For the fourth year, we three came out to read excerpts from a newly emancipated slave’s narrative. We took the usual group photo in our costumes and then…
had the sheer delight of having our pictures taken by a professional! I didn’t have the bandwidth to memorize the few lines of Mattie Gilmore’s narrative, but felt very comfortable emoting the lines to the museum visitors.
When I’d volunteered to participate this year, I had no idea that I’d be in the midst of studying for my property and casualty license. Nonetheless, sacrificing a little study time was totally worth it to remember the people who came before me, who never once dreamed of being an insurance agent.
Before leaving, we had another group picture with all of the historical character interpreters although the seated woman entertained everyone with one of her family stories that had been passed down for generations about the KKK coming to one of her relative’s house to kill him and a mysterious pack of wild dogs confronted the Klan. They’d never seen those dogs before or since that night.
After changing out of our costumes, we dashed over to the newest dinner/movie theatre to see “Wonder Woman.” I asked the guy at the ticket counter to take our picture since we were two Black women who’d actually arrived early.
That was so silly, we asked the bartender to take our picture as well. Then we watched “Wonder Woman.” That movie was so much fun and she’d done so many capoeira kicks, I nearly wanted to start training capoeira again. But not sparring. I never have to spar again! At least not physically.
Although Cinco de Mayo merely reflects the Mexican state of Puebla’s defeat of their French invaders, the American food/beverage business industry has elevated it nearly to the level of a St. Patrick’s Day libation party. This year, Cinco de Mayo landed on a Friday. Another piece of evidence that I’m middle aged is that what I normally like to do on Fridays is exercise, then sip wine with dinner and chill since I survived another week of corporate America.
Yet, due to the Cinco de Mayo celebration, my apartment complex had a free taco bar and margaritas. Perfect timing for someone who’d just worked out. I met a few of my neighbors and spoke with the ladies in the office as I ate. Even in the presence of other people, I still finished my food in the same amount of time as I would have in my apartment, watching TV.
Last month, I’d received a pair of free movie tickets to see a biopic about Emily Dickerson. The friend who I invited to join me originally wanted to go at a 9 PM showing since he wanted to clean his house after work. Then he was invited to a margarita birthday party, which we went to prior to the movie.
The spacious house with hardwood floors brimmed with children playing and adults drinking. In the corner of the room, yet another taco bar awaited. Not the least bit hungry, I made a small sampler plate, starting with fried rice. The real treasure lie in the crock pot. A childhood favorite: spicy cheese dip with stewed tomatoes. Mom always put ground beef in hers, but the meat was in a separate dish.
Then I dove into the margarita bar. I followed the recipe of the night: 1 oz orange liqueur, 1 oz fresh lime juice, 1 oz tequila, splash of water. Seemed more like a tequila shot than anything else. I added a splash of ruby red grapefruit juice for sweetness. I began to feel my alcohol, thanks to the second margarita of the evening.
The birthday girl had turned 40 a few days ago. I welcomed her to the club. I’d never met anyone there before, but many had met one another playing kickball.
After eating, I ventured outside. If I’d thought the inside of the house was child-friendly, the the back yard was paradise. Most of the children were jumping around inside the enclosed trampoline, but there was also a homemade swimming pool, a homemade seesaw, but my personal favorite were the goats.
I forget the kids’ names, but they were both males, had budding horns and occasionally the black one kept mounting the white one. One partygoer made the observation that they had no upper teeth, only bottom teeth, which were very straight and long. I happily explained that some animals who groom themselves had what was called a “tooth comb.” My friend observed that the kids cleaned themselves like cats. Yet cats use their rough tongue and not a tooth comb.
Closer to the time we needed to leave for the movie, I took out the pass I’d printed out. For the first time, I noticed the disclaimer. We could only use it Monday-Thursday. I called the theatre, explained the situation and he told me that it was OK. After hanging up, I told my friend the good news, but admitted I felt that a 16 year-old had given me the green light.
I was right.
The situation turned out to be a little more complicated in person. The teenager working the ticket/concession stand didn’t know how to process the pass. She showed it to another teenager with more seniority who had to get the guy who was around my age to approve it. Originally, he tried to give us shit, pointing out the obvious disclaimer. My friend and I both calmly explained that I’d called ahead to see if it would still be honored and had been told that it would.
The guy told us he’d honor it that one time and walked away. (So, on an extremely slow Friday night, we were probably interrupting his secret porn watching.) We got our drinks and walked into the vastly empty movie theatre. After all, how many people are going to clamor to watch a movie based on Emily Dickerson at 9:10 PM on Cinco de Mayo?
We were two of about twelve people there. The B-movie had some funny, interesting parts. I’d known that Dickerson had never married, but I didn’t realize that she died of “Bright’s disease,” a kidney disorder, which caused her to have back pain and seizures.
What amazed me was even though she had the resources of a rich family, she seemed very leery of marrying since she didn’t want a future husband to take away her writing. Amazing how, after all this time, that’s still a very real sentiment among women, artist or not.
This was the first year witnessing my nephew’s vegetarianism. Unlike one of his sisters, who is a vegan, he still ate food with eggs in it, such as his father’s famous sweet potato pie. Here’s one of the meals he put together: cup of fruit, protein bar, apple bar, tofu scramble, granola bar and a slice of sweet potato pie!
Since watching him do parkour last year, I’ve added the discipline to my bucket list. I’d planned to start taking classes last summer when he visited me, but his mother postponed that trip because he visited Germany instead.
One night, he requested I show him some yoga hip openers. Another night he showed me some parkour exercises, but I chose to take pictures of those, figuring I’d do them during my fitness room workouts.
He referred to this move as “declining handstand” or something like that. The point was to gradually lower oneself then roll out of it.
He followed that up with a move that looked similar to a yoga position known as “peacock.” The hand placement was different, but I was impressed at the arm strength. Once I can do about 6 minutes of planks, I may try adding this move as well.
Yet my absolute favorite exercise he showed me was the “pistol squats.” The name alone was badass and since it targets glutes, I’m sure to add that to my routine!
For another year in a row, I woke up before my nieces and nephews. The Christmas tree appeared more bountiful than it had just a few hours earlier when I had gone to bed.
Even the stockings had gained weight over night.
And making his Christmas debut: Q-dog Chef!
Between my mother and the older sister who thinks she’s my mother, they had us take this group selfie four times before opening gifts.
I found these lemon-oil laced vegan products for my vegan niece: lip balm, soap and moisturizer.
I figured my sister would appreciate this retro Lionel Richie album cover on the front of a blank book. Now she has somewhere to sketch out all her latest creative ideas for 2017.
Mom’s always touting new home remedies for ailments; so I gifted her some beeswax beauty products that came with a small jar of honey.
I leapt with joy when I saw my nephew already making good use of several little notebooks, strategizing his business pursuits. I had that in mind when I got him a moleskin little notebook.
What to get the woman who seemingly has it all? Why something to make her laugh! Whoever came up with the idea of marrying mistaken lyrics with coasters must have had loved ones who habitually screwed up songs as well like my sister does.
What to get the guy who seemingly has it all? Some consumable he can use. In general, my brother-in-law and father are hard to shop for; so they tend to get the same gift.
This year, the gift was a vegan and rainwater-based shaving soap.
Again, I got lucky with my other niece’s gift since her care products were peppermint oil-laced. I discovered after the fact that’s one of her favorite scents.
My other nephew’s gift was a no-brainer: reading material. Not necessarily the type of reading material he’d prefer to read, but The Journal of Best Practices is about a married guy with autism and the other reading material are highbrow magazines. During one of our conversations, I pointed out that he needed to read more and build his vocabulary since he didn’t know the meaning of a couple of words I’d said, such as “prolonged” and “ambiguous.”
After the gift exchange, I finally tasted Christmas breakfast: grits with butter and sugar and a biscuit-based casserole with sausage, eggs and veggies.
Now here was something to melt my former science teacher’s heart. My little niece set up her IB Biology project.
She’s testing how various levels of carbon dioxide affect the growth of marine plants.
I just loved how she did a little at a time and had her handy laptop to document the arrangement.
Hours later, we enjoyed a Christmas dinner buffet: roast beef, honey baked ham, fried turkey, mac and cheese, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, vegan baked beans, cranberry sauce, stuffing, gravy, vegan croissants, collard greens and dinner rolls. I refuse to put chitlings in that line up of delicious food, but Mom brought those foul-smelling innards from NC.
As par for the course since my visit, I partook of two desserts. For Christmas, the new dessert selections were pineapple cake and red velvet with white chocolate lace. Those two added to the sweet buffet of chocolate cake, sweet potato pie, pecan pie, various candy and vegan desserts.
It’s no wonder why most people make dieting a part of their New Year’s resolutions. Not me. I just return to Austin and avoid eating two desserts a day. I exercised every day in 2016 except for on Jan. 16th! A very good track record I plan to keep for 2017.
Since my friend who hosted this year’s Thanksgiving dinner is gluten sensitive, my contribution was a pumpkin cheesecake with a gluten free graham cracker crust. What a fantastic sacrifice of some animal graham crackers!
Pre-Vitamix days, I would’ve mashed those bad boys up with a potato masher like Mom used to do. It’s all about incorporating technology now.
Five tablespoons of melted butter added to the crust’s deliciousness.
Despite the fact that I used cookies, I faithfully followed the recipe and sprinkled a tablespoon of sugar.
Even before I baked the crust, I could smell the flavor as I mixed in the butter.
Baking the crust for five minutes truly brought out the flavor.
Next, I got the main event ready: three packages of cream cheese, one cup of sugar, some vanilla extract.
This base could’ve been any cheesecake.
Then I added some fresh traditional Thanksgiving spices: cinnamon and allspice.
Although the recipe called for one cup of pumpkin, I couldn’t taste it. So I put in the whole 15-oz can. Everyone savored the taste and asked if I’d used fresh pumpkin. Ha! I’ve heard from at least two people, who used fresh pumpkin, confess that next time they’d use canned pumpkin. Good enough for me.
Lastly, I added three eggs and hand grated nutmeg.
After pouring the batter into the pre baked crust, I gave it a final serene swirl to smooth it down. As any good chef or baker will tell you, it’s not merely using fresh ingredients that makes a dish, it’s also the care one puts into the preparation. The end result? Edible love.
The recipe stated to bake the cheesecake for 60-70 minutes, but it looked plenty ready after 35-40 minutes.
I arrived just in time to see my friend’s husband checking on the first turkey he’d fried up. I love the fact that he was a former firefighter since turkey fryers have caused so many fires and injuries.
While other preparations took place, I whipped up some fresh cream with too much sugar and put it in the refrigerator.
Nearly an hour later, I documented the frying of the second turkey.
This bird had already been injected with liquid spices.
Our fryer chef carefully lowered the bird into the boiling hot oil.
Still using caution, he closed the lid.
And then slowly backed away.
The other captain of the chef team, curved up the first fried turkey.
In the process, she made a beautiful turkey display.
In addition to a glass of water and a chalice of red wine, I made my eclectic Thanksgiving plate: green beans with sliced almonds and cranberries; mashed potatoes with cream cheese, rosemary and garlic; apple salad; fried turkey; fried ham; and Mexican spaghetti casserole.
We had two homemade dessert selections: flan and pumpkin cheesecake.
I skipped seconds on dinner just to double up on dessert. Besides, we were all gifted leftover turkey, ham and potatoes. I left half of the remaining cheesecake with my hosts and then delivered the rest to another friend who lived nearby.
As delicious as that cheesecake was, I don’t need it all for myself. That’s the main reason I never make a dessert unless I taking it somewhere else.
Once again, I enticed a friend to go to the Zombie Ball with me. I didn’t realize until we got there, she’d never heard of the headliner although she vaguely remembered the antagonist from the movie “Purple Rain.” As an added bonus, I saw another friend walking by himself in the crowd, grabbed him, so he could hang with us.
The opening band made a point of getting the crowd to remember that they were The Suffers from Houston. With their funkalicious grooves, the band got the crowd hyped to hear Morris Day and the Time.
Speaking of funky, we all enjoyed this guy’s “Tyrone” costume–a throwback to Dave Chapelle’s infamous crack addict character.
I’d taken a picture of this woman’s costume before I even realized that she was a big wad of bubble gum the shoe had stepped on.
I’d dressed up as Medusa before, but not quite as elaborately as this woman had done. Her rubber snakes added such texture, and apparently a little too much weight, to her costume.
The Fat Bottom Burlesque troupe lived up to their name. Not only that, but the DJ had tech issues with their music, but these women handled themselves quite professionally.
Next came the Parade of the Undead, complete with aerial dancers.
I’m not quite sure why the zombies ate bits of the mummy in the beginning of this choreography, but who cares about plot when watching such a thing?
After the opening number, they did solos that reminded me of capoeira, especially the last guy.
Then, the most touching montage of Prince photos graced the screen along with his music.
Took me a few moments to whip out my camera and capture the last bits of it.
I remembered this album. My older sisters had it and we nearly wore it out.
Morris Day came out with his usual pimp-style, comedic conceitedness.
Many times during the concert, Day combed his hair in the mirror that one of his band members held.
He crooned out hit after hit, some I’d even forgotten about.
Ever so theatrical, at one point, Day stated he was cold, so the guy standing in the background draped him in his white coat.
Nonetheless, he kept dabbing himself with handkerchiefs.
Day explained to the audience that he wasn’t wiping sweat off himself because he was hot, but because he was so cool.
Then he proceeded to give us a mini physics lesson. Day gave the analogy that a chilled bottle of champagne, when taken out of the refrigerator, starts to condensate.
So, Day concluded that he wasn’t sweating, he was “condensating.”
After the penultimate song, Day left the stage. The hype man got the crowd going to bring Day out on stage for an encore. I was worried. Sometimes, the encore song wasn’t worth waiting for.
Yet, he came out and did “Jungle Love.” Totally worth the wait. His final act was to throw two of his “condensation-drenched” handkerchiefs into the audience. As my friend and I waited in the women’s line after the show, another Black woman came up to us and asked if we wanted to smell Morris Day’s scent. She held up his handkerchief with both hands for us to get a whiff. I couldn’t name the sweet, yet manly cologne, but I’m sure she’s going to treasure it for a long time.
Have you noticed the spring in my step, the blush on my cheeks, the joy in my eyes? Why yes, I’m happier than I’ve ever been because I’ve recently got engaged. Fully engaged in my life, that is. Previously, I was just busy.
I’ve always been a super organized person, making lists, grouping errands and penciling in cool events—long before social media, smart phones or even the internet! My mind operated in hyper drive. I always had something creative to do. As soon as I figured it out, I made it happen. No matter how half-assed the end result. Better half ass than full ass and smart-ass is better than dumbass.
When I was in college, I walked into a bookstore and the vast collection of interesting books I couldn’t possibly read in my lifetime nearly overwhelmed me. Growing up, I’d heard some variation of the mantra “books before boys,” which fit in perfectly with my nerdy self. What I didn’t know at the time was that unless I prioritized finding a boyfriend/husband/whatever, I would not just suddenly find someone.
If you believe that love just happens when you’re not looking for it, then you’ve never met me. Love only happened to me when I pounced on it. It’s my personality, you see. I had to learn how to be more thoughtful of others, a better listener and within the past few years, empathetic.
I realized in my 20s that I was far too self-absorbed to be tied down to some presubscribed role I thought most heterosexual men wanted from a woman: a combination baby-making and domestic labor machine. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a very diligent and dependable worker, but that’s not the kind of labor I want to do. And in this century, the 21st, one wouldn’t think possessing a female set of genitalia and being heterosexual would still, STILL in the minds of modern heterosexual men, sentence us to that ancient combo role.
Every time I shared my exciting life’s schedule with a man, he’d react as if it had to change, not realizing my scheduled activities reflected my identity. To be fair, one has to schedule time with a significant other, but that’s something I’ve always battled with, even as a teenager. When I first started dating, most guys couldn’t keep my attention, which is best held by intellectual pursuits, combined with my creativity.
The best person to entertain me is myself. Not some man, who comes along, equipped with his own desires, priorities and baggage. Nothing makes me happier than spending a lot of time with myself, doing whatever the hell that captures my attention, usually in the form of writing, researching, creating art and participating in other creative expressions.
How to best share that with another person? I used to think I’d find THE guy who wanted to do all the things I wanted to do. Then I learned 1) that was what female friends were for; and 2) what I really wanted was a weekend boyfriend, which does NOT include married men or men who are in a committed relationship, but have an “understanding” with their woman. I’m not an understanding woman and I don’t share men. It’s not merely due to jealousy, but I’m also a borderline germophobe.
Relax. You don’t have to tell me how unrealistic I am. I began to feel like a relationship pariah in my thirties, partially due to the fact I was living in developing countries, where people married, reproduced and died young. OK, so maybe they were weren’t all married. But when I was 38, living in Honduras, I was the same age as the average Honduran grandmother.
I swear to you, I didn’t look like someone’s grandma. Having reliable access to food, safety and recreational exercise slows the aging process. Yet, I wasn’t going through the domestic drama of a relationship and/or child-rearing.
How wonderful to return to the States and discover other older adults living by themselves, with no interest in getting married, regardless of whether or not they had reproduced. One of the most beautiful things about being half way to 90 is that very few fools utter that I can still have children if I want. As meticulously as I plan things in my life, I’m quite sure I would’ve birthed someone long before now had I wanted to. And for the record, I don’t want to adopt children either. It’s childfree for me!
My art, performances and my math and science students who I’ve taught over the years are the fruits of my labor. Besides, I have nieces and nephews. I see in them that my good looks and brilliance have passed on to the next generation without the necessity of having to birth and raise them myself.
There’s some backlash against childfree adults being selfish. A common question is, “Who will take care of you when you’re old?” Why, my money, of course!
More importantly, when I’m old, I’ll reflect how wise I was the day I decided to bravely, selfishly, love myself.
This marked the first New Year’s Eve where I attended a birthday party at the start of my celebration. I’d lived in Austin for 6 years, passing the chain seafood restaurant as I fetched myself to and from yoga, never once stopping in until NYE 2015. I enjoyed the small group of poets gathered as much as I enjoyed my entree–coconut popcorn shrimp!
Hours later, I attended another NYE party, hosted by one of my cousins and former capoeira teacher.
One of his roommates co-hosted the party. He had been teaching his girlfriend to play Go, but I was so excited to see a Go board that I intruded on the lesson. They were both good sports about it.
I’d told my cousin during his birthday party a month ago that I’d wanted to cook one of my homemade lasagnas in their gas oven. Now I’m thinking it should be a lasagna and Go party.
This was the only police officer either my cousin or I ever want to see at a party.
I loved hanging out with the “ol’ capoeira gang,” including some new ones who started after I stopped officially training. I made sure I took pictures with everyone before the ball dropped.
We were both scared when the photographer got this close to take our picture, but it turned out better than we expected.
The first live music I heard in 2016 was this makeshift samba percussion group. I promptly shed my decorative jacket and sambaed my heart out.
An hour earlier, I got this shot from my immediate family, commemorating the east coast celebration–all with sparkling apple cider in hand!
One of my Christmas gifts to myself was a pair of polarized, no-line bifocals. After looking at all the female frames, I wandered over to the male section and found an attractive, cheaper frame, which didn’t have a bunch of fake jewels or girlie bling along the temples. I’d previously worried if I’d walked away with yet another pair of birth control glasses until I saw my younger nephew, the epitome of “in style,” wearing a similar frame when I arrived to their house.
After surviving “Flintstone Airline,” where one a) is charged either $30/40/60 for the first checked bag, depending on how soon one pays; b) has the option of paying an additional $50 for reclining seat; and c) must pay for every snack or drink besides a free small cup of water–with or without ice, nonetheless; and d) surviving my 18-year-old niece’s driving from the airport home, I then figured out that my luggage had not burst after all. Some lowlife airline worker had slashed my luggage from inside the outer pocket and above the zipper.
Initially, I only cared that one of my most cherished creature comforts, my night guard, had fallen out. As I transferred my things from the attacked luggage into the nifty second-hand luggage, I discovered an empty purse I’d packed had been stolen. I jumped through the hoops of reporting it online, but those clowns at “Flintstone Airline,” who will never get my money a second time, preceded to tell me a contradicting procedure for tracking down my property.
Strangely, I felt worse about the washing machine breaking down. As usual, I’d opened the lid, put in my dirty laundry and the liquid detergent, closed the lid, pushed power and it malfunctioned. I sought help from my niece, then my sister. I remembered something flying out when I’d opened the lid. I saw it on the floor, slid it into a slot and it worked! Well, not in the traditional sense of “worked.” The locking system no longer unlocked. One of my sisters and I took turns, using a putty knife, jimmying the washing machine open–a newfound skill we learned on YouTube.
On the eve of Christmas Eve, my sister and her husband, treated the family to a limo ride to the National Theatre in DC to watch “Motown: The Musical.” They had successfully conned all of us into believing that we were taking two cars to the venue.
My brother-in-law had even taken his second bourbon-laced eggnog to go, all the while my mother politely nagged him every step of the way. He juiced us well, stating that the police didn’t write tickets during the Christmas holidays.
A comment that baited me into cautioning him about his logic.
The ten of us fit comfortably with all the grandkids in the middle and the adults at either end.
My sister and her husband sat in the back seat, facing forward.
My parents sat in front of them and my other sister and I sat together in the only rear-facing seat. After all, how often does one get to ride backwards? As much as I enjoyed the comfort of the limo, I wasn’t a big fan of the projected beams of light, primarily because there was always a rifle scope of light projected on my father.
Despite the rainy weather, we arrived at the venue in plenty of time. My nieces and I followed one of the usher’s advice to use the bathroom prior to the show.
I love that my mother took this forbidden picture inside the theatre. It’s an unexciting shot other than it wasn’t supposed to be taken in the first place. The true excitement was the musical itself, enveloping us within many popular Motown songs with an intertwining narrative in between songs.
Afterwards, we ate at a jewel of a greasy spoon. This restaurant was as much of an example of the American dream as were the intermingled stories behind “Motown: The Musical.”
Toward the end of dinner, the matriarch restaurant owner came out to bus our table.
She graciously paused her business as usual to pose for a few pictures with Mom and Dad.
She posed with my sister and her husband, who are small business owners themselves.
I sampled the 3-and 7-year tequilas my brother-in-law had picked up while vacationing in Mexico during Thanksgiving. Despite my most persuasive suggestions, he didn’t want to spare a single shot of either tequila for a coconut margarita. Over ice was fine, but not my favorite for such a strong drink outside of medical purposes.
Here’s the classic calm-before-the-storm shot on Christmas Eve.
My younger niece was the first of my gift recipients to open her Christmas present from me.
Out of all the things I’d stuffed into that gift box, she was most tickled to discover the return of a set of workout clothes she’d forgotten she’d left during her summer visit with me.
My sister also received one of her old bathing suits she’d lent me last Christmas. Of course, I gave more than her returned stuff.
The two tops I’d gifted her looked as if they’d fit.Then, she finally got to the one gift in the box I’d been looking forward to her seeing.
Since she has low visual acuity, she wore her powerfully magnified reading glasses and presumed she understood what the small, colorful package contained.
Her guess was a “candy ring pop.” When I whispered in her ear which adult sex toy she held in her hand, she burst out laughing, even my nieces and nephews were briefly torn away from their self-absorbed pursuit of gift-opening.
I only captured a fraction of the joy this little surprise package brought her.
Purple, the color of royalty and healing, was also the signature color of my mother’s “Red Hatters” women’s group. I wasn’t sure if she realized the reason I gifted her the shirt was because it marked the 150th anniversary of our emancipation from slavery, but at least she liked the color and it was the right size.
As she pulled out the other gift, she exclaimed, “This better not be a cookbook!” Well, sometimes you get what you don’t wish for. Yet, she sweetened to the idea of it once she realized one of her own recipes and three of mine where represented.
My younger nephew changes so much every year, I can never be sure what size he is, what his tastes are nor his newfound hobbies. Yet, I remembered his sister had looked into buying him a comic book character T-shirt, which helped me at least pick out some reading material.
My brother-in-law was the hardest to gift. He doesn’t need anything that’s within my price range; so, I made him a pride box, which represented his business and fraternity. I threw in a shaker, plastic rocks “glass,” and swag bottle opener.
I also made my father a pride box. His box had an Air Force theme since he’d served from 1960 to 1981. I threw in two Texas lottery scratch off tickets–neither one was a winner.
Continuing my mission to distribute entertaining reading material, I gifted my other niece the most anime-looking comic books I could find among some other random things I’d given her.
The potpourri of gifts I gave my other sister consisted of a bottle opener, an entrepreneur’s purse, a “Step It Up” T-shirt, and a comic book. After all, she’s an artist who enjoys a drink every now and again and wants to run her own business one day.
For my other nephew, who regularly makes excuses why he can never make his way to the library, I filled his gift box with reading material: a political magazine, an anthology of African American literary synopses, and comic book.
Three chefs in my family prepared Christmas breakfast: bacon, Dad’s famous hash browns, eggs and toast with molasses.
She couldn’t wait to eat her “stocking stuffer.” (Actually, the cone was in the stocking with a note about where to find the ice cream.)
The yearly nieces and nephews photo.
Dad with his daughters.
Here’s Dad’s attempt to take our picture with Mom’s iPad. Notice my lone dreadlock on the right.
My nephew took over the effort to capture Mom with us.
I’m so happy I was able to visit some extended family members during this trip “home.” I love this shot in particular since Mom and this cousin grew up together as friends when they had to walk to and from a segregated, single-room elementary school. Look at them now.
My nephew received his green band for successfully testing to the next level in parkour. Since he’s visiting me for a week this summer, I’m going to take a few parkour classes myself, so I can be ready for a single class with him. The way I see it, I may be half way to 90, but as long as I can go at my own pace and no one’s kicking at my head, this cannot be worse than capoeira. As a matter of fact, as a little girl who loved to climb trees and play on the monkey bars, I would’ve loved parkour as a child…if girls had been allowed.
Banana pancakes for my last breakfast while visiting with my family–what a delicious send off!
Unofficially, my Halloween celebration started on a Wednesday, a few days before my favorite holiday of the year. A local library invited the Austin Writers Roulette to perform in their monthly reading. Since I usually dress up to match the roulette theme, I had a myriad of costume choices since this occasion had no theme.
Three other authors joined me for the event. In a way, it was easier to produce this show since we’d all written bios, didn’t have to set up chairs and we’d all arrived by thirty minutes to showtime. The librarian who’d contacted me about this event was amazed. I told him I always asked my artists to arrive an hour before the event just so we could start on time. Besides, when a group of talented, creative people gather together, the quality of the conversation is so rich. We took our traditional group picture well before the show started.
Donna Dechen Birdwell opened the show, reading an excerpt from her speculative fiction, Way of the Serpent.
Mackenzie Irick Milks read a short fictional piece about a granddaughter returning to the islands for her grandfather’s funeral only to learn the sordid details about his life.
Stephanie Webb shared instances of her personal challenges of being a well-educated black woman marginalized in Austin.
I read three excerpts from my racy first novel, Tribe of One, about a single black women looking for love while still being a smart woman about the pursuit. One of the excerpts was about a one-night stand on Halloween and another was about the infamous “vibrator research” chapter. After reading that last one, I broke the news to the audience: the actual vibrator the main character decided to buy didn’t exist.
Afterwards, we moseyed across the street to eat dinner. Fortunately, the restaurant offered 1/2 price bottles of wine! The intellectual conversation, which had begun before the show, continued. This was the kind of occasion I always say I’d like to participate more in, but never seem to organize. I’m so glad it just happened.
Truly a feast befitting of a queen: a well-seasoned and composed salmon sandwich on fresh bread with a side of potato salad.
Donna couldn’t resist wearing the Cleopatra headdress!
A few days later, I dressed up as “Soul Sistah #9” to attend a 70s pot luck and disco party. I borrowed a friend’s larger-than-life Afro wig and was happy to see the hostess and her husband were both sporting Afro wigs as well.
This red sofa had my name all over it; so this shot was inevitable.
Since I arrived so early, due to the intermittent heavy rains, which did not delay me much, I entertained myself by taking pictures of the decor.
The party hosts had a room, separate from their house, dedicated to the 70s.
In addition to vinyl, concert posters of my musical heroes decorated the room and doors.
Looking at these artists, I wondered how many of the new entertainers today will enjoy such name recognition longevity.
They inspired me since, despite their success, they continued pursuing their passion.
One partygoer modified a pair of pants with some 70s style flair. We traded costuming stories. Come to find out, she’d taught outside the States. I wondered if there was some connection between international teaching and costuming.
Speaking of costuming, we were all so happy John Travolta’s iconic “Saturday Night Fever” suit was in the house.
Despite the torrential rains and flash floods caused by tornado watch conditions, many of us still turned out to share soul food 70s style. This meetup group has been growing in both size and creativity when it comes to its themes.
After everyone finished eating, “we” (meaning other people while I sat and watched) moved the tables and chairs to the side to clear the dance floor.
How wonderful was singing and dancing to every song that played!
The only challenge was trying to remember all the 70s style dances. No one knew how to do the hustle. I kept wishing my two older sisters had been there. They had been club-going teenagers during the 70s.
As if this night couldn’t get any better, there were three contests: best costume, best dancer and best dish.
We were all awarded with stereotypical 70s gifts: an ol’ school electronic football game, Simon and a lava lamp!
The following evening, one of my friends knocked on my door just as the first bowl of curried chicken and rice had completed warming up in the microwave. I immediately warmed up a bowl for her and made our white wine sangria. Actually, I’d chopped up the fruit and froze it hours prior; so they were like fruity ice cubes.
We arrived downtown prior to all the craziness–even too early to enter the Zombie Ball, our final party destination. While we waited for another friend to join us, we chilled out at a nearby restaurant.
Once she arrived, we saw we were wearing the same Pixie eyelashes.
We chalked it up to a female capoeirista thing.
The first thing we did was take a couple of souvenir group pictures.
The emcees dressed as “Salt N Pepper” to honor the headliners–although they were standing in the wrong order initially.
The most impressive female burlesque dancer of the night had an elaborate headdress.
At one point during her routine, she removed one of her plastic snakes.
Except this one was LIVE!
I’m so glad she didn’t get at all freaky with that snake. As she danced, I thought about how snakes were the ancient symbol of female sexuality.
A funk band that sounded and dressed as outlandish as Parliament and George Clinton performed. They had their own dramatic dancers.
My friends and I went outside to sit down. A woman approached me and gave me a ticket to be part of the women’s costume contest. For the first time since I’ve been attending the Zombie Ball, my poor little country mouse costume looked good enough to compete! I truly didn’t care whether I won.
I enjoyed getting future costuming tips, especially from this “Voodoo Queen” who was a finalist last year. As a matter of fact, the voting came between her and another woman who had a guy chained to her as a gimp slave–she (and he) won.
I didn’t notice how gruesome this woman’s costume was until I got up close and saw the collar was made to look like torn flesh. Yet, she, like me, didn’t really know how to hype the crowd to sell our costume. I rely so much on emoting my words.
Zipper-faced zombie had applied an actual zipper in realistic fashion. Just the kind of make up costuming that I haven’t explored yet.
Even wolf in sheep’s clothing had awesome costume makeup.
Zombie Marie Antoinette with Glinda the Good Witch behind her both were selected since they had very high headdresses–Voodoo Queen, who is a professional costume designer, clued me into the fact that people correlate “quality” with the height of a headdress.
In all the Zombie Balls I’ve attended, they never once had a male burlesque dancer.
And a black one at that!
I’m guessing this guy performed since Salt N Pepa were the headliners.
(Author’s Note: That’s his HAND between his legs!)
The dancing aerial group followed his performance.
I loved their little zombie sequence. They had to do the beginning over again since the music failed the first go around. Better a music fail rather than an equipment fail!
Every time I see aerial dancers, I tell myself the same lie: I’m going to take a few classes, knowing full well I don’t like pain. Nonetheless, maybe once yoga heals my hips…hmm, sounds like I’m lying again.
Then, we, the audience, went back in time 30 years and enjoyed an 80s styled concert.
They even gave us a hip-hop quiz by playing the first part of an 80s song, abruptly turning off the music and allowing the audience to belt out the lyrics.
By the end of the night, we electric boogalooed out of there.
Absolutely fantastic way to end a three-day Halloween celebration.
Around the turn of the 21st century, a bee stung me. My entire right hand swelled. Mom recommended I make a paste out of meat tenderizer and put it on my affected hand, but a few sun salutations had a more dramatic effect. The extra fluid pulsed and coursed through my lymphatic vessels during that yoga warm up. My hand looked normal the next day.
Friends concluded I was allergic to bees. Without ever consulting a doctor for an allergy test, I believed I was allergic to bees. This first time had warned me. The next time would put me in anaphylactic shock. I went to a drugstore to buy an epi-pen. I couldn’t believe that lifesaving device needed a doctor’s prescription.
Stubbornness prevented me from seeing a doctor. Instead, I’d spend the rest of my life avoiding bees. When among fools who weren’t allergic to bees, but chose to swat wildly at these insects, which ironically increased their probability of being stung, I sat very still and calmly, but firmly asked them to stop, explaining my allergy.
The only upside to fear is respecting the source. Whenever I was outside on a warm sunny day, I kept an eye out for bees. I stopped wearing perfume unless I was going out at night. I took a longer route to avoid visible bee activity. I gently blew them away when they landed near or on me.
Independence Day 2015 rolled around. One of my nieces had been visiting me for the week. We’d just left touring the LBJ Museum and started eating our burger, fries and malted shakes outside a local fast food joint. Absentmindedly, I brushed away something tickling my neck with one hand while holding my cheeseburger with the other. The scratch from my fingernail startled me. I inspected my nails and there weren’t any jagged edges. I rubbed the sore spot on my neck with growing awareness of what must have happened.
I asked my niece if she noticed any swelling on my neck. She didn’t. I breathed slowly and deeply, not wanting to alarm my little niece, while my mind raced. I casually looked up the symptoms of anaphylactic shock on my phone. Slow connection. I went to the bathroom to inspect my neck. No mirror.
Trying to sound normal, I told my niece I was going to the car to use the mirror. By this time, I saw a small red spot. The combination of heat and panic caused me to sweat. I felt a trickle between my breasts. I pulled my top out in order to wipe the sweat before it soaked my shirt and a bee flew out.
With visual confirmation, I gathered up my niece, hopped in the car and searched for a pharmacy. We never saw one until we reached the grocery store where I normally shopped. I walked a little faster than usual, making a beeline to the pharmacy. Fortunately, there was no line.
The pharmacist on duty recommended taking two benadryls, but took an agonizing amount of time telling me how long anaphylactic shock would kick in. Apparently, 30 minutes was considered “rapidly.” Since I hadn’t started coughing nor experiencing breathing problems at that point, I started to rethink my alleged bee sting allergy.
For less than $2, I got far more benadryl pills than I ever hoped to need in this lifetime. I popped two prior to driving straight home to sleep off the drug-induced drowsiness. Before falling asleep, I thought of all the unfinished things in my life, my visiting 16-year old niece, all the years I’d lived with the fear of being stung by a bee…
Despite all the research I’d done about having a deadly reaction to bee stings, I’d never read that swelling around the sting area was a normal reaction. Until that day.
On Independence Day 2015, the US celebrated our 239th freedom anniversary and I personally celebrated independence from my paranoia over dying from a bee sting. I still respect bees. I still believe in a gentle response when one buzzes near me. I no longer fear them.
