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Dirty Bums

My very first concert was a New Kids on the Block concert at Six Flags.  I begged and pleaded with my mother to let me go un-chaperoned with my friends. My mother bottom lined it and said “Go with me or don’t go at all.”  The surly teenager in me didn’t want to be seen with her, but my love of the New Kids overrode the horror and embarrassment of attending with my mom.

Concert day arrived and I drove my mother crazy all day.  I wanted to go when the park opened at 8am (The concert didn’t start until 8pm.)  My mother threatened to call the whole thing off, if I didn’t cool it. So I cooled it long enough to get in the car.  We finally left at Noon and I forced my mother to listen to a NKOTB retrospective, during our 45 minute drive. (45 minutes was all it took to go through the entire New Kids catalogue.) When we arrived, one of the workers told us that we needed to head towards the amphitheatre right away, because the line had already started.  This set my teenage angst into hyper drive. I was relentless with the complaints. Some examples of my grievances: “I told ya so, I told you we weren’t going to get good seats, we’re going to miss it, you ruined this for me.” (I’m annoying myself now.)

We reached the line and my hopes of actually seeing the concert were dashed. The line was two blocks long and the amphitheatre was tiny. We joined the line anyway.  I quickly made friends with the people on the other side of the fence. (The other side of the fence was the front of the line, I’m no fool.)   My new friends eventually said “Hey you want to cut with us?”   I gave my mom the “I Love You Mommy Look” and she said “ok.”  Keep in mind, cutting the line would require my mother to crawl on her hands and knees in amusement park dirt (Eww).  The vision of my mother’s rear end crawling underneath the fence is still imbedded in my brain.  (That’s LOVE people!)  I just knew this was going to be the best day of my life.  I was going to see the New Kids up close and personal.  What more could a thirteen year old girl ask for in 1988?

The gates finally opened and everyone rushed in.  My mom and I got 8th row seats.  I was so close I thought I might get hit with Jordan ‘s sweat.  (Oh the joy!!!) The lights went down and Tiffany (the opening act) came out. I could have cared less about her, but a major problem revealed itself when she started singing.  Everyone stood up and I couldn’t see the stage. (Actually, I couldn’t see anything but the rears of the people in front of me.)  My hopes were dashed again.  I had worked hard and come so far, just to be stuck watching asses.  To add insult to injury, my personal space was being invaded by the foulest of smells.  I was gagging, it stank so badly.  I realized the smell was coming from the rears of the people around me.  I pouted and held my nose through most of the concert.  The only bright light of the whole evening was when a security guard rescued me and let me hang out in the orchestra pit for ten minutes.  That totally made up for the rest of the concert.  I could almost touch Jordan . (Cue 13-year-old swoon.)  It was all I wanted out of life.  I left the amusement park on a complete high.  My mother and I drove home to the sounds of NKOTB, until she lost her mind and pulled the tape out of the stereo. She also put the mother’s curse on me, you know the one.  “I hope you have a child just like you, yada yada.” (I don’t have any kids yet, so only time will tell if the curse worked.)

I went to two more concerts in high school with the same results. As soon as the concert started, I got the wrong end of the ass. I don’t go to concerts any more.  If I want to stare at random people’s asses, I’ll just ride the subway.

PSA: Little People are subject to YOUR ASS- Wash your nether regions. Little People come very close to your derrieres. We don’t choose it, it just happens to us.  Take a shower; wipe your ass- save a little person.

Bed Stuy Indian

Bed Stuy, Brooklyn has been my home for the past two years.  It’s no longer the place that people fear.  The old neighbors that remain are amazing and the new neighbors are trying to keep the feeling of the neighborhood.  There are still drug dealers and a couple of crack whores, but by and large, it’s really a great neighborhood. The violence of before is on the decline, but some of the amazing characters have remained.

The first morning I walked to the subway, I met my friend Indian. (The neighbors call him Indian. I have no idea what his given name is.)  He’s approximately 6 foot 3 and ethnically east Indian with a Caribbean accent.  I think he’s Jamaican, but I can’t be too sure.  He’s always intoxicated, no matter what time of day.  So most of the time I can’t tell what he’s saying.  He wears hip hop clothes and is probably in his 50’s or 60’s.  I don’t know where he lives, but I know where to find him or rather he knows where to find me.  That first morning, he came running out from one of the covered porches and gave me a huge hug and kiss and said “Respect mon.”  Then he said some other stuff that was unintelligible.

At night he used to hang out with the drug dealers and was usually so drunk he could barely stand up.  The dealers tried to get him to stop hugging me.  One time, one of the dealers put himself between the two of us and said “Man, she doesn’t want you to touch her.”  He didn’t listen and went right back to hugging me the next day.  Indian has changed sides of the street and currently hangs out with the old men who drink and play cards. He still runs over to greet me with a hug.

Over the past two years Indian has danced at me, sung to me and given me advice (I’m still working on translating the advice. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.)  Once he led me into the new neighborhood restaurant and then walked out.  I was standing in the restaurant by myself with the staff staring at me like, “What do you want?”  I told them that Indian just grabbed me off the street and led me in.  They gave a knowing look and laughed.   Sometimes he waves me over to tell me something important. I have never understood anything he has said, but I have grown to really like Indian. I know I’m home when he greets me.   It’s become a thing.

The Top Ten

Most Ridiculous Reactions to My Height

1. Patting me on the head (You don’t ever touch a black woman’s hair – EVER. There are men married to black women who have never touched their wives hair.)

2. Stopping, staring and then saying out loud “There’s a midget!.” Then smiling and saying “Hello”- (At that point I know you have been talking about me – I’m not deaf and you aren’t whispering.)

3. Starting a fake conversation by calling me someone else’s name, just so you can hear me speak.  (Sometimes I go along with it and ask some random question like “Wasn’t that a fantastic reunion last week?”)

4. Getting angry if I don’t want to stop and talk (I would suggest yoga, it calms the mind and you seem to have an anger management problem.)

5. Asking me how old I am? (Really, I shouldn’t even have to comment on this one.)

6. Asking me how tall I am (Anyone who has passed the second grade should be able to guess.)

7. Asking me if I can get you free tickets to the circus (Am I wearing a clown costume?)

8. Asking me if I am capable of having children. (No, apparently they ‘ve left that up to stupid people.)

9. Asking me how I have sex, “Is it regular?”  (If you have to ask  “Don Juan” then you don’t know what you are doing and I am not interested.)

10. Asking me to take a picture with you. (Unless I am commanding a 7 figure salary, I don’t do that.)

Bonus

11. Wow, you are really short! (WHAT?!!! I’d always wondered why I couldn’t reach the top shelves.)

Lifting the lid on a family tradition

CNN, New York, NY.

I grew up in St. Louis, MO which is considered the Midwest, but has some clear southern leanings. Barbecue and fried chicken were always around. One of my favorite meals as a child was a one-pot meal consisting of potatoes, green beans, carrots and cabbage boiled with a ham hock. My parents served it with a fresh batch of corn bread to soak up the juices – often called pot liquor or potlikker.

I never really thought anything about this meal other than I liked it. When you’re a kid, you generally don’t analyze your food that deeply. It’s either like or can’t stand. Flash forward to adulthood, when I started doing some personal research on the African American slave diet. I suddenly realized that what my parents were serving was the original soul food.

Most people think of soul food as heavy, greasy and fattening and plenty of it is. My family reunion wouldn’t be the same without BBQ, fried chicken and macaroni and cheese.

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Attack of the 4’2″ chef

CNN, New York, NY.

Living in New York City has its challenges, not the least of which is apartment size. With these tiny apartments come teeny tiny kitchens – which are manageable if all the “cooking” you are going to do is make a bowl of cereal or an occasional pasta dish.

Every New York home cook has their own way of dealing with the space issue. Most kitchens are built using all the available vertical space. Mine is no exception. What seems high to most people is actually towering for me. I’m only 4’2″.

To put it into perspective, the counters in my current apartment come to my shoulders. I have always had to use a stool, but this kitchen is sort of ridiculous. The bottoms of my top cabinets are at least five feet off the ground. My average height friends have difficulty in my kitchen.

Cooking has become an acrobatic exercise. To fix one meal you might see me climbing up on counters, leaning across the kitchen from my stool, so I don’t have to climb up and down the stool every time I need to get to the sink. I use kitchen tongs to grab things off the top shelves all the while standing on a stool or kneeling on the counter. It sounds strange and it probably looks strange but at least I am burning off a few calories before I eat.

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