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When I came back to the Crescent Inn
to pick up our order–chicken parm dinner, spaghetti and sausage, flounder and shrimp, and chicken tenders–the red-haired woman behind the counter was packing it up
She wore a leopard-print mask that fell slightly below her nose
On her left arm were tattoos of origami cranes
On her right arm a purple dahlia
She was telling me that she was just waiting on one more salad and the chicken parm when another customer walked in
A short, round woman with a brown ponytail, wearing a pink shirt
She was wearing a disposable mask
but asked the red-haired server–I’ll call her Dahlia–
if she could have a mask from the box on top of the counter
Dahlia said, “they’re a dollar,” and the customer–I’ll call her Karen–seemed
disgusted, as if Dahlia had said, “they’re pre-infected with COVID.”
Karen announced, “I’m here to pick up an order!”
and Dahlia said, “Yes, ma’am, I’m just packing up this lady’s order and I’ll be right with you.”
“I ordered an hour ago!” Karen proclaimed, although she had just walked into the restaurant.
“I’ll get your food as soon as I can,” Dahlia said, while checking and double checking that all of the items in my order were present, including the little containers of ranch dressing for the side salads, and the garlic bread that was actually just buttered toast, maybe with a hint of garlic powder, wrapped in brown wax paper. “I’m just one woman.”
Evidently this comment provoked Karen. Perhaps she thought Dahlia should be several women.
“Why you gotta treat me like shit?” Karen asked. I stood up straighter and shifted away from Karen as subtly as I could manage.
“I’m sorry?” asked Dahlia. “What did I do to upset you?”
“You’ve been treating me like shit from the moment I walked in here,” Karen explained, as if using logic. “Will you hurry up and get my f***ing order? I’ve never been in here before but I’m being treated like shit. Is Mike here? Mike knows my sister.”
“He is here,” Dahlia said. “Would you like to speak to him?”
“No, but he knows my sister!” Karen reiterated.
Dahlia looked at me and I looked at her, eyes wide. “You wanted ranch with that salad?” she asked, even though she knew. “Yes, please,” I answered, with all the politeness of a person who had definitely not been treated like shit and had not witnessed anyone else being treated like shit, other than the way Karen was treating Dahlia.
Dahlia used the opportunity to go into the kitchen to get the ranch dressing, murmuring an explanation of what was unfolding out front. I expected a manager or someone authoritative to come out to appease Karen. Instead, a man with a gray mustache came out, surreptitiously looked around, and dumped a bucket of clean silverware onto a dishtowel on the counter. He returned to the kitchen.
While Dahlia was in the kitchen, Karen muttered to herself about how she had been treated. I continued to inch away.
Finally Dahlia finished packing up my order and handed it to me. “Here you go, honey, you have a wonderful evening. Enjoy your dinner!” she said in a tone that said, “look how I am pleasant and definitely do not treat customers like shit!”
“Thank you so much,” I said, “You have a good night” in a tone that I hope conveyed, “I’m so sorry that this lady is being so inexplicably rude to you and I would have definitely said something to her if I had not been afraid she had a gun, which is not an unreasonable fear given the culture of impulsive gun violence in our country, including a recent episode in which a security guard at a dollar store was shot to death by a customer who did not like being asked to wear a mask.” Hopefully she understood.
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At bedtime these days I am reading a book with Zeke called The Last Kids on Earth. The one we’re reading is the first in a series of six (so far) which has also been made into a show on Netflix. Normally I don’t go in for books about hordes of disgusting zombies and gigantic, stinky, oozy monsters, but 1) the writing is quite good and pretty funny and 2) every single night when I read with him I think, “at least we don’t have zombies and monsters in real life (yet)!”
The Last Kids on Earth was recommended by several parents in my recent quest to find new chapter books for Zeke since the library has been closed for several months and he’s read most of the books we our house. I ended up buying a lot of books, which should surprise no one. My approach to solving all problems is by reading.
This explains why I have also been dividing my book buying among independent book stores where I already shop (One More Page, Politics and Prose, and Solid State Books) and two Black-owned bookstores (Mahogany Books and Loyalty Bookstores) and Thrift Books, a used book website. I have been trying to buy less of everything from Amazon because of Jeff Bezos’ terrible labor practices. I would like to stop supporting Amazon entirely, but I’m not there yet. It’s really convenient. But I’m trying.
The books I’ve bought from all these stores (online of course) include chapter books for Zeke, YA books for Zoe (and me), and a small library of books (for all ages) by Black authors and activists including fiction, history, memoir, and guidance on how to be an anti-racist. And of course I bought t-shirts from all the bookstores too, to feed my t-shirt habit. Don’t judge.
Some of the books I bought were recommended by or written by some of our favorite authors–Kwame Alexander, Jacqueline Woodson, and Jason Reynolds–who spoke during an online Black Lives Matter rally last Thursday night sponsored by the Brown Bookshelf. I think at this point I have perused every recommended reading list circulating on the internet. Our family is nothing if not broadly read. We have always read books that provide both mirrors (characters like us) and windows (characters who are different than us) but now seems like a good time to open more windows.
I have been hesitant to write lately because I am struggling with the idea that my voice is not what needs to be heard right now. On the one hand, there are other voices that should be elevated. On social media, I am working to do just that. On the other hand, I don’t think am being asked to silence myself. Am I? I don’t claim to be an expert on racism or on Black people’s experiences. I can only speak from my own experience as a white person and an ally. And I think it can be useful for me to speak up as an ally. But how much is the right amount to speak? And where and when?
Throughout many recent conversations with friends–most of whom are moms–a recurring theme is what is the right thing to do? What do we ask of our kids this summer? What is safe? What is worth the risk? When do we protest? When do we hold space? What will we do in the fall? How do we balance the needs for learning, safety, community, and justice? None of us have figured out the answers yet.
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At a picnic table
at a pumpkin patch
playground with goats
and apple cider donuts
my kids and I and a friend
sat eating hot dogs and nachos
I was surprised to smell smoke
and looked around to see who was smoking
in the pavilion where people were eating
and where we were surrounded
by hay
At the table next to us were
four Muslim women
all wearing hijabs and long robes
They were drinking tea out of
delicate china demitasses
decorated with flowers
The tea was in a tall red and black checked thermos
that looked like a man in a hat with earflaps would fill
with black coffee to take on an early morning outing
The women were laughing
and one of them was smoking
I have never seen
a woman in a hijab
smoking a cigarette
She looked so relieved
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Originally published on invocations.blog |
They were invited
to take off their shoes and socks
which is usually NOT allowed at school
but this was barefoot day
in kangaroo class
On the concrete floor the teachers
had taped down
bubble wrap
(the kind with big bubbles and the kind with small bubbles)
that padding that goes under carpet
and lengths of textured yellow foam–
packing material that could be a topographical map
of another planet
Along one wall
of the classroom
they laid out a long sheet
of brown butcher paper
with gallons of bright paint at one end
Each child who wanted to
(which was not everyone–
some built train tracks or
sculpted play dough or
did wooden puzzles of
farm animals and vehicles)
chose red or yellow or blue paint
and the teachers poured a puddle
onto a square of bubble wrap
and the child stepped in
The teachers had to hold the hand
of each child as they squished their toes
into the paint
because paint on bubble wrap
can be quite slippery
when you’re two or three years old
Walking along the brown paper path
they left small footprints
until they came to the end
where I had filled a big blue basin
with warm water
and they stepped in
and i washed their feet
with my hands
even though they did not know me at all
they leaned on my shoulders
to steady themselves
as I gently lifted one foot
and then the other
to wipe away the paint
Then I held their hands
as they stepped out of the water
onto a towel
where I dried their feet
and wiped off smears of paint
from their ankles that I had missed
(there was still some paint between their toes,
but I had to keep the line moving)
Soon they would return
having left more footprints
now in blended colors
because eventually all the paint
mixed together
and I would wash their feet again
and now they knew me as the lady
who was there to wash and dry
their feet
(still between their toes the paint clung)
and they smiled at me
in wonder,
so delighted by what they had done
At the end, one of the teachers decided
to walk through the paint and
down the brown paper path
and one of the little girls
quickly took her hand
to walk beside her and make sure
she was steady
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(originally published on invocations.blog)
So much is out of our control
who moves in next door
who doesn’t clean up
after their dog
on the sidewalk
in front of
your house
When the bus finally arrives
Whether the check
is in the mail
How your boss
behaves
How anyone
behaves
Who lets you in when
you’re trying to
turn left out of your
neighborhood onto
Columbia Pike
Who stops when
you’re trying to
cross the street
Who is having a bad day
and takes it out
on you
who holds
the door open for you and
all the kids you’ve brought along
and smiles and doesn’t seem to mind
that they are oblivious to the fact of the door
How viruses mutate
whether the nurse assigned to your room
has ever taken care of a patient like you before
Whether the people in charge of your country
decide to start a war
against another country or
against you
Whether someone who looks like you–even a little bit
commits a crime
What DNA you inherit
What your mother did
or did not do while you were
becoming human
Whether she brought you
into the world with joy
or despair
Whether you get put in the class
of a kind kindergarten teacher
or one who should have
already retired or found
another steelier line of work
So much is out of our control
it is a miracle that we find
at the end of the day that
a single thing we set out to do
has been done
A testament
to our optimistic persistence
that we write out
yet another to do list
naively determined to try again
even though
so much is out of our control
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(originally published on invocations.blog)
My main skill
on the soccer field
is getting in people’s way
Also I can cheer
I am not fast
No matter how many
games I play
or watch
I cannot see
what needs to happen
beyond my need to kick
the ball away from me
toward someone who will
know better than I do
what to do with it
Nothing that happens
on a field
or with a ball
or on a court
or in a pool
or on a track
or on a mat
comes easily to me
This is not to say I am weak
because I AM strong
I can be fierce
and determined
and endure
but it is
never
ever
easy
I watch my teammates
sprint toward the ball
maneuver around our opponents
boot the ball gloriously
through the air
with what seems
to me like
no effort at all
I hear them talk about the other team’s
offense and defense
and which players
are the ones
to watch
“All we need to do is…”
they explain
on the sidelines
but I don’t
really
understand
still I will jog onto the field
and see who I need to
get in the way of
when she has the ball
and maybe steal the ball
if i’m lucky
and pass it
and cheer loudly
for whoever
takes it down the field
to score
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We are the broken branches,
splintered by the wind
We are the thousand twigs
scattered across the yard
We are the enormous, unshakeable oak
—apparently we are actually shakeable—
that boomed to the ground, just barely missing the house
Uprooted
leaving a chasm of earth
displacing those who depend on us to live
We are the bird that picks up those twigs to build a new nest
We are the squirrel that finds acorns revealed by the fallen oak
We are the ancient elm propelled by the storm onto a car
Shattering the windshield, crumpling the roof
(we are also the car)
We are the friends who came and cut up the tree
While we were working a weekend shift at our second job
We are the firewood shared with neighbors and the warmth it provides
We are slices of elm for playgrounds and pathways
We are the people who walk or jump across them
We are the wind
We are the calm after the wind subsides
Betsy Rosenblatt Rosso
March 10, 2018
