my least important experiences at the record labels. They were my initiation into New York life. It’s where I learned to be tough.
New York has been on my mind, over the past few weeks. When things get difficult or uncertain, I do an audit, to determine whether this place is worth it. Obviously after fourteen years, the pros have won, but it has been a real struggle.
My first apartment in New York was a fifth floor walk-up, jr. one bedroom, that I shared with my former college roommate. The building was near the UN, so technically I lived in a good neighborhood. It’s just that my building was the ragtag outlier in the middle of doorman buildings filled with diplomats and bankers. The people living in my building had jobs, just not good ones.
Strangely there was a fancy restaurant on the bottom floor of my building. Bill Clinton ate there frequently, so did a colony of mice who migrated upstairs to sample our food. I developed a tick from seeing them scurry around my apartment. Yes, I attempted to kill them, but New York mice are smart. They don’t just willy nilly walk into traps. They walk up to the traps, sample the peanut butter and then peace out back to their nest until they get hungry again. I had one walk into the living room look at me dead in the eye and then keep on moving, like no big deal. Zero fear. Long after I moved, I would catch something out of the corner of my eye and my body would involuntarily jump. People at work thought I was crazy. I guess it could be classified as PTSD.
The amenities, shape and design of the apartment was also less than stellar. The bathroom was off the kitchen. The plumbing was so bad, the toilet frequently overflowed and flooded the kitchen. I went through a lot of bleach during those years.
The kitchen was ridiculous in itself. It had a sink and about a foot of counter space next to it. The tiny stove was directly in front of the counter, which made the counter useless. The stove was only partially useful. It had four burners, but you could only fit two pots on the stove at one time. The oven was so tiny and powerless it took six hours to cook a tiny turkey. Through all those complications, I managed to become a good cook.
I still think of those years in that apartment fondly. I had a great view. Bruno, the landlord, left the roof door unlocked, so the tenants could have an outdoor space. My neighbor Adrienne and I used to go up there to get air and smoke cigarettes. On the 4th of July, we watched the fireworks crowd free.
My photography idol Gordon Parks lived down the street. I came out of my apartment building one afternoon and there he was across the street. Like someone had placed him there for me. I screamed like a crazy person “Hi Mr. Parks!!!” He turned and said “Hello” very politely. I realized in that moment, maybe I needed to find my chill. The next time I saw him a couple of weeks later, I said “Hello, Mr. Parks,” calmly this time. I didn’t want anything from him, I just couldn’t believe my good fortune in living so close to a legend. I saw him a lot over the years. He was always pleasant and greeted me back.
While working at Time Warner, I got free tickets to a screening of the documentary Unstoppable: A conversation with Melvin Van Peebles, Gordon Parks and Ossie Davis. Mr. Parks was in attendance. After the movie, I rushed up to the stage with everyone else to finally properly introduce myself. When it was my turn to speak, He said
Gordon Parks: I remember you from the neighborhood.
Me: Yes, I am the crazy girl who screams at you from across the street. He laughed and grabbed my hand
Me: (Nervous giggle) I am a photographer and you have always been my favorite. You are someone I have tried to emulate.
Gordon Parks: Oh Thank You!
Unfortunately, our conversation was cut short because Melvin Van Peebles Sr. asked why I wasn’t as excited to meet him. Then Mr. Van Peebles proceeded to hit on me. That’s another story for another day.
Mr. Parks died a year later, in his apartment down the street. I am grateful I got to know him, even a little bit.
As a child, dreaming of moving to the city, this is what I envisioned my life in New York was going to be. I didn’t envision the struggle, but who does.
Last Tuesday I voted for Hillary Clinton. I took a voting selfie. (I hate selfies.) Maybe that should have been my warning for impending doom.
My section of Washington Heights is primarily white and liberal. On Tuesday, everyone was walking around smiling. They weren’t hopeful, they were sure they had won. They paraded around joyful, jubilant and smiling with their I voted stickers prominently displayed on their clothing. Joyful is an odd emotion for New Yorkers, so imagine my confusion.
There is no mystery that I am black. Black people are taught early, to never count on a sure thing. Suspicion should always be the first reaction, because the other shoe can and will drop. We can’t escape the world around us. We don’t have the luxury of being concerned one moment and then dropping it when we get too tired of fighting. Our lives and safety are directly effected. Most minorities understand this. With that said, as I was running my errands, it became eerily apparent, that I live in a whiteliberal bubble.
When I went to the post office, everyone was gleefully talking about voting for Hillary. A woman standing next to me in line told a postal worker that she had to get home to set up her victory party. I giggled. It was a nervous giggle. She paused and shot me a nasty look. Her look said, she was sure of her victory and how dare I penetrate her bubble.
Then Hillary lost. Everyone was stunned. I wasn’t stunned, I was sad. I ate Spaghetti Carbonara for two days and stayed off Facebook until Saturday. When I finally got back on Facebook, it had devolved into a misinformation highway. Misinformation coming from all sides. Indignant people spewing nonsense and yelling at each other.
It reminds me of my preparation skills in high school. I was often unprepared. Mrs Sweeney, my high school advisor, called me a “Big Dummy” at least once a week. She wasn’t being nasty. She wanted me to wake up and realize what I was doing to myself. I was wasting my potential by refusing to prepare, buckle down and learn. I am fairly confident, she would call all of us “Big Dummies” right now. We need Mrs Sweeney more than ever, but unfortunately she passed away.
So in her honor, I have decided to offer a service on this blog. I am going to address some of the misinformation I see being bandied about on Facebook. I am going to burst bubbles and it might make people uncomfortable, but I am only dealing in facts.
I will start with myself. I was one of the dummies who posted the bison at the Dakota pipeline. The story was they magically appeared. Like Indigenous people have some special communication with Bison. The real story is the bison were released on purpose. Still cool that the bison were part of the resistance, but not completely truthful. I got lazy that day.
The 2000 election between Gore and Bush was the last time someone won the popular vote and failed to secure the electoral college. Gore won the popular vote by 543,895.
I think it is pretty well established that I procrastinate my way through life. Some would even call me a Master at it. (See any of my past posts.) My friends Viking and Maya came to NYC last week. Viking actually stayed with me for part of the time. Most normal people would start preparing for guests at least the night before. Not me. Why, when you can run around like a crazed chicken? That sounds more like me.
Viking and Maya were due to arrive at my house last Tuesday afternoon. That morning, I woke up and realized my apartment smelled a little too much like me. Not bad, just not fresh. The dishes hadn’t been done fully for the last two days and dusting was two weeks overdue. Who am I kidding, I don’t dust. Dusting is futile in New York City. The minute you open the window, the black dust of hell comes and grips onto everything you own. Never the less, I had guests coming, so I had to pretend to be more domesticated than I am.
Unfortunately, Tuesday is also the day I wash my hair. Another thing, when I said I got up in the morning, morning is relative when you work for yourself. I get up between 11am and 12pm. That means I basically had two hours to wash my hair and clean my entire apartment. Procrastination death spiral!!!
In these dark times, you have to make choices for the greater good. I got into the shower, because greeting your friends smelling is never an option. I didn’t wash my hair, because that would take 45 minutes. I managed to get in and out of the shower in 20. I put on the jeans I had been wearing for the last four days and attacked the floors in the kitchen. I immediately realized sweeping wasn’t going to cut it. There were stains on the floor, that under low light blended into the woodwork, but under fluorescent light they became scarlet letters shining for everyone to see. Now I had to mop. I mopped that floor as quickly and vigorously as I could.
When the kitchen mopping was done, I took a towel with some furniture polish and ran around the living room dusting as many surfaces as I could. If anything was not directly under a light source, I didn’t take as much care. Instead of vacuuming, I picked up all the visible pieces of paper and dust bunnies off the rug. Then I mopped around the dining room table and between the chairs. Any visible piece of hardwood, I mopped. This was no time for moving furniture. I headed back to the kitchen and realized that my white cabinets, refrigerator and oven were stained, so I cleaned those very quickly. I cleaned the front half of the stove and put clean pots on the back burners. No one is gonna lift up pots.
The Bathroom!!!! There is no real way to skimp on cleaning a bathroom. You just have to do it. But, for times sake, I closed the shower curtain and decided to clean the tub before anyone needed a shower that night. Classic procrastination punt. I finished the bathroom with fifteen minutes to spare.
Unfortunately, I forgot the bedroom. I live with clothes on the floor. Laundry day is the cleanest day of the week in my bedroom. It’s the one day of the week, when I fold my clothes and put them away. As the week progresses, my clothes end up on the floor in piles. It is my way of keeping track of what I have already worn. Well, it was close to laundry day and my dresses, pants and shirts were all over the floor. I pile up all the wash and wears into a big ball and then all the dry cleaning into another ball and stuff them in the closet. I will deal with it later. Punt!
The front bell rang and another episode of procrastination junction is complete.
P.S. Go F*cking Vote! That is one thing this Procrastination Master/Nasty Woman doesn’t fool with and neither should you! There is more at stake than just the Presidency. Remember Congress hasn’t exactly been doing their job.
