Category: Writing

A much deserved vacation coincided with my niece’s joyous grad school graduation from her prestigious genetic counseling program. Although I only took a few days off, I felt refreshed rather than drained by the time I returned home.

On my first day of vacation, which was Friday morning, I took my time before hitting the road to VA. I leisurely blogged, picked up some toiletries and visited Dad.

Once I left Dad’s, I drove about an hour to an outlet shopping center. Despite the numerous shops, I beelined to one shoe store, bought a comfortable pair of heels, then resumed traveling after a pit stop for fast food.

By the time I reached my sister’s house, they already had my takeout order waiting for me: shrimp and grits with a side of baked brussel sprouts. The description doesn’t do justice to the delicious seasoning that enhanced the meal.

Fortunately, we didn’t leave the next morning as early as my sister had planned. My niece had asked her parents to come later because she had several errands to complete. Suited me and my other niece and nephew just fine.

By the time we reached Philly, we were too early to check into our hotel and to late for breakfast, so we had lunch at the downtown market. One could lose oneself in that market. My vegan niece got her food, then the rest of us went to an oyster bar–except for my nephew, who I learned hated big city crowds, and remained in the car.

The downside to having wonderfully unscheduled blocks of time is not knowing when you’re going to have your next meal. I made sure to eat to my heart’s content, but not to stuff myself. A practice I should adopt even when I’m not on vacation. Even so, we walked so much during this trip, I didn’t feel sluggish once the vacation was over.

By the time we checked into the hotel, my niece was ready to be picked up. We swung by her place first, followed by the hotel. From the brief crowds that I saw at both the market and then in the incredibly long line at the hotel, I concluded that people were in Philly for more than just graduation. All the girls and women in sequins gave me my first clue.

The real reason for the buzzing crowd: Taylor Swift’s weekend concerts. That also explained why hotel rooms were jacked up and fully booked.

Instead of queuing to check in, we left our things in the hotel luggage room, so we could make our dinner reservation at a vegan restaurant. I felt uncomfortable leaving my backpack, which contained both my iPad and laptop. Everything important was saved to the cloud, but still. The only comforting thought was at least my backpack wasn’t checked luggage at “Flintstone Airline,” a discount airline that had seats that didn’t recline unless you upgraded. Plus, they had lightened my load by knifing my luggage and stealing a designer purse. I’ve never flown them again.

The vegan restaurant had a horror movie theme from the drinks to the food, the decor and B-movies from the black and white era on a long loop. The food was well-seasoned, the drinks deliciously blended, complete with horror movie names. I don’t remember the name of my cocktail, but I remember I had vampire tacos, ironic because none of the ingredients could have bled.

We left the restaurant with a large paper bag of leftovers. Since we were on foot, we couldn’t ditch the leftovers in a car or at the hotel before reaching our second destination for the evening: a speakeasy.

My niece had told me about this place before my visit. From the street, it was a functioning barbershop during the day. It was empty and spotless when we visited. The door guy, who looked like some average pedestrian just hanging out on the street, assured us that the place was open. We walked through the barbershop, exited via a backdoor, then went up the stairs to the speakeasy bar.

My niece was concerned about whether they’d allow our large takeout bag. I shared my go-to strategy for such occasions: keep walking like you know what you’re doing until the screaming starts. Since no one yelled at us about the bag, which my nephew, who was toward the back of our group was holding by the handles such that one couldn’t readily see it, we followed the hostess to a big circular booth. While she addressed my sister and her husband at one end of the booth, the rest of us casually draped our cardigans onto the leftover bag. Out of sight.

By the time we returned to the hotel, all the Swifties were gone, but my electronics weren’t. I promptly put them into the room safe, which I locked Sunday morning when we went to breakfast.

Joining us for breakfast was my sister’s stepson, who had taken a redeye from CA. He definitely played the redeyed part. I thought he’d totally surrender to sleep deprivation by putting his head down on the table. Yet he manned up, propping his head on his fist, supported by a firm elbow kickstand on the table.

Over breakfast, my niece ran through some possible touristy things that we could do. “Wanna see The Liberty Bell?” she asked the table. Without looking up from his phone, my nephew replied, “What does it do?” After an outburst of laughter, we didn’t visit our most famous bell.

Since we rode to the breakfast place, we ditched our leftovers in the car, then walked to U Penn on the pretext of my niece giving us a guided tour. In reality, she returned two library books. That brief excursion was enough for me. Study libraries have definitely changed. There was a study desk atop of a stationary bike, but what I found most impressive were the study booths, where library users could bring food and still plug in their devices from the outlet hub, conveniently located in the middle of the table.

Next stop: the Art Museum AKA The Rocky Steps. Only three of us walked up the steps. The rest were content to only walk up the first flight to take a group picture, then get ice cream. One day, I may actually enter the museum.

Once we returned to the hotel, I optimistically thought I’d be able to chill until dinner. My sister had other ideas. Despite the hordes of clothes and shoes she has at home, there’s never a shopping opportunity that she passes up. I was voluntold that I’d be her shopping buddy…something her adult kids call a “sibling excursion.”

All I was going to do was give her my employee retail pharmacy discount card since she needed to buy aloe vera gel. That was the lure. We ended up going to two other stores, which happen to be on en route to the pharmacy.

I must have been in a weird mood because I actually bought some things. I’d been wanting to replace my cheap fanny pack, but I wasn’t willing to pay hundreds for fanny pack with the designer’s name all over it. Fortunately, I found one a tenth of the price, no visible designer’s name and all leather. Only the color was wrong. I love black accessories, but leather tan will do.

I barely had a nap before time to walk to our next destination. My niece was very strategic with her hotel choice since we could walk to nearly everything. Not only is walking great exercise, but it’s wonderful way to absorb the local flavor. The route we took to the bar, which hosted her cohort’s pizza and beer open bar mixer, however, was more than we’d bargained for.

We’d passed by a few unhoused people along all of our walks, but on this excursion, I held my breath during one stretch. That experience reminded me how most societies don’t have a working solution to shelter people nor enough shower/toilet facilities. One of the many challenges is having a bathing/hygiene strategy.

In a few minutes, we’d arrived to another reality where 17 students of an elite institution and their families had gathered to celebrate their upcoming graduation. For once, I was content to merely be introduced as the aunt, not caring a bit about networking.

After the two-hour event was over, the bar itself started to close down. We took a different walking route back to the hotel. From there, my niece got a ride share back to her place since her morning started much earlier than any of us cared for.

She attended the big graduation ceremony with the undergrads, including one of President Biden’s granddaughters. However, we literally met her on a street corner after parking in a nearby garage to walk (of course!) to a much smaller venue for the genetic counseling cohort graduation.

That ceremony was livestreamed, which meant that my other sister and parents saw us as we entered the room. My favorite part was hearing a blurb about each graduate as they were called up individually.

As now was the well-established routine, we walked a lot before regrouping and relaxing at the hotel. We dined at an upscale national Italian restaurant, where I’d eaten at in Denver and Austin. Initially, I thought our party of 8, which included my niece’s mentee who was in her first year of the genetic counseling program, would get our own private room. Instead, we were the largest table in a small room where three other smaller tables were. Nonetheless, our energy pervaded throughout. I’d like to say that given how our average age was around 35, we weren’t rowdy, but that’s from an insider’s perspective.

Apparently my weird shopping mood continued. I bought two books, which focused on two different aspects of screenwriting. One dealt with all things about script formatting while the other dealt with all things to creatively develop the story. Then, I renewed my Austin Public Library card, which I had to pay for since I was no longer a resident. Very much worth the investment since my present local library doesn’t have the extensive ebook/audiobook collection as APL.

Not that I needed justification to spend my own money, but I considered those three purchases to investments to making my first real short film versus a spur of the moment in the pandemic short.

My father, a nephew, a niece and a sister all have April birthdays. Following Dad’s lead, my sister believes in celebrating the entire month for her birthday. As a matter of fact, our paternal grandmother started celebrating her birthday twice a year. When she filed for social security, she saw her birth certificate and realized that the birthday she’d celebrated all her life was not the one she was actually born on. From then on, Dad’s mom celebrated both.

A series of Dad’s health crises changed my belated Christmas present to my parents into a birthday gift for my sister and her son. As much as we enjoyed the event, my sister had already had a birthday celebration, which was funny since her birthday is at the end of the month.

As a matter of fact, I believe she had a total of 5 celebrations, with two occurring on the weekend of her birthday. Fortunately, I attended the Friday and Saturday dinners, starting with one of my favorite libations: red wine.

As inviting as the flight looks, not all reds are created equal. The second one to the right was barely drinkable, which was why I left most of it in the glass by the time I was ready to leave.

Not that I was planning ahead, but for the second dinner on my sister’s actual birthday, the restaurant didn’t serve alcohol, so it was a good thing I’d had 4 different wines the day before. Yet, that didn’t stop me from trying to shake things up. When the server asked for my drink order, I asked for lemonade with a shot of vodka. When she informed me that they didn’t serve alcohol, I said, “I know.”

Everyone laughed, but what’s so wrong in getting confirmation? And making everyone laugh is a priceless gift.

When my sister announced she was planning to take a road trip to a convenience store, I laughed. Not that I doubted her motivation, but because the convenience store was a Texan chain, which I never visited the entire 14 years I’d lived in Austin.

So here was my chance. Not that it was on my bucket list even though I’d lived a shorter drive from the location that boasts of being the largest convenience store in the world since everything’s bigger in Texas.

I’d not known that this convenience store had a slew of the cleanest bathrooms, far more gas pumps than a typical gas station and the largest collection of souvenirs outside of an amusement park.

My sister is like Mom…loves to shop. I’ve been downsizing for years, but I still eat. All my purchases were edible. I practically inhaled my chopped brisket sandwich, which I washed down with the cheapest bottle of water available. (Next time I will bring my own since there is no dining area and one has to either eat in the car or take it back home.) I’d also bought two flavors of beef jerky and two bags of the most popular branded sugary snack. I figured if it was that good, I’d want another bag or give it away. Besides, I knew that nothing would beat the box of assorted fudge I bought.

I was correct on all counts!

Next time I visit, I’m going to stick with the brisket sandwich, sliced brisket next time, and the assorted fudge. All the rest was OK, but those two were the most impressive. The jerky was a good addition in a ramen bowl I made days later, but not a necessary addition.

Although my sister was down to return to the touristy convenience store the following weekend, I suggested that we do something else. After all, her 60th birthday was the following weekend. I can think of all types of things to do rather than that.

Christmas 2022, I observed a nonmaterialistic practice for my family. For everyone except my parents, I gifted an indoor skydiving experience. Since I’d heard Mom gush about going to an out-of-town dinner theatre for several years, I made that experience their gift.

Due to their weekend schedule, the soonest we could make it was the Saturday before Easter, which was two days before Dad’s 85th birthday. Even though Christmas was long gone, at least we could enjoy celebrating a milestone birthday for Dad.

We braved through the rain and arrived in an empty parking lot 45 minutes early, which ticked me off because Mom had rushed us out of the house much earlier than I thought was necessary. Turned out, the whole endeavor was moot.

Three other cars had arrived after the fact. One guy got out, walked around the building with his umbrella and made a definitive conclusion that we’d all reached. The show had obviously been cancelled and no one had bothered to inform the four of us.

On Monday, their customer service rep told me some bullshit that they had reached out to me about the cancellation, then doubled down on the bullshit by saying that the miscommunication was no one’s fault. I informed her that I definitely hadn’t received a call and neither had the other three cars.

I’d originally planned to get a refund, along with $40 worth of gas money for the wasted trip. I got the refund, but no gas money. However, I got something worth even more than gas money, a free show for the following weekend. After confirming with Mom, I agreed to take the free show as well.

After all, what difference would another week make?

That following Monday, Dad turned 85. Two days later, he fell and broke his hip. The next day, Mom called 911 to have Dad taken to our nearest military hospital, where they performed a partial hip surgery.

Durning the evening when my sister, nephew and I returned to the dinner theater while and after Mom had left the hospital for the night, Dad had a stroke. By that time, one of my cousins had concluded that Dad’s lung blood clot had probably made him faint, like it had done back in 2016.

The biggest difference was at that time, he’d been sitting down, but this time he hadn’t. Either way, he would’ve needed medical attention. And he wouldn’t have been able to go to the show. Unlike the weekend before when he was comparatively vibrant.

My other sister, her adult children, aunt, uncle and cousins came to town on Tuesday. My sister had planned to visit on the weekend, but felt she couldn’t wait that long. No one used the term “death bed,” and I wouldn’t speak it out loud either, but writing seems somehow OK.

Three health crises in a row would be challenging for anyone to overcome. I think about how Dad survived the Vietnam War and 85 years of being a Black man in the United States. Dad was born in 1938 the same year Superman was created; therefore, he’s my real-live Superman. He still has the firm hand grip to prove it.

The day after my out-of-town sister, her children, some cousins and one of my aunts visited Dad, I was moved from ICU. As a matter of fact, Dad recovered his voice while they visited.

On Dad’s first day of physical therapy, he stood up, took a few steps, then looked at Mom and said, “Bring the car around.”

Don’t blame him for wanting to go home. However, during this short walk in his room, he overexerted himself. His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but the whites, which caused my sister to run out of the room in search of a nurse. Whoever my sister found, they alerted the others and Dad’s room swarmed with medical staff. They believe that his blood pressure had dropped.

Later that same day, my other sister shaved Dad’s hair, beard and trimmed his mustache. No matter when Dad’s going to change locations, we wanted him to look presentable rather than some grizzled man who’s no longer part of this world. We’ve rallied to keep him in this world for as long as possible.

The road to recovery will be much slower paced than any of us want. Plans that had been made for this month and the next are scrapped. He’d do well if he could attend Mom’s family reunion the last weekend in June.

For Sunday dinner, my family either goes out to eat or some combination of Mom, my sister and I make dinner. OK, so I’m not often part of that cooking combo, but at the same time, I’m the only one of us who works full time and happily orders takeout on the weekends and shares leftovers for Sunday.

We all have our favorite restaurants. As fate would have it, Mom’s favorite buffet style restaurant is my least favorite on our usual rotation. If Satan needs ideas about how to run a buffet, ze can look no further than the dirty floored, amok children, generally bland food of this popular national chain family style buffet restaurant.

Years ago, a wise person advised me to never eat at a restaurant that has the word “family” as part of this name. That’s the only thing missing from this particular loud-ass restaurant that Mom still loves for the variety of its offerings.

By some minor miracle, my sister convinced Mom to have our Sunday dinner at a Mexican restaurant. With all the offerings available, she still chose for herself and Dad a Tex-Mex taco salad with the edible bowl. I only mention the edible bowl because Mom kept reminding Dad to eat his bowl as he ate the salad inside of it.

For my part, whenever I see a coconut margarita on the menu, I order it. Nowhere on the menu did it say that their margaritas were the size of a carafe, served with a very long straw. Everyone at the table helped me with that drink. My nephew was the clean up crew since he sucked it down like a vacuum cleaner because he knows nothing about sipping an alcoholic drink.

I’m not quite sure what Mom didn’t like about the restaurant, but she announced days later that we could return without her…already have that in the works for Cinco de Mayo, which conveniently falls on a Friday this year.

Once again, a privileged white man, who made his riches in one narrow area, comic stripping, now feels qualified to rant from his ivory tower. Based on the so-called results of a facile-worded poll question, “Is it OK to be white?” Dilbert creator claimed that that convinced him white people should live apart from black people.

Of course, I call bullshit. No one, not even a mansplaining privileged white man, is so easily convinced of such a radical position because of the result of a mere poll question. More than likely, his racial animus was well nurtured and brewed until it boiled over.

Since the concept of race is a pseudoscientific social construct of oppression, I’ll address all my questions to the fictional character, Dilbert. And why the hell not? The so-called basis for Dilbert’s creator’s call for racial separation is also based on fiction. The only difference is his fiction is far more dangerous.

• 1. Who should mixed-raced blacks live among? There’s no dilemma among those of us who identify as black, but would you allow blacks who identify as white to live among you, regardless of their skin tone? I imagine you consider yourself not racist, so would white-identifying blacks be able to live in your all-white society? Would they be allowed if they are culturally white and pass the brown paper bag test?
• 2. Is whiteness based on skin tone or cultural adherence? Would you allow those blacks who are so “articulate that you forget they’re black” to live in your all-white society? Or do they need to be on-sight white, regardless of how well they speak, hard they work, or how much money they make? Who gets to shield themselves under the umbrella of whiteness, sparing them from the debilitating drench of racist exclusion?
• 3. Would any other race of people who are also richly melaninated, but not black, be permitted to live in your all–white community? Would South East Asians, Pacific Islanders and Latinos be allowed to live among whites if they can easily pass a comb through their hair, regardless of if they can pass for white? In other words, how dark is too dark for people who cannot sport an afro?
• 4. Does a Jewfro count as an afro? Would you allow Jews to live in your all-white society, regardless of whether they can naturally style their hair into a Jewfro or not? Or will your sequestered-from-blacks society solely depend on having a low melaninated skin tone?
• 5. If I’m 1/16th white, does that make me less racist against whites, according to your calculations? BTW, my mother is 1/8th white. Would you consider her a “reverse octoroon”?
• 6. In your all white community, would you regulate media so that no racially-diverse programing is experienced? Would you permit black music or any genre based on black music? Would you only play black music if only covered by white people? Would you form parallel versions of professional sports? How separated do you need to be from blacks?
• 7. In your white society, who would you hire others to do those jobs where whites are underrepresented in an integrated society? Even the founding fathers embraced diversity when it came to the workforce, especially jobs that were deemed unsuitable for respectable white people.
• 8. Lastly, if you achieve your all-white society who will be the new niggers?

I knew it was a check before I opened the envelope. Peeking from behind the window, which revealed my name and address, was the telltale “check” paper.

I tore open the envelope, noted the check amount and dreamed of what I could do with the money. I set it aside to eat dinner. As the high from an unexpected monetary windfall subsided, I recovered my senses.

First of all, why would the U.S. Treasury issue me a refund in a higher amount than what I’d just paid in back taxes? Thirdly, why did they send me a check instead of issuing the refund via direct deposit like all my other refund “checks”?

I’d planned to deposit the check via my mobile app after dinner. Instead, I researched how to tell if a check is fraudulent. While doing so, I learned that one popular scam was to mail a fake U.S. Treasury check, then the IRS con artist calls up the recipient, telling them that the U.S. Treasury had made a mistake. At that point, the recipient has to refund the “U.S. Treasury” the money. The way the con works is that the scammer has to contact the recipient before the check “clears,” which it won’t because it’s fake to begin with.

Here’s what I didn’t understand: how do the con artists know when the check has been deposited? After all, to call before the recipient has deposited it won’t work. Also, waiting too late to call, the recipient would know that the check is fake. How does the con artist know where the sweet spot is?

The check stated that it was good for a year, which meant I had no urgency to deposit it. As a matter of fact, I looked up the number for the IRS, so I can give them a call on my day off. If there was a slim chance that that thing was real, I wanted confirmation. Plus, I could go to my bank one Saturday, and have them verify the check.

In the meantime, I practiced in my head what I’d say to the scammer if they called. Every suspicious call that came in since receiving that check made me wonder if it was the scammer calling. No one left a message. They called while I was at work, so I didn’t answer nor call back.

Trying to talk to a live person at the IRS, was more challenging than seeing the Wizard of Oz without Dororthy’s companions. Out of frustration, I called the number on the back of the envelope. The woman provided me the number for the Department of the US Treasury in Kansas City. When I called the number, a man answered who didn’t bother to ask any HIPAA questions when I said I wanted tto verify if a check was real.

He directed my attention to the QR code in the upper right-hand corner. Beneath the QR code was a number, which I recited to him. He told me the amount of the check and stated that it was real.

In that moment, I thought, “Yeah, right.” So I call the number on the back of the envelope in which the check came and suddenly, I talk not to one, but two live people and the check was real. Well, at least I kept a cool head, noting that after breakfast, the bank would be open and I could open an account with that check. If anything funny happened after I deposited the check, at least it wouldn’t fuck up my money.

I asked the bank employee who stood near the door if she were the manager. She wasn’t, but asked how she could help. I explained my situation. She agreed that I could open a new account. Or, one of the tellers could verify the check.

Once the teller typed in all the check information, she turned the monitor to me, showing me the green check.

After all that shaky shit, the check was real. I went ahead and deposited it, telling all who were listening to my story that they were my witnesses.

Even so, it’ll take me a while to feel okay about letting my balance dip below a certain amount just in case.