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The Exes Week

I have a fair number of exes. At my age, unmarried and living in NYC, it’s pretty standard. What may not be so standard is my exes return again and again. They usually drop back into my life, in groups of three, in the span of one week. I like to call it what’s old is new again, disaster town or crawl into my hole and wait for next week. Since it happens pretty frequently, I should be used to it, but it stuns me every time. It’s Monday and this week is “The Exes Week.”

The first one arrived last night. L and I started as friends. He has always been there for me, but the age difference is too great. We are in different places in life, always have been and probably always will be. L actually saved me from J. Funny how their names are alphabetical. Anyway, L came back last night, we had dinner. Talked about what’s been going on in our lives and had a wonderful time. We never really ended our relationship. We just stopped seeing each other. He left last night and we promised to keep in better contact. The first ex that contacts is usually the nice one. The one I don’t mind seeing. It lulls me into a false sense of complacency.

The second ex who contacts, is always a disaster. A Sonic Boom. I got on Facebook after L left. When will I learn? There in my Facebook inbox was J.  J and I parted horribly. I will leave out the details, but it wasn’t pretty and was part of my horrible year last year. To say I never want to see or hear from him again is an understatement and yet there he was in my inbox. Not really the inbox, he was filtered into the other box. I ignored him, because nothing good will come from us speaking.

I went to bed last night and dreamt of Justin Bieber. I never dated Justin Bieber or anyone that looks like him. I don’t even listen to Justin Bieber’s music. Is it a sign? I don’t know. The only thing I can predict about exes week is that there will be three. So this week, I will sit and fret and think of all the possibilities. What if exes week is going alphabetical?What if it is going chronologically backwards which would explain explain L then J. Either way all signs point to O.  O and I haven’t spoken in a couple of months, by my choice. I am bracing myself for impact and hope the universe is kind. Maybe Justin Bieber will appear instead.

Out of Shape

Move you’ve got to move, move. Run, Run, Run!!!

I am admittedly out of shape. Ten years in a high stress newsroom with an unlimited candy supply has made me a little soft around the edges. Also, in my former neighborhood, I had an addiction to cabs. My cab rides became a social thing, as I became friendly with the drivers. It was a way of keeping my hand on the pulse of the neighborhood. This is what I told myself anyway.

When I left the job in May, I decided I was going to be a little less soft around the edges. My current neighborhood is perfect place to tone up. In Washington Heights everything is either up or down a hill. My little legs were going to be tone in no time. Well, maybe not no time. The first week away from the job I went out to get groceries and as I was hauling them back up the hill, an old woman with a walker threatened to pass me. I wasn’t having it, so I sped up and lapped her. I am not going to be fitness shamed by an octogenarian with a walker. Petty…

Unlike my candy addiction, my fitness goals are not something I stick to. I have weeks I walk everyday and other weeks I sit on my couch ordering mofongo. As I sit in my shameful, carbed out coma, I promise tomorrow will be better and then it isn’t.

The other day, I was rushing to get to the post office before it closed. I still haven’t conquered my lateness, so I got a Lyft down the hill. The only way I could justify taking a cab, was to promise myself that I had to walk the long way home through Fort Tryon Park. I made it to the post office with just two minutes to spare, but I made it, handled my business. As I was leaving the post office, I looked longingly at the short cut and then I made myself cross the street towards the park.

Once at the park, there is an easy route and one that is basically like climbing Mount Everest. I decided to take Mount Everest. Fitness will be mine!!!! As I am climbing, I pass two teenagers making out. They stop and stare because I am breathing heavily and sweating profusely. I hadn’t even come to the first fork in the path and I wanted to quit. I kept going, sweating and cursing under my breath.

A few minutes later, I reach the first fork. I pause and pretend I am not sure which way to go. I put on my confused face, so if I encounter anyone, they will think, “Oh, she’s lost.” Not, “Oh the little beggar is out of shape.”  I regain my breath, a little, and continue. My heavy breathing starts back up as the incline gets increasingly sharp. My body is contorted into a 45 degree angle as I climb. I see a man in his 60’s power walking down the hill in an 80’s parachute track suit.  Clearly he is in better shape than I and is smiling as he power walks. My face looks like someone is beating me. As we get close to each other, he says.

Man: MOVE! You’ve got to move, move.

He marches in place as he shouts words of encouragement. I am embarrassed obviously. My charade is blown. My own personal charade, no one else was fooled.

Me: I am going

Man: Run Run!!!!

Me:Yes got it.

His encouragement is annoying now, so I haul ass up the rest of the hill. I hear him screaming Move, Move as I turn the corner. I guess his plan worked. He embarrassed me enough, that I ran up the hill. I almost collapsed at the top, but I didn’t.

I walked the rest of the way home, slowly. As a reward for my efforts, I ordered mofongo. This fitness thing may never be mine.

 

Coping Skills

I haven’t been riding the subway much, during my sabbatical. In some ways, I have become a suburbanite. I stick to my neighborhood. There are places to get food and a really great park to watch the sunset. It’s not that I am avoiding the subway, it’s just not something that occurs in my daily life now. Yesterday, I had the pleasure of riding it to midtown and my coping skills were tested.

All New Yorkers have a very developed set of coping skills. This life isn’t normal. There’s the rotting trash in the summer. The overcrowded subways with people with questionable hygiene. Hauling food and furniture on the subway, because it seems like too much of a hassle to rent a car. This life is not for everyone, so you develop the skills or you leave.

My subway stop is two stops from the end of the A line. It’s pretty rare that I don’t get a seat, especially during non-peak hours. Yesterday was no different. I sat by the window, the seat next to me was open. It remained open for three stops and then a man forcefully plopped down next to me. All seemed fine until the doors closed and it began.

Nigga, Nigga, Nigga, why you lookin at me?

Nigga, why you lookin, step back Nigga.

There was no one near him except for me and I was staring forward.  When someone starts screaming, the NY thing to do is to go on lockdown. Don’t make eye contact, don’t acknowledge you hear anything, put your sunglasses on if you need to. It’s our version of closing our eyes, putting our fingers in our ears and screaming “La, la, la, la, la, I can’t hear you.” There is a reason the transit system’s motto is “If you see something, say something.” We have to be reminded to get out of our cocoons.

Try me Nigga!

It is still unclear who he is talking to. No one is engaged. I scan the car to see if he is actually addressing someone and I don’t see any acknowledgment from my fellow hostages. I say hostage because we are on an express train and relief is delayed. Also, if you acknowledge by getting up and walking away, you run the risk of becoming the target. I decide I need to see what my seatmate looks like. I quickly glance to my right. My seatmate is a Latino man in his 30’s, wearing dark sunglasses.  Despite the big sunglasses, I can see a star tattoo near his eye peeking from behind. That’s all the information, I could gather in my 20-second scan. I turn back and face forward. He didn’t notice me.

Nigga, you want to hold me. Hold me down like Rodney King. Try me Nigga. TRY….. ME….

Girl Power Nigga!

Girl Power….

Fuck that shit Nigga!

We reach the next stop and a woman tried to sit in the seat in front of us. Our subway kidnapper slams his feet on the seat as she is about to sit down. The woman quickly scoots to the seat next to it.

Nigga naw, naw Nigga!

He continues ranting and I keep my music on full blast, but I can still hear Nigga being thrown around.

The woman gets off at the next stop. The doors stay open for a while and she stands on the platform. It becomes clear to me she got off because of my seatmate. My seatmate is still ranting shifts towards me in the seat and then screams “Fat Bitch.” I assume he was talking to me, but I ignore and then he slams his foot on the seat in front of us and takes his shoe off. He starts wiggling his sockless foot around on the seat and pointing it at the man two seats from us. Everyone is still ignoring.  As you can see from the picture above, no one is acknowledging him. That’s his knee. Look at the people across the train. Most have their eyes closed. I can assure you they aren’t sleeping. That’s a coping mechanism.

I snuck the picture. I couldn’t get one of his face. I am a journalist, but I am no Christiane Amanpour and getting a picture of his face seemed one step too close to danger. My stop was the next stop, but the time in between 125 and 59th street is at least 8-9 minutes. I hold my breath and hope I can make it. Then I realize, I have to ask him to move his leg, so I can get off. How will I accomplish this? We pass 72nd street and I brace myself. My stop is next. Will I have to talk to him? Will he rage out.

We reach 59th street, I stand up and miraculously as the door opens my kidnapper puts his leg down and releases me. I run out of the car before he changes his mind. The car quickly fills up with more unsuspecting hostages. I turn around and wish them luck as the train leaves the station.

The Lion King of 190th

I miss my old neighborhood. I am really homesick for Bed Stuy. It’s fall and the trees on Jefferson Ave are gold and red. The street lights illuminate them in a way that makes the leaves look like twinkle lights.

Twinkle Trees Bed Stuy Trees

The sun as it’s setting lights up the brownstones in such a magical way. But all that beauty can’t match, the beauty in the people who live there.

Brownstones

I desperately miss the people. They grounded me. I used to be just a stoop away from a surrogate mother. In Bed Stuy, I was never alone and that may have hindered my writing. When I was procrastinating, it was really easy to sit on the stoop and chat the evening away with Miss Barbara. When I was feeling ugly, I would walk to the Bodega.  One of the old men who hung out at the candy store next to the Bodega would tell me how beautiful I was. It’s like they knew exactly what I needed when I needed it. A whole house of my best friends was around the corner. I may have not seen them every weekend, but they were right there.

The new neighborhood is not built to be communal in the same way. It’s more like the burbs. We know our neighbors to say hi, but have no idea what is happening in each other’s lives. If I don’t go to the grocery store, I may not speak to another human in the flesh for an entire weekend. During difficult times, it’s really lonely.

That’s why Bubakar has become such an important person in my life. Bubakar sells newspapers at the intersection of the elevators and the ramp at the 190th street subway station. It’s the perfect place to sell papers and to greet everyone on their way to work. When I get off the elevator, he says “Good Morning” with the biggest smile. He is missing one of his front teeth, but it doesn’t take away from his beauty. He’s probably in his late 50’s, with perfect dark brown skin.  His booming voice sounds like James Earl Jones in the Lion King.    

When I get off the elevator, he yells “run” if the train is on its way or if I just missed a train, I am met with “Don’t Rush.” On the days when I don’t have to rush, we chit chat a bit and he gives me a damaged paper for free.  As I am walking away, no matter if I am running or had to time to stop for a chat he screams “Have a nice day,” as I am walking away. It’s the best way to be greeted in the morning. I hate the mornings when I don’t see him.

India pt.1

India has 28 states with 22 official languages and 758 non-official languages. The food differs across states, religions and regions. It’s cuisine is as diverse as it’s people. I had the fortune to grow up with the traditional foods of Kerala, a state in the southwest corner of the Indian peninsula.  My other mother is from Kerala.  From birth to seven my other family, The Drs Berger (Sosamma and Nate) and their children lived next door. The two families were more like one big family. There were five children between the two houses (Chris, Josh, Ravi, Me and Sarina).  The youngest three (Me, Sarina and Ravi) were inseparable.  We spent our days running in and out of the two houses, tearing across the lawns and generally being nuisances to our older brothers.  When meal time arrived, we sat down at the nearest table and were fed. I spent a good portion of my early childhood eating Southern Indian food.  Sambar, Pappadums, vadas too many dishes to name.  Vadas were always a favorite snack of mine.  It’s a south Indian fritter that can be made from lentils, chickpeas or yellow pigeon peas. There are at least a dozen types of vadas, but I grew up on Parippu vadas.  They are made from yellow pigeon peas, chiles and spices.  Spicy, crispy and comforting, they are the perfect snack after a hard day of playing.

When I was seven the Bergers moved to Cleveland.  It was a total heartbreak for everyone, but we kept in touch.  So much so, that when Sarina and I were twelve, Dr. Berger asked my parents if she could take me to India for summer vacation. My parents agreed and that summer I was off on the biggest adventure of my life. When we landed in Mumbai, my brain went on overload.  The traffic was insane, the poverty intense and the beauty was overwhelming.  Nothing in my short life prepared me for this.

The food was also an adjustment.  My morning cereal came with goat’s milk and hamburgers were made of lamb.  It was just different.   Although I spent the first part of my childhood eating traditional Southern Indian fare, that did not prepare me for the food in Mumbai.  Our first night we went to a fancy restaurant with family.   I had no idea what was coming, but then the waiters arrived with two brightly orange colored chickens. I learned very quickly the magic of butter chicken.  The taste was so heavenly, Sarina and I each ate an entire chicken a piece. We spent the next three days going to sari palaces, dressmakers and taking in the sights.

We flew to Cochin in Kerala the morning of our fourth day.  Uncle Kunjappan met us at the airport and drove us three hours to their village.  Along the way, I watched the landscape change from jungle to village to red rock and back again.  The Keralan countryside was everything Mumbai was not, quiet and peaceful, but as we traveled deeper into the countryside, I felt like we were getting farther and farther from everything I recognized.  We arrived at Uncle Kunjappan’s house in the late afternoon.  It was a mid century dream nestled among the rubber trees and a flowing river that ran past the property.  Sarina and I shared a room on the main floor that opened onto the indoor pool.  The whole house was open, birds flew in and out freely and at night lizards ran on the walls and ceilings. When Sarina and I were bored, we chose lizards and pretended they were in a race.

The first night Isaac, the cook, made a traditional American meal to greet us.  Pot Roast, french fries and mixed vegetables.  I was a little homesick, so it was a welcome taste from home.

We spent the next three weeks hanging with Appachan Sarina’s 100 year old Grandpa.  He didn’t speak much English and we didn’t speak any Malayalam, but we communicated in other ways, mostly through food and physical comedy.   He insisted that we learn how to eat with our hand.  By the end of our visit, we were masters.

We spent the rest of our time, visiting family.  Uncle Johnny and Aunt Mary, Uncle George and too many cousins to mention.  Every time we went to a new house, a large platter of vadas greeted us.  Sometimes they also served banana fritters, but I wasn’t as concerned with those.  Vadas were my connection to home and to India all at the same time.  India changed my life and vadas were my connection to the two worlds.

 

Rasputin and Annie

The first day I went to work from new apartment, I ran into Rasputin and Annie on the subway platform. I was standing at the end underneath some water damage, when I looked to my left. There was an early thirtiesh couple walking towards me. The man, Rasputin, was skinny, pale, had a Rasputinesque beard and long stringy brown hair.   He was wearing a vintage leather trench coat, jeans and a floppy newsboy cap. He looked like the 70’s version of Rasputin.  Annie, his girlfriend, was dressed like Diane Keaton in Annie Hall.  High waisted pants, a silk blouse with high neckline and a leather vest. Her pants were rolled to the top of her granny boots.

They stopped just past me on the platform. I kept one eye on them, while we waited, because Rasputin had weird jerky movements. He was moving way too much for a Monday morning.  The train came and I got on through the second door and they got on at the next.  The car was basically empty, but Rasputin ran in frantically, stood in the aisle and stared at the empty seats.  His eyes were moving back and forth analyzing every open seat. He was paralyzed by all the choices. This is very strange behavior for a New Yorker, because we all have a favorite seat on the subway. I like a window seat facing backwards. When normal New Yorkers get on the subway and see their favorite seat is empty, they quickly put their derriere in it. There is no standing around gaping. Gaping is for tourists. I got tired of waiting for Rasputin to resolve the crisis in his head, so I chose the backward facing window seat to his right. He gave me a look like I cheated him and I gave him a look like “Oh well.” Rasputin and Annie sat across the aisle from me giggling the whole way. I put on my headphones and wrote.

The car filled to capacity at the next stop and remained at capacity all the way to 59th street, my stop. As we were pulling into the station, I gathered my stuff and started to think about making my way through the crowd. Rasputin started pushing his way to the doors while the train was still moving. He crawled over people’s legs, pushed past the people holding the poles creating confusion and annoying everyone along the way. When the doors opened he frantically ran out of the subway car. But, when he got to the middle of the platform he seemed confused. He started walking one way and then suddenly came back in the other direction.  He looked like he was participating in a modern dance performance because he kept going back and forth down the platform with really exaggerated movements. He was sort of leaping and flailing his arms. I was completely fascinated, but I needed to get to work.  I ran upstairs and headed for the escalator.  As I was riding up, Rasputin ran past me with confidence.  Unfortunately the confidence was not to last, because when I got to the top, he was confused again. He had gone in the wrong direction and come back.  I passed him on the sidewalk trying to work it out. I normally help lost people on the street, but Rasputin’s problems seemed more extensive than a quick, “Hey go straight and then make a left at the next block.”

Rasputin and Annie have become regulars in my life.  Rasputin continues to struggle with directions at 59th street.

Moving to the other side of the Earth

The best part of living in NYC is the people. If you aren’t meeting new people everyday, you are wasting your time here. When I move to a new neighborhood, part of my adjustment period is finding my regulars. The people I see everyday, that will become the foundation of my life. They become part of my routine, no matter how annoying. I have found a few in Washington Heights. There’s Rasputin and Amelia Earhart, the newspaper guy with the Lion King voice and Julio the Super.

I met Julio on one of my visits to measure my new apartment. I was walking back to the subway when he stopped me on the sidewalk. Julio is an attractive middle-aged man with a full head of silver-grey hair.

Julio: Habla espanol.
Me:Un poquito
Julio: Usted Dominicana?
Me: No

Now that I live in a Dominican area, everyone thinks I am Dominican. Unfortunately, my high school Spanish doesn’t get me very far. I get the sideeye more often than not, like I am letting my people down. I see the disgust in their faces. There is usually some awkward exchange where I try to explain that I am black from the midwest in broken Spanish.  Sometimes people believe me and sometimes they don’t, but that’s not the point of this story. Back to Julio.

Julio: My name is Julio. You live here now? I haven’t seen you around before.
Me: Almost, I am Cara.
Julio: Well, I am the super for this building right here.
Me: Ok great
Julio: Where do you live?
Me: Over there.  (I point down the hill, but without a definitive direction.)
Julio: Oh on Fort Washington?
Me: Yes, near there. (Which is the truth, but not really specific.)
Julio: Can I get your phone number? (Julio is very clearly wearing a wedding ring.)
Me: Oh I have a boyfriend
Julio: But we could just be friends (Friends=Booty Call)
Me: Um I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate me giving you my phone number. But it was lovely meeting you.
Julio: Oh,ok
Me: Bye
Julio: See you soon.

I walked away knowing that Julio was still staring at me and that we were going to have similar conversations in the future. I wasn’t wrong.

Three weeks after I moved in, I met Julio again.  I was rushing to the subway on my way to work, per usual. The garbage was lining the streets and the trash truck was slowly picking up all the old furniture and rotting trash from the weekend. I looked over and caught eyes with a portly black man in a building uniform.  I smiled and kept walking.  He ran over and stood in my path.

Derrick: Hi, I am Derrick
Me: Nice to meet you, I am Cara.

Then Julio ran up from out of nowhere and stood next to Derrick and then I realized what happened.  I had been trapped.  Derrick was sent by Julio to stop me until he could get there. Derrick is Julio’s assistant in the building as well as in trapping ladies on the street.

Julio:  Hi, remember me?  We met a couple of weeks ago.
Me: Yes, how are you?
(Derrick was standing there with a stupid grin on his face just staring at me.)
Julio: Great! You moved in?

Me: Yes, thank you. It was great seeing you.  I am a little late to work.
Julio: Well see you soon.

I ran down the block to the subway station and that little exchange caused me to miss the train. I watched as my dreams of being on time, pull out of the station.

This week I ran into Julio again.  I often wear my noise canceling headphones to block out the outside world. They are usually my protection.  I was almost at the entrance of subway when I felt someone next to me.  I looked to my left and Julio was walking with me trying to get my attention.  I jumped a little and took off my headphones.

Julio: I have been calling you.
Me: I can’t hear anything with these on.
Julio: Are you on your way to work?
Me: Yes
I kept walking, because I was really late. (Disclaimer:I had been working since 7am.)
Julio: Ok, I will catch you on the way back. When will you be back here?
Me: Oh 6 or 7.
Julio: Ok, well I will see you then.
Me: Ok

I get home at 8pm and had no intention of meeting Julio on the way back. But, I am sure I will see Julio a lot while I live here.

 

Too much Facebook leads to envy and depression

CNNMoney, New York, NY.

Constantly checking Facebook to see what your friends are doing could lead to some serious depression.

A recent study conducted by researchers at Nanyang Technological University, Bradley University and the University of Missouri Columbia found that heavy Facebook (FB, Tech30) users can experience envy — which can ultimately lead to extreme sadness.

The researchers surveyed 736 college students and found that, basically, if you quietly stalk your friends on Facebook and then realize that your life doesn’t measure up to theirs, you feel bad about yourself.

“If Facebook is used to see how well an acquaintance is doing financially or how happy an old friend is in his relationship — things that cause envy among users — use of the site can lead to feelings of depression,” said Margaret Duffy, a professor at the University of Missouri School of Journalism.

Read full article

The most ridiculous things people do to their company iPhones

CNNMoney, New York, NY.

Company phones are supposed to be a convenience for the employee and the employer.

They’re electronic leashes that bind people to their jobs no matter how hard or far they try to run — but they’re free smartphones that can save people thousands of dollars a year in wireless bills.

So, you would think that people wouldn’t care that much about the type of company phone they are issued. You would be wrong.

In my experience as an office administrator, I’ve found that people care a little too much. They worry about the color and the generation. Will they get the one with all the latest features? Can they upgrade early because the new model is cooler and fancier? Since the company is paying, cost is no object.

Read full article

Philadelphia: The Salad Dressing King

When Reuben and I settled in Northeast Philly, we had a local called Arugula.  They had great chicken cheesesteaks and cheap drinks.  It was a diner/bar at the bottom of a hill in the center of a three-way intersection.  They had cloth napkins, vinyl booths and a jukebox that seemed to be stuck on “Hey Nineteen” by Steely Dan.  You would find us there almost every evening drinking beers and chatting with the bartender, Tracy.  Tracy was a pretty woman with long bleach blond hair.  She is one of those women who is pretty in her youth, but because of smoking and drinking wasn’t going to age well.  She was thirty, which already seemed pretty old to me. I was 23.

One afternoon, I got off early from work and raced back to Northeast Philly. I got back too early to pick up Reuben from work.  My young dumb self rationalized it would be best to wait for him at Arugula. I mean, Reuben worked just up the hill from Arugula and who doesn’t love a little day drinking?  Home was an extra two minutes away and I had to pick him up in an hour, makes sense, right? Oh 23, dumb, dumb 23.

When I got there, Tracy greeted me with her normal enthusiastic “Hey!!!”, like I was Norm at Cheers. I ordered a pint of whatever was on special.  There was a man at the end of the bar who looked like a construction worker, his name was Gary. He had a perfect Fu Manchu and was wearing a t-shirt with no sleeves. The Fu Manchu has always been a popular choice in Philly.  This was the late 90’s, pre-hipster ironic facial hair. Gary was Tracy’s boyfriend. The three of us chatted it up, mostly about traffic.

About a half-hour later, the front door opened and an older gentleman walked in.  Tracy said, “Hey Morty!”  I had never seen him before.  I also had never been to Arugula at 3 pm on a Thursday. Morty was an older gentleman in his early to mid 70’s.  He was wearing pleated light blue Bermuda shorts, an elastic waisted shirt, white knee-high dress socks, dress shoes, and a straw fedora.  It was everything you would expect from an elderly man named Morty in Northeast Philly. He sat down and ordered a whiskey and we continued chit-chatting.  Eventually, Tracy and Gary broke off and were having a private conversation at the other end of the bar.   That left me and Morty to chat.  We talked about everything. I didn’t have much to say, I was 23 and answering the phones at a Medicaid HMO. Morty had a lot to say. He was divorced with two children. He referred to his ex-wife as “That Bitch.” It seemed a little harsh, but who am I to tell my elders how to speak. He also told me about his business. He, along with his brother, supplied the finest restaurants in Philadelphia with their salad dressing. Morty then referred to himself as the “Salad Dressing King of Philadelphia.” Then Morty started droning on about his new Cadillac.  He begged to go out and look. I knew he wouldn’t shut up until I looked, so I went to the front door and stared out the window. It was big and white and looked expensive. He started listing off its features, leather heated seats, sunroof, and a cd player. I pretended to be impressed.

The jukebox started playing Beat It. Tracy started singing and my attention went back to the bar. I was finally relieved from Cadillac talk. Tracy grabbed Morty’s fedora and did the Beat It dance behind the bar. Then Morty got up and did a little dance in front of the bar. It was a dance you might see a grandpa doing at a Bar Mitzvah. Morty really seemed to be enjoying the company, because he started buying the drinks. (SCORE)  I was having a great afternoon.  I got off work and I was drinking for free.  Life was grand at 23.  Tracy went back to Gary, so Morty and I were alone again.  He seemed to be getting drunk and started slurring his words.  I guess six whiskeys is a lot, what did I know.  We continued our chat, but Morty was making less and less sense. Then out of nowhere Morty leaned over and whispered

Morty: I want to take you to Jersey.
Me: Oh really, why? (I swear to you I was this innocent.)
Morty: I want to rent a hotel room and tie you up.
Me: Um……..Um…..

Morty smiled a very drunk horny smile.

I blurted out “I have a boyfriend!”

Morty’s face changed.  He was enraged.  The same venom with which he spoke about his wife, he leveled at me.

Morty: You are lying!!!!  (He was spitting and gesticulating.)
Me: I swear to you I am not. (I totally was.)

I yelled to Tracy and said, “Hey, don’t I have a boyfriend?”  Praying she would catch on. She did and said, “Yes, she does, they live together.”

Then Gary got in on the action and said: “Oh her boyfriend is so nice.”

Morty was screaming at me at this point about how I led him on. He paid his bill and stood at the door screaming some more. He called me a cock tease and a bitch among other things.  If he hadn’t been wearing orthopedic shoes and white dress socks, I might have been scared, but instead, I was just stunned.  I was nervously giggling. I didn’t think it was funny, but I was so shocked I was no longer in control.  I think it made him angrier, because Morty stormed off in his Bermuda shorts, but not before flipping me the bird.  This man looked like one of my Grandpa’s friends and he was calling me a cock tease.  How do you even process a grandpa calling you a cock tease? When the Donald Sterling scandal came out, I thought of Morty. He’d be in his 90’s now.

Mariah Carey slammed over NYC Christmas gig

CNN, New York, NY.

Mariah Carey is known for her five-octave voice, her slinky dresses and her many hits, including “All I Want for Christmas is You.”

Unfortunately, she is also known for her tardiness. And her behavior this week at the Rockefeller Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony in New York won’t do anything to help that reputation.

Because of her history, NBC decided to tape Carey singing her holiday classic before a live audience Tuesday night, then air it Wednesday for the network’s coverage of the 82nd annual Rockefeller Center tree lighting.

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I Lied To You

When I was 18, I ran away from St. Louis.  I ran away from it’s racism.  I rarely spoke about it, when I was there.  Mainly because I knew what many of your reactions would be. “Don’t be silly.”  “That isn’t what is happening.”  “That’s not racist.”  “You aren’t like the others.”

I was the only black kid in my grade at Catholic school and one of four in my high school class.  It takes a lot for a kid to speak up when you are the only one.  I was already advocating for myself because of my height.  Speaking up about race was too much.  So, I lied to you and I am sorry for that.

I let the comments “You are cool for a black person.” and “You aren’t like the rest of them” go.  I didn’t know what to say.  It hurt.  They were little gut punches, but I kept it to myself.  I feared being ostracized and that wasn’t something I was willing to risk back then.

The one time I did speak up was in religion class at Nerinx.  We were getting ready for prom, which was being held on a river boat.  Our teacher asked how we were feeling about it.

A girl raised her hand and said

I am scared. We are going to be downtown, where the black people are. I am afraid I am going to get raped. My father said all black men want to sleep with white women.

Once again, I was the only black kid in that class.  I was sick to my stomach.  That girl was talking about my relatives.  I am sure she didn’t think it through and didn’t really mean it. But, never the less she was talking about my father, brother, cousins and uncles.  That is a lot for an afternoon religion class.  The teacher asked for comments from others, so we could discuss.  The teacher never addressed the racism.  She just left it hanging in the air.

I raised my hand. I was too upset to control myself and I said

My father and brother are both black men and they wouldn’t touch you with a 10 foot pole.

The teacher freaked out and said

Cara that isn’t constructive!

But, I was seventeen and that’s the best I could do.  The racism was still never addressed.

I went to Loyola in Chicago and it was better.  There were more black people and we could discuss the issues freely and openly in class. But, I still held my tongue in private, when my friends made comments about black people.

I didn’t start getting really honest with myself, until I moved to Bed Stuy five years ago.  I watched as the police pulled over my neighbors for walking down the street.  I watched as they questioned them, while their children stood next to them.  I sat with teenagers being held in the subway by police, because they are black.  Fifteen and fourteen year olds, on their way to school, but now they have the indignity of being frisked.  This is all before they reach their first class.  Imagine what that does to your psyche in high school.  I think it would be pretty hard to concentrate on your studies after that.  Bed Stuy has made it impossible for me to hide from the state of my people and I can no longer be quiet about it.

So, I will apologize for not being honest.  We are friends and I should have said something earlier.  I didn’t have the words or the courage.  I am saying it now and as a friend I hope you will accept my apology.

For those of you who say your children will never talk back to cops.

Ummm… Remember, I hung out with you and watched you talk back to cops. I saw you drinking underage, drunk driving, peeing in the street and smoking marijuana.  Some of these activities happened in junior high (and some as early as grade school.) I know you. Why would your children be above that, you weren’t? It’s part of growing up. I know I did my fair share of rabble rousing.

Sorry Mom and Dad.

For those of you who ask “Why protest in the mall and disrupt business? What does that do?”

Remember the Civil Rights movement.  Do you remember Rosa Parks? The boycott she started crippled the Montgomery municipal bus system.  We all think that’s pretty cool now. Well, why not now in St. Louis? Rosa Parks was a badass.  So are Amy Hunter and Antonio French.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montgomery_Bus_Boycott

Protesting peacefully in malls during Black Friday is fair game.  What point would it be to protest in a corner.  Social change is supposed to hurt. It’s like surgery to fix a ruptured tendon.  It’s messy and will get messier if left unattended.  You have to listen.

The black community is standing with an open wound and please if your next comment is “Well it’s their fault.”  Just don’t comment, until you read about the Jim Crow laws.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Crow_laws

and in St. Louis’ history

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shelley_v._Kraemer

http://www.stlmag.com/Mapping-the-Divide/

This is my neighbor who fought against blockbusting in University City.  His wife Joy and daughter Denise are still fighting for change.

http://www.stltoday.com/news/local/obituaries/larry-lieberman-dies-fought-block-busting-helped-delmar-loop/article_79382c7a-3578-5a70-bd53-8f9dde15dda7.html

After reading these articles, If you still think it’s all black people’s fault, you aren’t looking for change and your comments will not be constructive. Don’t bother.

Some black people’s reaction to injustice has not been constructive.

Rioting is not constructive, because it’s like depression; anger turned inwards. That doesn’t mean you get to shut down and pray that this one blows over quickly.

If someone is sick do you say,

“Oh well sucks to be you, it’s your fault.”

If a person says “Hey I don’t feel well?”

Do you say “Suck it up?”

I went to Catholic school with many of you and I have seen your Facebook posts about attending church.  Are you listening, when you go?  Or, are you tapping your foot, thinking about the doughnuts afterwards?  I am not going to lie, I think a lot about doughnuts, while in church.  But, I still remember the hours of religion class I spent with you learning about Jesus.  We were taught, Jesus was kind, forgiving and willing to lend a hand.  That’s what I remember from my years of religious education.   I also remember the annual Lenten Jesus Christ Superstar screening in grade school and giggling with you about the ridiculous clothing.  Weirdly, as an adult, I dress like I am in the touring production of JC Superstar.

This isn’t the time to talk about it.  

When, tell me when? Let’s make an appointment. I’ll show up, will you?

This isn’t how to go about it.  

How, tell me how?  Let’s have a discussion.

This doesn’t effect me.

Well, then we aren’t friends.  Because if my pain, isn’t yours, then you aren’t really a friend.

We are too young to be this closed minded.  The language some of us are using sounds like we were raised in the Jim Crow South.  WE WEREN’T!  WE ARE TOO YOUNG!  WHY ARE WE ACTING LIKE OLD PEOPLE?  We should be excited that America might finally have equality.  We should be joining in and figuring out how we can help.  This is exciting.  This is democracy.  You should be teaching your children about it.  This is how we keep moving. PROGRESS

When you decide you want to talk about it and realize that my pain is yours, I will be waiting right here.  I have known you for years, this is personal to me.  You should respect and validate my feelings.  They are my feelings, they can’t be wrong.  Note: I didn’t say opinion, I said feelings.