Category: Special Events

After 7 years of producing my monthly spoken word and storytelling show, The Austin Writers Roulette, I was ready to call it quits. Yet, Austin’s unofficial mayor of poetry sweet talked and flattered me into producing it for an 8th year. I split the difference and made this year bimonthly, thinking I may continue for a couple of years with that schedule.

What a difference a few months make! I started selling CBD in July with the hope of building up the business enough to generate residual income. One thing the company encouraged us to do was share our personal experiences with taking the products. Watching the training videos motivated me to provide a platform to share other people’s CBD narratives via podcasting.

When I announced my intention to end the Roulette to my family, one of my sisters flipped out. “But that’s your baby!” All healthy babies grow up. Besides, it’s better to end an event on a high note than to let it fizzle out to an embarrassing end.

Instead of stating any of the above, I said, “Shut up. You’ve never even watched an episode!” One of the most wonderful aspects of The Roulette’s fourth and longest venue, Malvern Books, was that they videotaped all events. So, no matter the size of the audience, the performances live on the internet until society collapses.

Next thing I know, my sister informed me that she was coming out for a long weekend in order to attend the grand finale. Just like her to invite herself–something I reminded her of nearly every day during her brief visit.

As soon as I picked her up from the airport, we went to my favorite costume shop to get contrasting outfits. My favorite staff member decked us out to resemble Louisianan conjure women, complete with binding us so tightly in corsets, they could have doubled as back braces.

including a tiny home remodeled as a store to showcase Louisianan jewelry, followed by a boot store my sister hadn’t shopped the first time she visited me. One of the saleswomen shared a story from her life about Louisiana. (That state again!) She’d become a huge fan of the New Orleans Saints after Hurricane Katrina.

Prior to her visit, I’d asked my sister which vegetarian recipe she wanted me to prepare. She requested that I surprise her. I knew that raw onions gave her gas. When I asked her if she could eat cooked onions, she told me that onions in general gave her gas, but she could still eat them. (Uh, no you can’t.)

So, after shopping, we returned home where I made a scrumptious linguini dish with roasted cauliflower, walnuts, garlic, and capers. I grated pecorino over my pasta, which completed the flavor bouquet, but she went without the cheese.

I’d also bought my favorite specialty red wine infused with habanero peppers since I’d wanted her to try it the last time I’d visited, but we couldn’t find it at any liquor store in her neck of the woods. Yet, my sister, who’d actually graduated from college, somehow didn’t understand how cocktails worked.

On her flight, she had not one, but TWO rum cranberries. Even the guy who sat beside her told her that she should have a vodka cranberry, but she ignored his advice and ordered the second one. Now, her stomach felt funny. At least she liked the pasta and managed a sip of the specialty wine, which she thought tasted better than my usual wine choice: Malbec.

Friday morning, we dined at a trendy breakfast/lunch place. A Meetup group I belong to had eaten there, but I refused to wait in a long line on the weekend. We walked right in and the host sat us in a cozy little booth. I ordered off the holiday menu. (Yes, that IS a giant marshmallow.)

Afterwards, we took a long walk along Lady Bird lake. I thought the trail was mostly paved, but as we soon discovered, most of the trail west of I-35 to the Stevie Ray Vaughn statue was dirt. My sister wanted to walk back through the city on the sidewalk because she was wearing “the wrong shoes.” They were comfortable flats, but made of cloth. That latter part made them wrong in her mind since they would be more challenging to clean. After living in Austin a decade, I’d forgotten that some part of the world cared how clean their casual shoes were.

Since we were an hour too early to go to yoga, we ended up parking at an upscale grocery store to use the bathroom. To kill time, we browsed in stores so posh that I felt I was on an anthropological outing, seeing how the other people, including my sister, live.

My sister’s first yoga challenge turned out being her desire to wear jewelry and lipstick to class. She removed most of the jewelry except earrings and her wedding band, but I couldn’t convince her to wipe off the lipstick. Our little spat amused the other yogis in the women’s locker room.

During the 60-minute class, she lasted for all of the standing series and half of the floor series, becoming so hot that she couldn’t catch her breath. After class, she sat outside the room to cool off. I added an electrolyte to her water. For all that heat, she hadn’t broken a sweat, which amazed me. She then shared that when she ran track in high school, the coaches always made sure she drank a lot of water because she never sweated.

She took so long showering that I waited for her outside only to discover she’d spent a lot of time looking for one of her earrings. Again, why the hell would anyone wear jewelry to exercise? Not to mention lipstick. The 90-min Bikram class on Sunday was out of the question.

For years, I’ve ordered two dozen tamales from a nonprofit’s fundraiser. For some inexplicable reason, they only allow individuals a two-hour window on a Friday to pick them up. So with my sister still freaking out with Bikram after effects and earring loss, I convinced her to get into the car to pick up the tamales. Just as I pulled out of the parking space, she had an epiphany: she’d snagged one of her ears with the shower cap. (Yes, a woman with cornrows STILL wore a shower cap!) She wanted to hop out and check her gym bag. Since I’d already recovered from my “yoga brain” fog, I reasoned that if the earring was in her gym bag, it would still be there when we reached the nonprofit.

The clock was ticking to get the tamales. I knew we’d waste time in traffic. As soon as we arrived, she found the earring in the shower cap. Once we got home, we snacked on almonds and I did two loads of laundry before leaving for my favorite Mexican restaurant to meet a friend and her husband.

Light traffic allowed us some time to stop by a store where I bought envelops for my handmade Christmas cards. My sister bought her husband a Christmas card, but the store across the street intrigued her. When I told her what it was, her eyes lit up. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to visit before dinner, which was why we shopped at the adult toy store after dinner.

She was like a kid in a candy store. And why not? She’d been married for 30 years. They deserved adult toys. Even though I pointed out the portable sex swing to facilitate anal sex, attachable to any doorjamb, my sister stuck with the more conservative edible underwear, lube and sexy outfit.

Saturday morning, we returned to my usual yoga studio to take Inferno Hot Pilates although I’d kept referring to it as only “pilates.” The heat surprised her as soon as we walked it. At least she’d left most of her jewelry at home and wore no lipstick. Progress. Once again, toward the end, the heat started making her dizzy. Although Bikram hadn’t made her sweat, pilates did.

We ate lunch while watching back episodes of “Watchmen,” which brought her up-to-date for its regular Sunday night airing. After finishing the laundry, we travelled quite a distance, which was still considered Austin, to a hemp-tasting. We arrived early since traffic wasn’t bad, but ended up being the only two there out of 18 RSVPs.

Nonetheless, my ulterior motive had been to line up an interview with the owner of the company for an upcoming podcast. From what I learned about her during that tasting, she had an amazing story. Also, now my sister and I had the same shared experience of trying CBD for the first time with their chocolate. Her workout pain disappeared minutes after the tasting.

We transversed the city again to a shopping village, which she and her husband had visited nearly 10 years ago. It had been a few stores on a strip back then. We didn’t find what she wanted, but I bought an inexpensive wrap since the sun had set, plunging the temperature rapidly. Out of sheer hunger, we ate at the nearest restaurant, which turned out to be a hit.

Since there was no way in hell my sister would take the 90-minute Bikram class with me, I came straight home after yoga on Sunday and forgot to pick up costumes. She accompanied me to the costume shop. Along the way, a monk, who had a bunch of books, accosted me on the sidewalk. I firmly said no thanks, but once we headed back to the car with our costumes, he approached me again.

This time, I chose a book, whipped out my change purse to dump its contents into his hand and out plopped two cents. My sister augmented the donation with her pocket change.

Instead, I draped a necklace across my forehead, which looked interesting, but I fought with it off and on until the very end–it was the first casualty after the show.

Once at the venue but prior to showtime, my sister acted as if she was a wedding photographer, taking pictures with me and of me, and other rouletters, even wonderful candid shots.

I dealt myself quite a hand for the grand finale: announcing one-line introductions for the artists and timing them; handing out the heartfelt cards I’d decorated and written for them; and taking pictures of them for the blog. Once the show ended, I knew I’d done the best I could.

Some of us parked at a fancy restaurant across the street from the venue. My sister and I graced the place with our costumes, but still couldn’t get an inside table nor a discount. Some other rouletters joined us at an outdoor table. Fortunately, the weather cooperated.

After a breakfast of leftovers and tamales on Monday, I conducted a 10-min interview with my sister. I was pleasantly surprised that the settings I’d stumbled across the week before still worked, along with the aggregate device I’d set up. This reduced preproduction time down considerably.

I then whisked her off to the airport, returned the costumes, went to the bank and dragged myself to my desk to log on and work. As I cycled through the queued up calls, I knew The Roulette wouldn’t be the only thing I’d end.

When one of my friends confessed to having a gun phobia, other friends and I rallied to support her. Only one of us had actually grown up around guns since her stepfather had taught her how to hunt since age 8. The rest of us just believed, since we were all very cerebral academics, that nothing should be feared when clearly becoming more educated about a fear was more productive.

Hence, “Chicks with Clicks.”

The Hunter asked her gun enthusiast/instructor friend, who owned property outside of Austin, if he’d show us the basics of gun safety. Through email, we pinpointed a date, the firearms we wanted to practice with, potluck items for lunch afterwards, and confirmed that The Chicks with Clicks would buy and split the cost of the ammo.

Of course, nothing happens with us without food; so we first met for brunch prior to ammo shopping, which I referred to as “Brunch and Bullets.” (Yes, there was a corny theme that ran throughout the soul of this endeavor, but I’ve not captured all the “gun puns.”)

So, our bullet brunch discussion included the fact that .22 ammo fit in both handguns and rifles. The Hunter stated we were much better off starting with a rifle. That last part was counterintuitive for my novice self only because I thought the kickback from a rifle would be more challenging to deal with than a handgun. The Hunter air demonstrated how one’s wrist allowed a lot of flexibility, which meant that the barrel of a gun could theoretically point anywhere. A rifle, when properly positioned against the user’s shoulder of the dominant hand, had a more predictable direction for the barrel.

As a matter of fact, the most common direction of a rifle barrel once a novice user pulled the trigger was involuntarily raising it up. Plus, the wrist flexibility was greatly controlled, making it at least safer in terms of knowing where the bullet would go after the trigger was pulled.

The Hunter led us to the aisle. Since we planned to practice with a handgun, a rifle and a shotgun, we needed 3 different types of ammo. As The Hunter looked on her phone for the size of ammo needed, I dashed off to the firearm counter to ask one of the two employees to help us.

The younger of the two men followed me to where my friends stood. Although I already knew that shotguns used shells, and handguns and rifles used bullets, that was the extent of my ammo knowledge. He advised us to look for bullets that had brass casings since steel casings dirtied guns more. Besides, if there was a faulty bullet, steel casings would cause more damage to the gun due to pressure buildup than brass. For shotgun shells, one didn’t have to worry so much since there was more room within the shell to dissipate pressure.

Another consideration he brought to our attention was our environment. For example, since we were shooting targets on private land, we didn’t have to worry so much about which type of bullets we were using, but he normally steered people away from AR-15s for home protection. The justification was this: if you shot an intruder with an AR-15, the bullet would most likely go through the person and could potentially hit a loved one. A shotgun shell, on the other hand, would hit the intruder and its momentum would be greatly reduced by the impact.

He then added that hollow-tipped bullets were more likely to lodge into the intruder, but would be far more deadly. I’m sure we must have all pulled a face when he said that since he quickly added that it was far better for the intruder to get the brunt of the bullet than any loved one we were protecting. Nonetheless, we had no use for hollow-tipped bullets for this activity.

The user could breakdown the shotgun and store its parts in the buttstock. Intrigued, we walked over to the firearm counter and asked to see one. The employee wasn’t allowed to break it down for us, but he let us to hold it.

The Hunter took the opportunity to show us the proper way to hold a shotgun, especially where the non-dominant should go. At this point, an older man peeked around the corner with a big smile on his face. Initially, we all thought he was going to be an asshole, seeing four women gathered around the firearm counter. Blessedly, we were wrong.

First of all, this guy was a veteran who’d trained soldiers on how to properly handle and fire weapons. Not only that, he’d taught his own daughter the same thing. He informed us that the number one consideration we should look for in any firearm was comfort. If the weapon didn’t fit comfortably in our hands or rest comfortably against our shoulder, then we had the wrong one.

The Hunter made the actual purchase while the rest of us used a cash app to reimburse her for our quarter.

During this outing, we learned that The Hunter had invited her husband along. Then, Phobia asked if she could invite her boyfriend. After all, he’d taught his kids how to use guns and knives, and trained them in martial arts. We agreed that Phobia’s boyfriend could join us. Yet, we shot down the idea of changing our name to “Chicks with Clicks and Dicks.”

The other Chicks with Clicks were texting and emailing what they would bring. I saved time by texting a picture of my basket at checkout.

After a round of introductions, including two of The Instructor’s friends who’d brought their shotgun for us to try, The Chicks with Clicks took a group picture: Phobia, The Hunter, Alpha Tits (her own spontaneously minted nom de guerre), and me.

We either wore disposable earplugs or hi-end durable ear protection, which was a bit overkill, given the firearms The Instructor had chosen for us to practice with weren’t too loud. Only Phobia’s boyfriend’s AR-15 seemed surprisingly loud since it lacked a suppressor.

all weapons being open with no magazines attached until loaded; loaded weapons with the safety on until aimed and ready to fire; having a proper, stable stance such that one could do a “booty dance” without moving the weapon; having proper hand placement.

By some strange sense of pecking order, I was always second, usually followed by Phobia and graciously The Hunter went last.

While watching The Instructor demo our first rifle, a Ruger 10/22 with an AAC Suppressor .22lr, I noticed Phobia’s cringing posture: slouched back, curled fingers pressed against her mouth and lower jaw. I couldn’t visualize anyone with that posture handling a loaded weapon. I immediately stopped her by saying she had to adopt the Wonder Woman posture: back straight, shoulders squared, hands on hips.

The Instructor purposely started us off with the most user-friendly rifle, mounted on a table with a wonderfully powerful scope with crosshairs that visually lessened the 100 yards between us and the targets. With all that help from the setup, my biggest challenge was being too close to the scope. What I learned about a rifle scope was it differed from a microscope eyepiece. I started off too close to it. Minute movements on my part made the entire visual field dramatically move around. After commenting on that phenomenon, I received the advice to move my head farther back from the scope.

Then I overthought, pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

The rifle was a little dirty, so The Instructor cleared out the loaded bullet, I overthought some more, pulled the trigger and hit the target. I tried again only to discover that the magazine was empty, which gave me the opportunity to reload it. Once I put the magazine onto the rifle, The Instructor told me to smack it into place. So, I smacked it and heard rifle fire.

Perfectly timed to my smacking the magazine, Phobia’s boyfriend had fired his AR-15. I let him know in a not-so-gentle tone of voice that he had to warn us before he did his own thing. I took a few deep breaths, overthought, and managed to hit the target a few more times.

Not only did she shoot the beginner’s mounted rifle, but also tested out the .22 caliber survival rifle she’d gifted her husband.

here was Phobia’s boyfriend set up on the same firing line to our left. At least he followed my sage advice and got our attention before he pulled the trigger.

but they both agreed that it was a good skill to have and congratulated us on being proactive non-gun owners. After all, if the first time you’re around a gun is when there’s an active shooter, that’s too late.

I felt peer pressured to practice with this shotgun, a CZ Quail 20 gauge,  to hit a moving target. Everyone kept telling me that since the shotgun’s owner was about to leave, I needed to try it before it was too late. I knew before I even said “pull” that that clay pigeon was in no danger. I loaded one shell, said “pull,” swung the shotgun in the direction of the moving target, and missed just as I knew I would. As a matter of fact, the only thing I hit was my right shade lens when ejecting the shell.

“Fuck this,” I grunted and handed the shotgun to its owner. I assured him it wasn’t his weapon; it was me. Definitely me.

At least I took an impressive picture with the shotgun. I texted it to my family. Mom commented, “You look like Granny (from the Beverly Hillbillies), looking for an opossum!” In real life, my maternal grandmother was a markswoman–a skill lost by my generation of suburbanites. By the time I came along, she only hunted with a fishing pole.

no amount of comfortability or persuasion would bring Phobia to try it out. When asked why, she said that she had no reason to because it was a weapon of war. Not that I disagreed with her rationale, but I had to try it at least once since, for the past decade that I’d been living in Texas, this weapon, more so that any other, had been the symbol of Second Amendment rights.

I did my usual overthinking before pulling the trigger. Although I hit the target, the stench of ammonia from the rifle startled me.

Ruger Mark 23 in 22lr, Glock 34 in 9mm with a SilencerCo Osprey Suppressor), we moved closer to the targets, so we were only 15 yds away. At this point, I was starting to become hungry, and not for more gun practice. I’d snacked a little in between practice, but nothing takes the place of actually sitting down and eating.

I can’t remember if we practiced with the Glock first or second, but I definitely remember trying the revolver last. It turned out to be my favorite. None of the handguns felt particularly “right” in my hands, even with The Instructor correcting my hand placement. Yet, I liked the revolver since the weapon’s action meant that the user couldn’t just pull the trigger and many bullets fired away. Even loading it with 6 rounds took longer than loading more bullets into a magazine.

Despite Alpha Tits’ sheer enthusiasm, she kept aiming too high. Round after round, The Instructor told her to lower her aim. I couldn’t resist. “She can’t aim lower because she went to Yale!” She laughed and confirmed that all her life, she’d been told to aim high.

I was next and hit the target nearly every time. Of course I attributed that to going to a state school–Carolina, to be exact. Every other person who hit the target, then identified that he or she either attended a state school or community college.

After wiping off the front porch table twice, we all dressed the table with pre-prepared foods from our local grocery stores along with adult beverages. All of us sat around the large community table and ate and drank, firing off lively conversation.

The combination of giddiness and concentration had taken a toll on my energy. I’m so happy I hadn’t planned to do anything afterwards since I didn’t know how long we’d practice.

I’m still not convinced that I need to be a gun owner, but I’m far more interested in learning more about both the culture and the legislation of guns. I know there’s a happier medium between the two extremes being bandied.

I didn’t bother correcting anyone or pointing out the double entendre since I’d driven nearly 4 hours and had a hot second to check into my room, shower and change into costume. Yet my newly purchased off-white platform shoes didn’t fit as well as I’d thought when I’d tried them on in the store. I could only shuffle in them since they were tethered together. I knew they were about a size too big, but better than being a size too small, right?

but they were lower than normal and didn’t quite convey what I wanted.

I’d only seen most of them twice before. I joined their standing table after making a Mac n cheese with coleslaw plate since the buffet had run out of the cooked vegetables and meat. I’d waited in line for a drink first, then waited after I’d made my plate, but in the end, I had to make a second trip to get the rest of my meal.

In the meantime, I smiled through it all and talked with the Zilis Austin crew. Once I finished eating and replenished my lipstick, I joined them on the deck for our group picture. I left soon after the group picture with all the Zilis White Out participants and as much dancing as I dared. I walked as gingerly as I could in those platforms.

I seriously thought I’d be on time for the Saturday morning session, but I’d slept so well that I arrived late for breakfast. It was a shame to eat such a delicious meal in a hurry, but at least I spoke with Mom and one of my sisters who thinks she’s my mother.

The greatest part of going to a conference by myself was when I showed up to a session late, I eventually found a singleton seat. After all my seat hunting, I still ended up just a row behind the Zilis Austin group.

I’d focused so much energy on finding shoes to go with my Princess Leia costume, I’d forgotten to pack anything nice for the awards gala. I got lucky with finding a dress at the hotel on sale and my size. That sales rack was full of size 6s and XLs. There were only 3 dresses that were around my size. By a sheer stroke of luck, the best choice turned out to be Zilis blue, but I didn’t notice that at the time.

I changed into my workout clothes, took 5 minutes worth of steps on a stairmaster and then rode 20 minutes on a reclining bike. Later, I took a shower and enjoyed a much deserved nap prior to the Booze and Schmooze.

I’d just approached the photo display from the other side. At least I played it off by talking to some women from Kansas and Arkansas as I chose which sign I wanted to pose with. Then, the line slowed down for some reason and I made my move with one of my new found friends as the photographer.

We reunited with the others in the drink line, of course.

We enjoyed a delicious meal during the marathon awards ceremony. I enthusiastically clapped during the first 2 hours, especially when members of my table were recognized for moving up in rank. By the time dessert came, I was ready to dance. Yet, the awards continued. I’m not saying that people shouldn’t have been recognized, I just think the high school diploma style of passing out awards needed to be reworked.

I enjoyed watching the video clips of the Diamond-ranked ambassadors. If the awards ceremony had ended there, I would have been a happy camper. Yet, I had to contain myself to chair dancing to the music between awards.

The real saving grace was talking with my Zilis Austin crew. All the plans we made–I hope it wasn’t all the wine! I thought how funny it was we had to go hours out of town just to strategize our next steps.

Once the awards ceremony finally concluded, a few tables had already cleared out and a slow herd made their way to the door. I refused to leave. I hadn’t waited that long to dance out of the room to Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family,” which was then followed up by Michael Jackson’s “Annie Are You OK.”

I made my way onto the main stage where the DJ was and told him the deal. “Dude, I just sat through a 10-hour awards ceremony. I wanna dance outta here to a real dance song.” He said he was just playing what had been requested, but he understood. I blew him some air kisses, which he returned.

My posse of ladies, who stayed behind with me, danced a few steps on our nearest dance floor to Missy Elliot.

I planned to get my money’s worth with that dress; so no wild and crazy stuff for the first wearing.

I drove back to Austin just dreaming of how I’d take my CBD business to the next level: one-on-one practice presentations with friends. One valuable lesson I’d learned was that a bad presentation was better than no presentation!

so turning 49 was a low-key celebration, where I texted a few friends for fish and chips at an English-styled restaurant.

We managed to take a picture of dessert, Guiness Chocolate Cake, since our feeding frenzy had slowed down to “normal.”

All I really wanted was the pleasure of her company, but I’m always happy read a friend-recommended book.

My older, wiser self knew better than to load up on desserts all on one day.

or a Saturday–for my usual Inferno Hot Pilates class and took a birthday picture with the teacher before hand. She had the nerve to ask if I would wear my tiara during class. Uh, no. Not trying to worry about looking cute during a grueling session. Plus, her idea of celebrating my birthday was to mention it several times with a smile while turning up the challenge level. Hopefully, surviving her class was foreshadowing for being up to the challenge of a new trip around the sun.

After regrouping at home, I went to a massage appointment. I’d met the masseuse while getting dressed in the yoga locker room the day before. We hit it off because she used to work for the first CBD company whose products I’d tried. I told her briefly about the CBD that I sell. When we walked out together, a yoga instructor wished me happy birthday. The masseuse immediately offered me a birthday massage for 50% off. We compared schedules in the parking and found a compatible time on my actual blessed day.

My friend was well aware that it was my birthday and told me to stop by for cake. Dessert #2 the second day in a row! We message one another Monday through Friday since we both work for the same company, but from our respective homes; so it’s wonderful when we see one another in person. Plus, another coworker came up from San Antonio, which was quite a haul since she lived farther away than I and it had taken me nearly an hour.

I’m so happy the woman who cut it only gave people either a top or bottom half.

Months ago, a friend of mine invited me to participate in a literary event, which included submitting several pieces to a juried magazine. As usual, I’d been juggling a lot of other things at the time and looked for several reasons to decline since participation involved an overnight trip. After he sent me a copy of last year’s magazine, however, I was convinced.

At least I didn’t have to write any new pieces, thanks to past essays I’d written for the Austin Writers Roulette. As a matter of fact, I submitted pictures of myself in the costume that accompanied those essays. I sent more than what was needed just to give them a selection to choose from and, of course, because my writing, in some circles, may be considered a little controversial.

Fast forward to the first Wednesday in September. Allegedly, GPS doesn’t navigate well to my friend’s house. Plus, he had to send me a picture of his house since he’d planted large shrubs in front for privacy. Oh, and the name on his mailbox isn’t his.

but following them was more like a scavenger hunt. I had to call him twice for clarification because the terrain didn’t match the instructions. I wasn’t going to stop and ask anyone.

My general philosophy about living in Texas has been that I live in Austin, which happened to be in Texas like a liberal island, surrounded by a sea of conservatism. I drive around the greater Austin area and occasionally Houston, and fly in and out of Austin, but never in the 10 years of being an Austinite have I driven to a Texan podunk town.

My nervousness about driving out of the liberal oasis manifested in thinking that one of my tires seemed a little wonky. I kept praying that I wouldn’t have a blowout since I didn’t want to suddenly have to discover just how racist people were if my car broke down.

Once I pulled into my friend’s driveway, instead of getting out of the car, as I would have normally done, I called him to verify that I was in the right place. I described his truck and his grown son’s car because, as I joked with him, “I sure in the hell don’t want to knock on the wrong white person’s front door!”

but he thought it was funny to give a former math teacher wine that had “Trig” in its name. I was more than ready to have a glass of wine once I arrived although I had a glass of merlot that was already opened along with a grandma’s slice of homemade chicken pot pie.

Then, I brushed my teeth, washed my face and changed into a dress that accompanied one of the things I’d planned to read at the literary event. My friend and one of his NY poet friends were also reading during our shared 45-min segment. I teased my friend about importing two black women for this thing. He told me that black people only made up about 1% of the population; however, he needn’t have added the Klan rally stories he “entertained” us with on the drive over to the event.

Even the poet shared how her grown children had advised her to call them periodically because they feared her being in the middle of Klan country. We were all banking on the fact that since this literary event was sponsored by a university, we’d have a liberal audience.

Once we arrived, we set up our books in the reception area. Fortunately, the walls were pillow padded since they regularly displayed art. I’d bought push pins to hang up my poster.

Although we arrived a few minutes “late,” the organizers were still putting the final touches on the tech equipment. I’d only seen the computer and projector, but the last performer actually used a microphone, which would have been a good option for all of us had we’d known about it.

poetry, music, clothing, essays and paintings.

in which his NY poet friend appeared in both and I appeared in the second.

Then, it was my turn. Normally, I’m not too nervous to perform, but I worried that this audience may have been far too conservative to appreciate my liberal bent. So, I eased into it.

First, I explained that the 12-doll pattern cutouts of curly Afro’d women represented the 12 generations of mothers in my lineage. Then I read the accompanying piece, “All-Knowing Mother,” a Mother’s Day tribute to the generations of black women’s mother wit. Toward the end of the piece, it laments about how much of their knowledge had been lost during the time blacks were not legally allowed to be literate. If any conservative member of the audience winced at my references to slavery, I didn’t detect it.

Instead, I segued to my next reading selection by saying, “If nothing in that first piece shocked you, then surely this will.” I explained that my first novel was a racy story about a woman looking for Mr. Right and still being smart about it. I tested the waters by reading the first sentence in the book. I paused after nervous laughter broke out when I said, “vibrator.” I eyed the crowd and asked, “Shall I continue?” They laughed again, so I continued.

After a few short paragraphs, I read one sentence with so much gusto that I merely had to dramatically pause and look at the audience again for them to fill in the blank of the male body part that I hadn’t said. More laughter. By the time I got to the phrase “cock block,” the audience was prepared to hear a vulgar action verb.

I’d only read the first page and a half from my book, but I’d worked it for every glorious, scandalized word and thought it conveyed. The audience greatly rewarded my performance with their clapping. At that point, I had completely forgotten my paranoia of reading in a conservative part of Texas.

During intermission, a woman beat a path to me. Not only did she buy the copy of the book that I’d read from, but we had a very touching conversation about how she strongly identified with the whole pursuit of love and still have a sense of integrity. We also talked about the writing process. I only gave her two pieces of advice: consider self-publishing to minimize the gate keepers and definitely pay to have professional editors tear her manuscript apart. I admitted to paying 2 different editors before I published Tribe.

Once the event was over, the host’s father approached me, saying that he loved my dress, but unfortunately couldn’t hear what I was reading. I reached into my purse, and gifted him the print out of “All-Knowing Mother.”

In the reception area, one of the servers confessed that many of them had thumbed through my book and had thoroughly enjoyed my writing. After so many years of not reading from Tribe to an audience, I was as entertained by their discovery of this story as they were to the story itself.

I paired a glass of red wine with a chocolate and coconut dessert, magic bars, that Mom used to make when I was growing up and sat down beside a woman who turned out to be the writer in residence for the university that sponsored the literary event.

Throughout our conversation, newly won fans of Tribe paid me for a copy of the book and handed it to me to sign. Experience definitely pays off. Instead of asking them their name, I personalized it by writing everyone a unique message, signing my name, and dating it. No more worrying about if I spelled their name correctly.

Once we returned to my friend’s house, we ate more savory food since the reception was more of a dessert and drink event. I didn’t mind starting with dessert first, but that didn’t do much for actual hunger. Afterwards, I showered and went to bed. I was happy that they were also ready to go to bed. Normally, I wouldn’t have gone to bed quite that early, but after worrying while driving and worrying before reading, I was more than ready to rest for the drive back the following morning.

I’d repeatedly said that I wasn’t getting up early and I didn’t. At least for me. I got up my normal time, ate breakfast, packed up and had brushed my teeth before my friend woke and asked if he should make me breakfast. Ha! At that point, all I needed to do was put my things in the car and drive home.

the route was still fresh in my mind and I had no problem reversing the trip–except for when I came upon a slow procession. At first I couldn’t make out what I was seeing because I couldn’t readily process a fishing trawler traveling by land. With police escorts in the front and wing cars on either side. That entourage delayed me by at least an hour.

Even so, I didn’t stop off to gas up my car until I got to Georgetown. I figured that was close enough to Austin that my presence wouldn’t trigger a “gassing up while black” interaction.

I’m well aware that just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean that nothing would have happened had the general population known of my presence. I’m just happy nothing bad happened and I got to share my work with people who had not previously heard of me.

First thought that crossed my mind, “Why haven’t I’ve heard about this before now?” The second thought was to find out whether I could volunteer for this. Yes and no, but ultimately yes.

Once I checked out the website, I discovered the deadline to submit interest in volunteering had past. Here’s where I played the race card: “late” for black people tended to be marked by how much shit still needed to be done, especially since the festival hadn’t yet begun. In this case, I was right on time.

Keeping with that theme, I strolled up into a very short line to take a picture with festival ambassador, Sherri Sheppard, after I’d finished my duties of helping people check in. I didn’t get a chance to give her my card even though it was just on the back of my ID case. I didn’t want to be that person to hand a celebrity something when I could clearly see she had nothing to put it in. Yet, I managed to network with others; so perhaps something will become of those conversations.

since blacks only make around 6-8% of the population in the greater Austin area. I always have the silly idea that I’ll know more people than I do at black events. Although the event only had a few hundred people on opening night, many were from out of state.

and staunch black film supporter and first recipient of the Harlem Lights Award, Julius Tennon (AKA Viola Davis’ husband, center) awarded filmmaker Deborah Riley Draper the Harlem Lights Award, which recognizes luminaries in all fields, especially creative ones.

Zakyiah Larry discussed all aspects of filmmaking with actress/producer/director Tangi Miller. Honestly, Miller wore so many hats because a black woman’s work is never done. She lamented about the times when she had to hurriedly do her own hair and makeup because none of the hair/makeup artists knew how to properly style black hair nor had a makeup foundation to match her skin tone.

Furthermore, and this part truly perked up my ears, she briefly discussed how she buys commercial real estate in order to generate passive income since “more doors, more money.” She cautioned anyone starting off in the industry to have another source of income that didn’t essentially require trading time for money since projects may be far and few in between. I gave her an “Amen” to that whole line of logic.

No matter whichever creative path I choose, seems like all roads lead back to investing into real estate. I didn’t need to attend this festival to get that idea, but it was wonderful to get another dose of truth from a completely different source than I’d had.

Due to various circumstances in years past, I hadn’t attended the family reunion on my mother’s side in nearly ten years. This year, all the stars aligned and I made it–late, but better than never.

Perhaps more accurate, “delayed.” Everything about this vacation back home had me wait past the time I expected something to happen: my airport shuttle, the check-in line, the connecting flight, my sister picking me up from the final airport. I’d love to credit the accumulated mindfulness of yoga practice for not being annoyed the entire time, but that was only part of it.

The impromptu conversations I had along the way, truly made the journey, starting with the three strangers who shared the airport shuttle. Apparently, one of them took long in getting her things together and caused the delay in picking me up. Any irritation or anxiety I had about making to the airport on time, quickly disappeared when one of them asked me, “What are the amenities at this apartment complex?”

That innocent question snowballed into a gentrification rant on my part, including the historical context of how people of color were forced to live on the East side with I-35 being the dividing line between whites and POC.

They all turned out to be in the Real Estate business, but none of them were agents. They’d attended a conference in Austin and were headed back to New York. Yet, they shared similar stories of racial divide and gentrification with the bonus addition of family residences, being sold for less than what they were worth to big-time Real Estate developers, changing the demographics of the neighborhood.

The driver, who’d joined in the conversation (after all, we were all POC), had assured me that given the time of day, the delay in arriving at the airport wouldn’t be a problem because there was no crowd at that time. Too bad no one told Delta Airlines.

I rolled up to a self check-in kiosk, typed in my information, paid a ridiculous fee for my checked luggage, printed out my boarding passes, and then noticed the tag for the suitcase was missing. I looked around, saw the line to the Delta counter, heard a cat meowing, then looked back at the kiosk, and back at the line. As my sense of logic wrestled with the reality of the situation, I noticed that half the people in line already had their boarding passes. Logic lost the wrestling match.

I entertained myself by people-watching when I saw a guy who wore the same expression I imagined I’d worn after printing out my boarding passes. “Yes,” I said, answering the question mostly like floating in his mind, “you DO have to wait in this line even though you just checked in.” We both laughed at the illogicalness of it all.

I didn’t exactly race to the security line, but whatever time I saved was negated by the line I chose to stand in to have my things X-rayed. When the TSA worker checked my passport, I joked that I was there to receive wine and chocolate. At least she had a sense of humor.

Even the TSA worker I encountered after going through the metal detector was in a good mood. “Happy Juneteenth!” he greeting me, reading my T-shirt. I bumped fists with him. (Who actually enjoys going through security like that?)

I regrouped, putting my laptop back in its case and my shoes on, then I dashed to my gate after a quick stop to the bathroom. I arrived to the boarding process already in progress. Instead of having group numbers, Delta boards by categories, which seemed over the top, given how small the plane was.

I joined a woman at a nearby table, who happened to be assigned to the same row as me. We laughed at the fact that she was listed as “Main 1,” or some such shit and I was listed as “Basic.” Essentially, “Basic” meant I’d board last. She remained with me until my category was called.

Our conversation leapfrogged around such topics as racial bias, privilege within the deaf/disability hierarchy, immigration injustice. I’d convinced the guy who sat beside me take the window seat so she and I could talk across the aisle, which wasn’t a loud conversation since the aisle was so narrow that two beer-bellied men could scarcely pass one another coming and going to the bathroom. We noted the challenge when one man loudly said to the other, “OK, we both gotta suck in our guts!”

We talked to one another the entire time, but she initially feared I’d talk to my seat partner when he stated that he was a music therapist. Imagine the richness of conversation we could have had if that guy wasn’t so determined to sleep on the plane.

We wished one another well once we hit Cincinnati. I did my usual layover routine: bathroom, bar food, booze. As good fortune would have it, I struck up another good conversation with a guy at the bar. I enticed him into a really good conversation after giving him my business card, which advertised the spoken word and storytelling show that I produce. One theme, “Too Woke Insomniac,” intrigued him.

What an invitation to discuss the extremes of political correctness and the lack thereof. We agreed that both political left and right have become too polarized to be rational. I even included the bonus conversation about how many poor and working class whites consistently act against their own self-interest due to racial resentment.

The only example I had time to touch upon was how white men commit suicide by gun more than any other demographic, mainly because the gun industry heavily markets to them. White men who previously showed no signs of depression, will undergo a crisis–as what normally happens a few times in life–and impulsively reach for their gun. I pointed out that if black people encouraged white men to buy guns, knowing the statistics, we’d be accused of being racist, but the white community says virtually nothing about being targeted by gun makers. Even cigarettes come with warning labels.

Not only did he agree, but admitted that he was a gun owner who believed in common sense gun control and that the most conservative whites have a low tolerance for discussing the bad consequences of guns.

At that point, I had to pay up and head toward my gate. Yet, I enjoyed my delayed layover, thanks to that meaningful conversation.

Once I landed at Reagan International Airport, I had another good stretch of time to sit and read while my sister and her kids worked their way through a traffic jam. What a coincidence that as I read about Siddhartha rebelling against his father and family wealth to live a beggar’s life, I sat outside during a sprinkling of rain without much a care in the world.

At that point, the vacation had truly begun. All the meaningful conversations I’d had didn’t quite seem like the start of vacation since I do that on a regular basis. Sitting outside in the rain, albeit under a shelter, while reading seemed like the vacation.

Once my sister and her kids picked me up, that’s when the family reunion started. I loved the car ride home since I got to first catch up with a few family members at a time.

The next day, my sister’s family and I trekked several hours to the hotel where we normally stay during the Strange Family Reunion. The first day of our 3-day celebration is always the fish fry.

My extended family acted as if I’d been away for a much longer time that it felt to me. Some reactions reminded me of UFO sightings: not believing their eyes at what they were seeing.

recruited me to help update the family tree during and after the fish fry. Essentially, we snagged one of our relatives to write down as much information as they knew about their branch of the family tree.

all hailed from the Floyd Strange branch, which is one of twelve from the Strange family. From those twelve, our extended family has proliferated.

I’m more like my Great Aunt Gracie, who never had any children. I never met her, but to hear it from my mother, I have a temperament just like her. So in a way, I feel that I’m her child. She was married for about a month. By that, I don’t mean that she divorced him; she just couldn’t stand living with him and left. I, on the other hand, have never married, but would be more open to that if I didn’t have to live with him. Aunt Gracie definitely had the right idea.

that an African dance troupe performed at our family reunion. Brought back memories of when I used to take African dance in college and in my 20s.

I loved seeing this young woman holding down the bass line, a traditional male role.

I tried to get my nieces and nephew to get up and join in. If they were less respectful, they would’ve said, “Hell no, Aunt Teresa!” As par for the course, my mother, who sat at the elder table, sent one of my cousins over to where I sat to relay the message that she wanted to me to get up and dance. I wasn’t about to wear out my gimp leg with some one-off physical exertion that it hadn’t been conditioned to do.

Yet, I redeemed myself hours later when I co-emceed the fashion show. The same sister who’d recruited me to help update the family tree, recruited me for the fashion show. Another cousin announced who was about to walk down the catwalk, and then I said the first thing that would come to mind–minus the curse words.

I kept the audience of friends and relatives laughing the entire time. Since we never rehearsed anything to begin with, even the models had no idea what I was going to say. Several times, my co-emcee would be so entertained by my commentary that my sister had to remind her to announce the next model. The models themselves would start laughing so much they could hardly finish their walk.

I’d love to co-emcee for next year, but I want to up the ante. I’d love to show them a short clip or something that I’ve made as a filmmaker. I noticed a screen at the shelter. I’m going to see how to make that happen–along with the other balls I’m juggling.

Mattie Gilmore. Yet, this was the first time I was positioned near the front of the art exhibit part of the George Washington Carver Museum.

I took advantage of my proximity to the Juneteenth blurb on the panel, which hung on the wall across from where I sat. Instead of faithfully reciting the lines from the excerpt of Mattie Gilmore’s narrative, I started off my performance with a trivia question: What month and year did the Civil War end?

That question was a doozy. Only three people knew the correct answer. Most I directed to look behind them to read the first sentence of the Juneteenth panel.

Some people remembered that 1863 was a significant year, but thought that Texan slaves didn’t hear about the end of the war until two years later. They were close.

In 1863, President Lincoln wrote the first Emancipation Proclamation, but since the Civil War hadn’t ended then, it freed not a single slave. Two years passed and the South surrendered on April 9th, 1865. Texan slaves found out about it around June 19th, 1865. Hence why we celebrate “Juneteenth” instead of “Aprilteenth.”

After some variation of the above, I’d launch into my Mattie Gilmore excerpt. Sometimes that was after significant conversation. Other times, reading my audience, I’d zip into the excerpt and send the group of people to the next storyteller.

One Iranian visitor really got into the spirit of Juneteenth and stated that essentially the same thing happened in his country. He felt the key to equality was education. Not just formal, academic education, but also raising the younger generation to have self-respect. At this point, he described the sagging pants on young men. Although he got way off topic, I politely moved him along to the next storyteller, putting my call center agent finesse to good use.

I then was able to talk with one of my friends for a while until another group of people arrived. She stayed to listen to my narrative, then moseyed along when yet another friend spoke with me about his diabetes.

Several kids walked around the corner to escape upon hearing my opening trivia question, but many tried to answer and some even asked me statistics about how many died. One boy asked me how many Confederate soldiers started the war. My answer: all of them. At least the adults laughed. I confessed to him that I didn’t know the war statistics, but I’m now motivated to learn far more about the Civil War, especially the action here in Texas and Texan slaves.

Next Juneteenth 2020, I’m going to know more about the Reconstruction era since most people want to hear more than the sanitized history they learned in heavily biased public school history books.

From July 2012 to December 2018, I’ve produced and hosted The Austin Writers Roulette every second Sunday of the month without fail. Starting in 2019, I scheduled the show bimonthly in order to have more time to pursue other creative outlets. And yet, my sister and her husband STILL managed to visit Dallas-Ft Worth on the same damn weekend!

I also had the bad luck to wear a two-piece suit as my hosting costume for the show during 110-degree weather. I felt like the Grim Reaper. I even told the audience that the Grim Reaper was in fact a Black woman in a fedora.

After the show, I hit the road for the 3-hour drive, reaching the hotel close to 10 PM at night still in costume. As amusing as my costume was during the show, people were NOT amused to cross paths with me in the parking garage and on the sidewalk, leading up to the hotel. They cleared a path for me as if I were truly the Grim Reaper.

To the point that one woman, who conveniently wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt, asked to take a picture with me just to prove to her friends, who were in another state at a cosplay event, that she too was having fun with some cosplay as well.

I left it in the hotel room the following morning when we toured the stadium where the Dallas Cowboys played their home games. Part of our journey there included cruising along Tom Landry Freeway, which was periodically decorated with his famous fedora.

This tour had been on my sister’s bucket list. She’s been a lifelong Cowboys fan although she and her husband are Redskin season ticket holders. When the Redskins play the Cowboys, her loyalties are with the Lone Star team.

Yet, the entire guided tour was indoors, so being out of costume with a hat on would have been pointless.

but she requested for me to send her pictures of Emmet Smith. This was the first one I came across.

I’d never known that all that lush grass rested on top of a layer soil, which covered cement.

this was the biggest screen of its kind in the world–or something like that. Added bonus, if you zoom in and look to the lower right of the screen, you’ll see Emmet Smith’s name!

but I couldn’t see the vehicles until we were actually in the space.

When the tour guide overheard what I’d said, she corrected me. “They open the windows (which are the biggest of their kind in the world, of course) and lift them up with crane.” None of us envied the crane operator who does that once a year to switch out this year’s vehicles with last year’s.

Considering how many view pro football players, I’m not too far off the mark. Yet this symbolized the Cotton Bowl.

En route from one part of the stadium to the basement, we passed by a storage area where banners from past events hung.

Sometimes, I know too much to enjoy things.

Yet, another woman in my tour group actually voiced a question in line with my thinking: “How much do the cheerleaders get paid?” Although the tour guide tactfully answered that she didn’t know and had to refrain from further comment, I knew I didn’t have to.

As a matter of fact, several of us knew that for all their hard work, they received less that minimum wage and had a stricter code of ethics to abide by than the football players. Plus, as the tour guide informed us as part of her script, these women had to try out every year. Tryouts had hundreds of cheerleading hopefuls, but the returning cheerleaders auditioned during the third round as part of a group of about 50 women.

Unlike touring the cheerleaders’ locker room, we received a word of warning before touring the players’ locker room: Do not sit on the wooden lockers. The tour guide stated that the quality of wood was like one finds on the inside of a Bentley. No such warning was given for the cheerleaders’ locker room since their decor was the quality of IKEA furniture.

I must admit: those lockers looked like inviting places to sit! But even the players sit in chairs and not their lockers.

Toward the end of the tour, we saw where the players run out onto the field. Hundreds of people line both sides of the lounge to root them on as they hit the field.

We got a closeup of the “field.” A soccer match had been the last event, which was why all of it had to be taken up in preparation of the next event. When sporting events aren’t taking place, the stadium also hosts concerts.

By the time we finished our tour, we had walked a mile and a half. Then, after leaving the facility, I drove us to the market to eat, followed by driving back to the hotel to get my things and trek back to Austin. That was such a full and exhausting day. All thoughts of working or even working out once I landed in Austin again were driven out of me.

For my second time participating with this ethnic dining Meetup, I had the opportunity to try a Uzbek food that was touted as being the ultimate fusion between Chinese and Middle Eastern.

Most of the dishes on the buffet I’ve made some version of at home. Yet, I’d never made all of them at once since cooking for one doesn’t require such a spread.

The Meetup organizer had actually arranged to have the buffet with the restaurant, so I’m happy that so many of us, close to 40, actually showed up. I think it may have been the biggest turn out he’s had since he started this group. A huge contrast to the handful of us who came out for the Korean dinner.

I’d been initially concerned whether or not this event would be cancelled because so many people had bailed within 24 hours. As a matter of fact, for a few days leading up to the event, there was a lot of back and forth between the organizer and members.

Being a Meetup organizer myself, I knew the two Meetup rules of thumb: 1) the people who ask the most questions won’t show up; and 2) only half of the people who sign up will show up.

I sat at the all women’s table, which turned out the be the rowdiest table. I’m never quite sure if that’s my effect on things or what naturally happens when a group of motivated women get together in general.

I loved that a few of us brought a bottle of wine since the organizer had warned us that the place didn’t serve alcohol. I sampled everything on the table. I, of course, was the only one who’d brought a silver chalice–mostly because it’s a conversation starter. I’d taken a mostly full bottle of chardonnay that I’d used for one of the latest recipes I’d made, which had called for a cup of dry white wine.

The woman beside me had brought a bottle of Hungarian wine to share except she kept comparing its smell to gym socks or a wet dog, but declared that it tasted better than that. I laughed and told her that that was a great way of not having to share a bottle of wine.

I got a good feel for the table prior to passing out my business cards for The Austin Writers Roulette. I’m always in recruiter/advertising mode when I attend any event. I encouraged them to come as an audience member or a participant since everyone has a story to tell.

I especially wanted to know more about one woman of color who had an interesting family tree that included both Indian and Black and was raised in Wisconsin. She’d recently attempted to join a Meetup group for Black people and had been rejected. She concluded that she didn’t appear Black enough. I scoffed, “Wow, if they rejected you, then I know I shouldn’t apply since I’m even lighter!”

Are we Black people bringing back the brown paper bag test? I know in the past that lighter skin Black people would discriminate against other Blacks who were darker than a brown paper bag. Has the pendulum now swung in the other direction? Can’t we just be free of such hatred?

Despite the fact that I made it home in time to watch the Oscars, I figured I’d hear about it enough in the coming weeks. I’d already done the most thrilling and meaningful things: meeting new people and trying a new genre of food.