Category: Special Events

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.

I first visited the African American Museum last Christmas.  Although I’d spent most of my visit in the basement, which goes back in time as one rides the elevator down, I didn’t have enough time nor mental bandwidth to see the upstairs.

As much as I enjoyed and absorbed the information from the theme-inspired floors, I took very few pictures as a result.  I loved that the Funkadelic spaceship had an honored position. This was probably my favorite artifact in the music section although the music room itself, where we could order up a song through an interactive screen embedded into a table, was my favorite interactive.

This album cover spoke to me since I’d begun writing an essay for Veterans Day about how the phrase “We the American People” should be inclusive, yet in common practice, it exclusively means White people. What struck me most about this album cover was as much progress Black people have made, we’re still fighting some of the same battles.

This interactive, geared mostly toward kids, taught some Black Greek step moves.  I’d wanted my nephew to do more than watch his own outline move, but at least he tried it out.

And like my first visit, I was starving by the time we ate. My feeding was delayed because my sister wanted to see the special exhibit before eating: Oprah Winfrey. As if that exhibit was going somewhere! For some reason, she was too anxious to wait. I sucked it up and walked around with a growling stomach, too hungry to take any pictures. Even so, I enjoyed watching some of her earlier clips when she was a mere beat reporter who’d eventually become a self-made billionaire.

As soon as I hit the cafe, I made a beeline to get the gumbo. That was memorably the best dish I’d tasted the last time. I did my foraging quickly around that a la carte style cafeteria, so I could get a table and put the feedbag on. My sister split a brick of cornbread with me after she and my nephew finally arrived at the table.

At the time, my sister wanted me to tell her my favorite part of the visit. I know it sounds too vague to say “all of it” or “the fact that it exists.” Honestly, I enjoyed seeing myself reflected in history and that the torch has been passed on to my generation to continue the challenge of making positive contributions to society and passing the torch of progress to the next generation.

One of my sisters orchestrated a sneaky-pants surprise birthday party for our mother. She chose to honor Mom’s 78th, versus her 80th, birthday just to throw Mom off the scent. I was in charge of making Mom’s powerpoint.

Mother Nature helped with the surprise. We’d originally planned to have Mom’s surprise party closer to her actual birthday in September, but Hurricane Florence blew that away.  Instead, we held it in November.

Fortunately, I live in a state where early voting is offered because I would’ve curtailed my visit in order to stand in line to vote. The biggest relief is that, taken out of my regular routine, I wasn’t inundated with local campaign ads. Yet, I couldn’t totally separate myself from politics since my family didn’t know about some of the egregious things certain politicians were doing. Yet, even worse than that, two of my friends, both women of color, had told me that they weren’t going to vote! One said that she was a Christian and God would take care of her. The other said she’d be content to let the chips fall where they may.

Of course that didn’t sit well with me. I didn’t go off on them at the time, but I didn’t forget. So, as we were heading down to NC en route to our hotel the day before the surprise birthday party, I asked my brother-in-law to stop so I could take a clear picture of one of the many cotton fields in bloom we’d passed along the way.

I texted this picture to both of my friends with a caption, which read, “Here’s your new workplace since you don’t vote!”

Once we reached the hotel, as anxious as I was to hit the room, I had to pause to take a picture of perhaps the only hotel joke I’ve ever seen.

The next morning, we had a fabulous breakfast and spent a couple of hours decorating the event place. One of the decorations was a deck of playing cards with Mom’s picture on it. As an avid pinochle player, Mom deserved to have her picture grade a deck of playing cards.

Mom arrived, thinking that she and Dad were attending someone else’s birthday party. I’m so happy that I caught her pointing her finger at someone, one of her infamous gestures.  We’d said “surprise” and the DJ played Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday to You” as she circulated around the room.

My sister, who’d masterminded the entire event, maintained such a high level of energy throughout the entire evening. 

Mom then greeted one of her nieces,

one of our godparents,

a cousin-in-law,

her “boyfriend,”

and other family members.

I recommended using Mom’s high school senior portrait, which most people initially thought was my other sister. Dad kept telling people, “I got her when she looked like that!” I didn’t dare tell him that she’d gotten him when he was a young man himself.

Since I’d missed several family reunions in a row on Mom’s side, I wanted to take a picture of some of my cousins.

Then I joined in the group picture, holding Mom’s portrait. When she saw that, Mom had to join in herself.

And of course my sisters and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to take a picture with Mom’s portrait.

One of the best blessings I have is that my parents are still alive, well and still together.  I love how they both joke that if the other one passes first, they wouldn’t remarry because they’re too old to retrain a new partner!

As we waited for the caterers to set up, different family and friends got on the mic to tell a funny story or even wish her well.

My brother-in-law missed a lot of the festivities because he had to go out and get a birthday cake since there was a miscommunication with the woman who was supposed to be in charge of the original cake.  Nonetheless, we made due with what he bought.

My parents opened the floor, dancing to “My Girl” by The Temptations.

Soon other couples joined them.

Wasn’t too long before all the line dances were played.

Once again, I risked having my “Black” card revoked since I didn’t dance because I don’t like line dances.

I didn’t even join in when they played the Electric Slide, which was the one I knew how to do.

The thing is, when I learned the Electric Slide, that was it for me. For life.

Then we had the requisite pictures: Mom with her grandkids.

Of course, Dad eventually got into the action.

My godparents posed with my parents.

Then I managed to capture a shot of my nieces with their father.

At the end of the party, before taking the gifts to the car, I snapped a picture of her gift table, which was a little deceptive since most of her cards where stored in the decorative box in the back of the table.

In the course of leaving, I discovered my niece’s steampunk hat that she bought at a costume shop when she should have been searching for birthday decorations for her grandmother. I, of course, had to pose with it. And my nephew, of course, had to photobomb.

Back at my parents’ home, Mom read through all her cards, while most of us were only truly interested in how much each card held. Although one of my cousins kept track of how much she collected on paper, I recounted the cash and put the bills in order. After putting it in an envelope, I ordered my mother to put it in a safe place then first thing Monday morning deposit it. Since we’re both Virgos, the conversation wasn’t necessary.

The next morning, we hit the road back to Virginia. While waiting for the others to finish up at the rest stop, we posed for pictures.

Our cousin suggested we get the tourist sign in a shot.

• Since the tourism motto is “Virginia Is for Lovers,” I got the Love sign as well.

For the past couple of birthdays, I’ve posed with my yoga teacher while wearing my tiara before class.  This was the first time I had a teacher who could truly sing. As a birthday gift, she quickly sang “Happy Birthday” during a third set of camel.As soon as I finished my yoga class, I jetted to one of my favorite movie theatres and arrived in time to order my libations, including an adult shake–chocolate reposado and enjoyed “Searching.”Afterwards, I made my way home during the start of rush hour traffic, mostly to regroup for a happy hour gathering at a swanky hotel downtown, but also to put my Bikram yoga funk ladened mat of its misery in the washing machine.

For this particular happy hour, the sponsors of the event brought together the international crowd from different do-gooder organizations. As mixed as that crowd was, I was the only one with a tiara.  Adding to the ensemble, I pulled my recently polished silver chalice out of my purse and placed it on the bar.

The New York bartender gave not a flying fuck that it was my birthday. Even when I told him what I was celebrating, he put his palms in the air and said, “Look, I just got here. No one’s told me anything.” [Although we Southerners considered his manner abrupt and rude, I’ve learned that New Yorkers consider that normal behavior.]

Strange reaction, but I told him that I wanted some sweet dessert cocktail and suggested a Butter Baby, which is Baileys and Butterscotch.  Again, he was dismissive, but said he’d hook something up. Among the things he put into my birthday cocktail was horchata, Frangelico, vanilla flavored vodka and seems like there was another ingredient.

At the end of the evening, my friend gifted me a bottle of Malbec, my favorite genre of red.

Since I believe in celebrating my birthday more than one day, I attended the opening reception of three women artists who all depicted strong women–real, fictional, and fictionalized real women.

The gallery owner’s husband burst out laughing when I pulled my silver chalice out of my purse.  As usual, they had a small libation table, which included red wine. I posed in front of one of the many Frida Kahlo paintings. This particular one was executed by an artist who had spoken at my show, The Austin Writers Roulette, a couple of times.  She juxtaposed Frida’s husband’s work (Diego Rivera) in the background with Frida in the foreground looking at peace.

One of my heroes, Gov. Ann Richards, who on paper, was the second woman to be governor of Texas, but for those of us who know history, Richards was the first.  Gov. Miriam “Ma” Ferguson appeared to be the surrogate governor for her husband who could no longer legally hold office.

In the years I’ve lived in Texas, I’ve witnessed people of color being priced out of housing due to unchecked rising prices and women having a diminished amount of control over our reproductive rights. I predict the rise of more powerful women such as Gov. Richards. Hopefully that’s more than a birthday wish.