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August 18, 2006
THE PROMENADE
Each morning, I make it a habit to take a walk to the Brooklyn promenade to grab a seat on one of the good benches in the shade before the yuppies and their gargantuan baby carriages take them over. Besides, I'm reading this book about writing that tells me I need to get in touch with myself, get in touch with nature so that I can finally write this damn story that's apparantly stalking me. It's fucking up my life because apparantly, until I tell it, I'm going to be one miserable human being. I don't want to be miserable forever so I figure it's about time to start telling the story but first, I need to write. Just observe my surroundings, don't think about it. Just write...
...O.k. I'll try.
It's my lucky day-I get a bench all to myself, right in the shade. Now I can get down to business. It's nice, quite and peaceful here. Nobody surrounding me, bombarding me with their overwhelming presence. I'm not all squished up beside someone, there are no armpits in my face and life is good. Great. Time to write. I put my headphones on click my Ipod clicker to Ben Harper, press play and I'm in writing mode. Time to create. Yup. That's me. The writer. Getting ready to write...Look at me. I'm a writer. I am in touch with my surroundings...I am...writing...See my pen touch paper...See me observing...
I'm sitting here on this bench staring at stupid pidgeons beacause I'm tired of work. I'm tired of working at work. I'm tired of being tired of working. I would rather sit here on this bench and watch pidgeons fight over bread crumbs. What is the purpose of pidgeons? Why are there so many of them and what do they do? O.k...so I'm getting in touch with something...ewww, that pidgeon is not attractive. It has black gnarled looking feathers and It's just perched on the fence with a blank look on it's face, staring out with beady, calculating eyes. It looks tired and miserable. Actually that damn bird reminds me of my grandmother. A few minutes pass with me noticing the many similarities between this funny-looking bird and my grandmother when I notice my arch nemesis approaching. She is the first of many that will appear today.
She is the prima donna baby mama strolling down the promenade lookin' cool in her oversized shades. One hand casually pushing the gargantuan stroller, the other hand holds some kind of latte. Don't ask me how I know it's a latte, I just do. She looks like a latte kinda mom. She sits on the bench in front of me and instantly I'm pissed at her for enjoying the view and not having to go to some dreadful nine to five locked up in a cube somewhere listening to someone spout irrelevant bullshit in your ear while you pretend that what they say is of importance to you and will somehow impact your life in some meaningful way. Meanwhile you already know all the shit they are telling you but your too polite to correct them, or tell them that you already know what they're telling you.
Thank God I have my shades on, I'm sure if I didn't I would burn a hole in her back from the glare I'm giving her. Now she's digging around in her bag. She pulls out a cell phone. Flips it to answer. Her conversation is animated. Her ponytail bobs up and down as she smiles broadly. Quick phone call. She hangs up and throws the cell phone in her bag. She leans into baby and makes what looks like goofy baby talk. She straigtens back up, stretches her arms, and puts her feet up. I'm envious of her. What I wouldn't give for that type of contentment.
Along comes another lady, a little bit older than baby mama, in a tank top and sweats jogging down the promenade. She ooks like she exercises regularly. Has those toned arms. I remember when my arms used to look like that. She stops in front of baby mama. Baby mama gives her a big hug. Maybe that's who she was speaking to on the phone. Looks like they haven't seen each other in a while. Fit lady sits beside baby mama and peeks into the carriage. She says something like, "Oh she's sooo adorable, looks just like you", while baby mama hands her the baby. They talk for a while, fit lady rocking the baby back and forth. Soon she hands baby back to baby mama, gives her a goodbye peck on the cheek and jogs off...They both make me sick.
I can't figure out why I'm so angry. I have a good life. I don't want kids just yet, but I do want to be able to enjoy the contentment that comes so naturally to these women.
Well, some obnoxious loser with no concept of personal space has interrupted my thought process. I slam my notepad closed and give him the look of death. How I hate to be interrupted!
Posted by renee at 11:51 AM | Comments (0)
August 14, 2006
T.W.B. (TIPPING WHILE BLACK)
So the boyfriend and I finally made the trip across the bridge to dine at Billyburg's infamous Peter Luger's. I read all the reviews about the less-than-chipper greeting we should expect, so I wasn't too surprised when I opened the big wooden doors that I wasn't welcomed with a smile. In fact the bartenders in their starched, white shirts and black bow-ties stared blankly at my boyfriend and I. I didn't know if it was because we were the only Black couple in the restaurant, or because, as I had been warned Peter Luger's wasn't a warm fuzzy, "can I help you sweetie?"-kind of place. No worries. I prepared myself by donning a third layer of tough skin this morning. I gave my boyfriend the "don't worry honey," look-I could see he was a little worried. I assured him that I would take charge of the situation. Since nobody offered assistance, I took matters into my own hands...
We stood in the foyer, all eyes on us for longer than comfortably normal, nobody has said a word to us, and so I take matters into my own hands. I notice a stairway and proceed to climb the stairs, assuming that that's where the host or hostess was. I leave Ray waiting uncomfortably at the bottom of the stairs and no sooner than I take my first step, there's a waiter tapping my boyfriend on the shoulder. "Do you have permission to go up there?" He calls me back down.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I say, I thought that's where we check in."
"You check in right here," he says and points to the end of the bar, where I noticed a bunch of people in line. I didn't want to be embarrased again, so I got in line behind a couple who I assumed were waiting to be seated. I begged my boyfriend to go up to the hostess and tell her we had reservations. He refused and began to make idle conversations about the Zagat survey accolades posted on the wall trying to appear inconspicuous. We both had no idea how Luger's worked and we both didn't want to embarrass ourselves, especially since we stood out enough as it was. However, it was even more embarrassing standing there, not asking questions. It was better for me to embarrass myself by asking questions or have someone embarrass us. So I dusted my shoulders off, picked up my pride, and asked the couple in front of us if they checked in. (I was hoping they said no, and that we could just stand here and wait to be asked, "how many?")
"Yes," they said, without even looking at me. Well, I knew then what I had to do. I left my boyfriend at the bar to examine the Zagat posters, took a deep breath, walked up to the hostess and was caught by surprise when the hostess said, "Hello, how are you?"
She caught me off guard.
"I have reservations for two, at 1:45."
"O.k," she said and went back to what she was doing. I walked back to Ray, thinking it was a little odd that she didn't ask my name, or check the reservation book, especially after I noticed that a party of three walked in after us, and were seated right away. Normally, I panic, but I remembered where I was, and for some reason, the fact that we were the only two Black people in the place weighed on my mind, and prevented me from acting like the haughty diva I sometimes pretend to be.
"Hey Ray,don't you think it's strange she didn't ask my name or check the book? She checked the book for those people who just came in."
He shrugged, still keeping himself occupied with those damn Zagat surveys, while I began to panic. "Is it cuz we're black? Are they intentionally ignoring me?"
No. In a few minutes, she beckoned for Ray and I to follow her to the dining area, which we did, with baited breath. I felt like all the eyes in the restaurant were on us. I tried to catch someone staring, and give them "the look", but really, no one could care less about us. They were too busy devouring their steaks. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as we sat down at our table. It was nice and spacious. I looked around at the decor. They weren't kidding. No frills. No table cloths or fancy decorations. Just plank wood and a few chandeliers. Nice...
Finally our waiter comes by to take our order. He doesn't bring any water for us, like the rest of the patron's waiters did.
"Can I get you something from the bar?"
"Yes, can I have a Brooklyn Lager please? (When in Brooklyn, and in doubt-order a Brooklyn Lager you can't go wrong)He nodded.I was safe.
"And for you sir?"
"Can I get a Sam Adams please?"
"No Sam Adams," said rather briskly.
"Oh...what do you have?"
I don't remember what he listed,(I do remember they were all domestic) but Ray ended up ordering a Brooklyn Lager.
When our waiter arrived with our chilled beer mugs, and Ray took a suspicious sip of the delicious liquid gold, I know he knew he made the right choice. And so did I. The beer was crisp, smooth and awesomely refreshing. I'm not just saying that because I'm from Brooklyn. Brooklyn Lager is a fine lager which paired quite nicely with our "well done" choppped steak, Canadian bacon and french fries and onions. I was a little miffed that my boyfriend, who I planned to spoil rotten, didn't order steak, but he promised he would next time.
We ordered two more lagers, cheese cake and apple strudel. The cheesecake was divine, and served with whipped cream so thick and fluffy you could eat it alone, which is what I did. Ray was happy with his strudel, but he was more impressed with my cheesecake, which is nothing new, as my food always seems to taste better than his.
Our waiter was attentive enough, but I was still a little put off that he didn't ask us if we wanted water. Nor did he check on us as frequently as other waiters checked on their tables-could it be because we ordered the chopped steak? Or was it because we're Black or perhaps both? Finally, he came to clear our table, and with a stiff smile said as he cleared our table, "I see you enjoyed. You ate it all." We did. There was not a trace of food left on our plates. The food was completely satisfying. I don't remember the last time I had such a well prepared and fulfilling meal.(except for last week's bbq at Ray's house, of course.)
And here comes the bill...
Our meal is a little more expensive than Mcdonald's, but I also expected to spend way more than I did. Herein lies my dilemma: There is a stereotype that Blacks are cheap and do not tip well. Hence, the lack of Blacks at fine dining establishments. That being the case, whenever we find ourselves in a restaurant that is not frequented by many Blacks, we tend to over-tip. I am guilty of this. It's one thing to go to a place and worry that your Blackness is a blight, but it's another to have to leave yourself broke in order to make the blight go away. I know racism won't disappear cuz I dig deeper into my pockets than I have to, but it makes me feel like I've gained a victory for Blacks, (and others) like Ray and I who are often stereotyped,(and we tip quite well) and are intimidated to eat in fine dining establishments because they are afraid of how they'll be treated. It's an uncomfortable feeling. And I have to be honest, I didn't like that we were the only two Black people in Peter Luger's. I will also admit that we weren't treated any better or worse by our waiters than any other patrons despite being the only two Black people there. Although, I will always question wether or not our waiter forgot our creamed spinach on purpose. (How could he forget the creamed spinach???) And yes, we overtipped by 30% (I was going to leave 35% but Ray put his foot down)because we felt that we had to, despite the fact that our waiter messed up our order. Also, he didn't look to happy when I asked him for change, he raised his eyebrows as if to say "aha! I knew it," which made me even more determined to prove him wrong.
Perhaps I'm a little sensitive when it comes to matters of race. Perhaps nobody cared that we were the only two Blacks at Peter Luger's. But when your Black, you don't have the luxury to disregard those feelings. You always have to go that extra mile, play harder, perform harder, work harder-in order to gain respect. Unfortunately the same rule applies to restaurant etiquette.
So would I recommend Peter Luger's? Hell yeah, we're going back next week-and this time, we're having steak for two. If they forget the creamed spinach this time, I may have a case!
Posted by renee at 2:34 PM | Comments (0)
August 1, 2006
Untitled
...everyone's talking about their hurt and rage on the radio. and the armchair judge is the family bible in primetime today. what reality is fake? then drama is superficial and not admired, the judge and apology is shallow, love is put aside. i think there is one truth, with no subjectivity and in the corner is a booth with some productivity..."
-from the inside jacket of "Get Behind Me Satan",
by the White Stripes
I feel as though I'm on the brink of a breakdown. I'm tight, on edge. Easily frustrated. Angry. I suppose we all are. There's a lot of shit on the public mind these days. Is Castro dead? Is World War Three near? Will I ever be able to move out of my grandmother's basement?
Ahh...fiddlesticks! No answers, and I'm tired of asking questions. Especially because I don't really want to know what I already know. The bible says, there's nothing new under the sun. History teaches the same thing. But who's paying attention. Not me. Not anymore. I just don't have the energy. My lethargy has become my muse. I've become redundant, miserable and I'm becoming increasingly bored with myself.
I don't want to read the paper, or watch the news, or even entertain conversations about politics, society and all that other crap people like to spew when they pretend they give a shit. I'm quite content to wake up, go to work, collect my pay-do whatever it takes to make it through the day. Oblivious to the obvious. It's safe that way.
Talk about time standing still-it's dead. My eyes are closing and I want to lay my head on my desk and sleep until we finally wake up.
Here endeth the lesson.
Posted by renee at 2:44 PM | Comments (0)