Special FX Makeup: Scars

As soon as I walked into the classroom, I had flashbacks of teaching HS science. On one table lie mostly edible foodstuffs I had at home: Karo syrup, food coloring, cornstarch, and vaseline. Nestled in between the groceries were various makeup products along with toilet paper, cotton balls and paper towels. Welcome to Special Effects Makeup Class!

Our first task was making blood. Using 3/4 of a cup of Karo syrup, I mixed in about a tablespoon of red food coloring, two drops of blue, a drop of green and a little hot water. Since the syrup had a much higher density than the water and food coloring, I stirred it for quite a while. Even after it was well mixed, I simply enjoyed the sensation of stirring the fake blood and continued doing so while the instructor moved on to the next thing: wax.

Back in high school, I remember taking a drama club field trip to a theatre where one guy conducted a “blood and guts” workshop. The one thing that made an impression on me was the pliable mortician’s wax. Of course, I’d asked our instructor about it. She’d never used it, but had used other professional waxes made for theatre makeup.

With a dollop of vaseline and a scoop of cornstarch, I folded the mixture with a plastic knife. This combination was so unbelievably sticky that I made sure mine was well mixed to the consistency of butter cream before touching it.

Even so, once I touched it, I essentially dove in, rolling it out in the palms of my hands.  I should’ve eased into that. Had I tested just a little with my fingertips, I would’ve added more cornstarch into the cup. The second best thing to do was to dip the sticky ball of wax into the large bowl of cornstarch. I repeated that step several times until the stickiness disappeared without drying out the wax.

I then combined some foundation in a separate cup to match my complexion before adding it to the wax. As I did so, I wondered what I would have used if I’d been a darker Black person since there weren’t any darker foundations available. I probably would have had an awkward moment of asking how to darken the wax, using both foundation and food coloring.

My first project involved wax and cotton. I glued the cotton first, then the wax surrounding it, smoothing it down with a plastic knife to blend it better with my skin.

When I added the first layer of blood, this FX started to come alive. The instructor gave us words of wisdom, which guided us throughout the entire weekend workshop: blood makes everything better. So, I caked on the blood to hide the edges. At that point, I wished my fake blood was more gelatinous. That didn’t stop me from taking a picture and sending it to my family, however.

The only cosmetologist among us jazzed up her wounded hand with both eyeshadow and blood.

I entered class knowing I wanted to pull off a Ms. Sandman costume for my upcoming spoken word performance at The Austin Writers Roulette. My first attempt was to glue raw sugar to my skin. Since school glue contains water, the sugar dissolved and, together with my body heat,  the result was more like a gluey scrub than a sandy-looking costume.

My next project was to cover my eyebrow. This time, I used one of those purple glue sticks and a disposable eyebrow brush. First, I brushed the eyebrow hairs up and applied glue. After allowing it to dry, I brushed the hairs downward and added more glue. Once that dried, I added my premixed foundation. One of the reasons to cover eyebrows is if latex will be applied. Gluing down eyebrows will protect them from being ripped out when removing the latex afterward.

The next project involved staples and coarse aquarium sand. Still figuring out how to render my Ms. Sandman look, I went to a pet store after Saturday’s class. They were out of the sand I wanted, but the woman who helped me happened to have a fine arts degree and recommended coarse aquarium sand since she’d used it for her kids’ zombie costume. Although I felt sad that such a degreed artist had to support herself working at a pet store, at that moment, I appreciated her expertise.

Of course, I drenched the gash with blood, flooding the sand, but it still looked good.  The pet store sales associate said that the sand would look like bone fragments and it did once the excess blood oozed out. I could hardly wait to send that picture to my family, who were all at church at that time. I got some instant gratification when I walked to the front desk to show the intern. For a few seconds, he reacted as if I was actually injured, then he remembered which class I was in.

The instructor had also brought in liquid latex for me to try out. Our hypothesis was that the raw sugar wouldn’t dissolve in the latex and may hold better. That worked, but I still liked the coarse sand better, which was held in place with the latex. I also wanted to see if I was allergic to latex; so this patch test served several purposes.

Round two of the leg FX involved body paint, eyeshadow and wax. We made the body paint with shortening, cornstarch, food coloring and water. Unfortunately, we didn’t have actual zippers; so I painted a zipper, which looked more like DNA. Yet the real problem with my raised blood vessel was the fact I used wax. Far too heavy. I tried again this time with painted cotton. At least I could walk around with it.

My last project during the workshop was mermaid scales. I used prefab body paint, toilet paper and eyeshadow. First, I painted the black scale outlines, then I glued down the toilet paper. When I asked the instructor the best way to paint over toilet paper, she demoed the first scale, starting with body paint and dusting with shimmering eyeshadow to make the colors pop. The toilet paper itself added texture to the design.

The real test was on Sunday for the Roulette when I made my Ms. Sandman costume. Here’s the final result:

I’d set up a temporary makeup station on my patio because I wanted to limit the amount of sand in my apartment. I had such an enjoyable time painting that cool-to-the-touch latex on my face. The  scary part was having to lean over the balcony backwards to dust my face with sand.

I allowed it to dry while I cleaned up the station before heading back inside to finish my makeup and put on my dress. I had a bra full of sand, but thank goodness none had entered any orifice except the sand on my lips occasionally got into my mouth. Yet that was worth the effort since dabbing lipstick on top of it made for a really interesting effect.

All that wonderful playtime made me about 15 minutes late to my own call time for the show–something which had never happened since I started the show back in 2012. Well, first time for everything!  We still started on time and had a fabulous show.

One Continuous Today

The Never-Ending Tomorrow is an insomniac’s nightmare. Tomorrow cannot begin until today ends when you finally fall asleep. Until then, it’s just one very long today, where you hope you’re not just wasting your time. Juggling projects, running from one event to the next, navigating through the challenges of life and inevitable bullshit. And it doesn’t take too long to figure out that a to-do checklist is arbitrary because no matter what’s on the list, there’s always more to be done. You’re only finished with checklists when you stop using them. Even with something that kind of makes sense such as a grocery list. I keep that one on my phone since I can temporarily delete everything once I go grocery shopping, only to add more items when I return home. At least that doesn’t drive me nuts because I have an expectation of using consumables.

Outside of grocery shopping, all other lists just get unwieldy, such as all the books on my ever-growing reading list or the infamous Netflix queue that never seems to dip below 50 things to watch.

Even the millions of things I don’t bother to list on a list are never-ending. Yes, I like getting shit done. As bad as this sounds, I’d love to gather a few people who say they have nothing to live for and give them some of my things I don’t have time to do. I know, they don’t feel that way for the LACK of things to do, I just wish I could donate some of my tasks that give me a sense of purpose to others, so we could all be engaged in meaningful activity.

I’m one of those who wishes she could multitask in her sleep. But let me tell you the truth about multitasking. It’s mostly an illusion. What most people consider multitasking is switching off activities, where you stop doing one thing to do another then return to the first thing, but not truly doing more than one thing at a time except in rare instances. For example, if you’re sitting on the toilet, shitting out diarrhea while simultaneously holding the trashcan on your lap to catch the intermittent streams of vomit, then you’re multitasking.  If you’re cleaning your apartment while the washing machine is working on a load of laundry, you’re somewhat multitasking although you’re not doing anything luxurious with the time you’re supposed to be saving since time-saving devices don’t really save you time.  You just raise the bar on how much you can get done in a given space of time.

Speaking of time, for far too long I’ve felt like the cliché of having too much month at the end of my money.  For years, I’ve pinched a penny so hard, Lincoln has protested for emancipation, but he’s not going to be free until I am.  Financially free, that is. Money-worries fuel insomnia, which means tomorrow’s arrival is even more delayed while battling the never-ending tasks along with the never-enough money.

Is it true, more money, more problems? I couldn’t tell you since I’ve never been in that situation. What I suspect is that people who are prone to bad ideas to begin with can fund those bad ideas more if they’re flush with cash. With more money, there’s more room for error, which can be a good thing, especially when trying out innovative ideas.

Ahhh yes, the dreaming and scheming insomnia! So many roads lead to insomnia—if only I could monetize it. But I don’t want to dwell on that too long since it’ll become even more grist for the sleep-deprived mill.

Another good way to throw a monkey wrench into my sleeping routine and burn some mad hours, upgrading just one thing in my technological spider web. With just one thing, I will quickly discover how antiquated all my other technological shit is. But I need not worry, there’s always an inexpensive solution, which I won’t already have at home; so, I’ll have to pick that up the next time I go out. (Possibly putting it on a list!)

I do my technological upgrades in the mornings. Preferably right after breakfast.  That way, I can take full advantage of all the daylight hours troubleshooting and perhaps have the matter settled by bedtime. If not, I’ll enter one of the many disturbing nightmarish dreamscapes with my favorite re-occurring scenario where I wonder around, looking for that one item and no matter how close I get to finding it, I never do. At one point, I acknowledge, while dreaming, that I’m in another version of an anxiety dream or I wake up. Either way, I’ve not quite rested for the night.

It’s like being on the same day 2.0, which is why I’m a little surprised it’s already June. According to my sleep/wake cycle, I’m still in April. I’ve started doing stretches before bed to help my body at least prepare for sleep although the real source of a sleepless night is my brain not turning off. I’ve resisted taking sleeping pills because I don’t want to become dependent on chemicals. Besides someone has suggested that Ambien causes racism. Whatever the case, when my life is settled for the moment, my mind will be. Just like the song says about having a satisfied mind. A more accurate song for me would be “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”

It’s all about the hustle and the bottom line, which brings me back to strategizing and making lists. I’ve never completely abandoned the idea that I can maximize my time and activities to be more efficient. I just wish at the end of the day, Mr. Sandman, or any of the Sandman family for that matter, would enter my anxiety-riddled mind like one of these Hollywood action-movie heroes and do battle with insomnia.

Since I’m prone to vivid dreams, which I can often control, I’m going to will myself to sleep while trying to evoke some Sandman action-hero thoughts. If I’m not going to rest, I might as well multitask by creating something I can write about when I wake up.

Technological Spiderweb

I NEVER upgrade anything in my technological spiderweb until I have to. Either something breaks or, as the recent case, I get upgraded against my will.

Actually, that’s not exactly true.  The changes my company made to our call/sales application were long overdue. Since any change in one place affects other parts of the tech web, I should’ve predicted I’d have some inconveniences.

With the new upgrades came audio issues for both me and the client. The phone system went down at an annoying rate. Overall, I missed calls, which meant lost opportunities. Then, my assistant sales manager (ASM) informed the team that if we had Spectrum, we’d have to switch internet providers.

I’ve had Spectrum cable and internet ever since I moved into my current apartment the summer of 2010. For the first couple of years, it was free. Then, I had to pay $50/year for it with my apartment lease renewal, which was next to nothing in the long run.

So, yes, I’ve been spoiled. Now that I’ve been working from home with my virtually free internet/cable service, setting my own schedule and clocking fewer than 20 hours/wk most of the time, life was truly good. Until this.

The first time I had the AT&T tech come out, my ASM had given me the wrong information about the upload speed. Once I had the correct information, the tech was long gone. At that point, I optimistically thought the Spectrum upgrade that the leasing office had spoken about might solve the issue. After all, they were bumping up the speed.

Come to find out, speed wasn’t the issue.  The newly upgraded call/sales application no longer communicated well with Spectrum. I even tried working “incognito,” which had solved some issues for other agents, but not my tech issues.

I made another appointment for the following week. The second AT&T guy hooked everything up, even gifting me an Ethernet cable. That afternoon, everything worked like a charm. The second day, I had audio issues to the point I had to call my only sale for that day back twice to complete the transaction.

I fumed. The fucking reason I switched to AT&T was to stop the audio issues!  One friend suggested that my connection was shared with others and when they came home, they drained my speed. That made sense because my connection was good up until when most people would have been off work.

At that point, I knew I’d have to change my work schedule. I had been working from about 3-6:30. Very sweet. At this point, I’d have to log on even earlier, which meant all other aspects of my schedule would change. My recently established yoga and writing schedule would be sacrificed once again.

A few days later, I attempted to print out my new car insurance card. The printer hadn’t connected with the new wifi. I went deep into the tech rabbit hole, trying to get the damn thing to work. I even called tech support, who coached me over the phone to discover a button on the modem I hadn’t seen before, but still, no success.

As a last resort, he offered to send out a tech guy. He informed me that since I had been recently charged for installation, I wouldn’t be charged again. That was at least a silver lining.  Yet, I still had to adjust my schedule for the third tech guy.

Totally worth it. In no time at all, I showed him how the printer was supposed to appear on a list on my laptop, so I could add it. He requested the printer manual, which I kept in the original box in the outside storage closet. Before I could go outside to get the box, the tech asked me to verify if my printer had just appeared. When I asked him how he did it, he showed me the same two buttons on both the printer and modem that I had pressed before, but hadn’t maintained pressure on long enough! I didn’t feel as stupid as someone who forgot to plug the devices in or turn them on, but this was marginally better.

When he asked if I’d had any other problems with the connection, I told him about the audio issues, figuring I’d already problem solved that one. To my surprise, he informed me that I didn’t share a line with anyone else. He asked me to log on and let him see how the system work, using his cell number as a test. I definitely didn’t want to log on at that point since I’d taken the day off, but for the sake of possibly resolving the issue, I went along.

I’d turned the computer on when he announced that he already saw the issue. I was using an “A” Ethernet cable rather than a “B.” He retrieved a “B” cable from his truck, switched out cables, and I DIDN’T have to log on to my calling platform on my day off!

The next day, I logged on and everything worked like a charm. So, until the next system upgrade…

Cockroach Invasion

I heard the telltale signs while sitting upon my red sofa, typing away at some piece of writing or other. A part of me wanted to dismiss the flapping wing sounds since I hadn’t actually seen it.  Seeing is believing, right? Reality check came soon enough when that little bastard flew straight toward me and landed on my knee.

I. Hate. Cockroaches.

Nearly two and a half years of living in Tanzania as a Peace Corps Volunteer had cured me of being afraid of them. They were in my closet nibbling on my clothes, feasting in my kitchen, even living in the hollowed out wooden bathroom door where they bred. I witnessed the whole cockroach lifecycle while taking bucket baths. I even discovered there was such a thing as albino cockroaches.

After all that, cockroaches still didn’t endear themselves to me. I popped its little ass with my bare hand before I reached for my house shoe. Then, I swept it up with a broom into a dust pan and tossed it outside, figuring that was that.

A few days later, as I’d just sat upon my throne, yet another cockroach startled me just hanging out on the ceiling. I preempted doing my business to get the lavender-scented insecticide, which I kept in the bathroom cabinet. After dealing with it, I used the bathroom and tossed it out with my preferred broom/dust pan method.

Afterward, I sat on the sofa, writing on my laptop, when yet another one scampered across the floor from the direction of my patio door. I jumped up, ran to the bathroom to grab the spray. Last I saw, it was headed under the sofa.  With the spray in one hand and a flashlight in another, I got down on my knees to shine a light under the sofa in hopes that I’d flush it out from underneath.  That son of a bitch came from behind, ran across my arm and kept going as if to say, “Catch me if you can!” Which I did and added it with the others outside.

I marveled about all of these 6-legged invaders. Even with the recent rains and warmer temperatures, I’ve lived in the same apartment since the summer of 2010 and I’ve NEVER had this many cockroaches in my apartment. I couldn’t even think through which recent changes in the environment must have caused the sudden rise of cockroaches when a third one shimmied down my patio vertical blinds. With the spray now beside me, I pounced on it, disposed of it only to turn around to see another peep from between the blinds and enter my apartment.

Once I dealt with the fourth one of the night, I closed the glass patio door.  I no longer had confidence that the patio screen door was enough, but, truth be told, there were enough gaps with both patio doors closed that a determined insect could still get through. Or it could just walk under the half centimeter gap under my front door.

A part of me wanted to spray the outside of the patio entrance, but I’ve seen too many horror movies where the foolish person attempted to handle something late at night rather than wait for the light of day. In the meantime, I put in a maintenance request.  I had no idea whether anything on their end could be done, but since I’d never had such a problem before, I believed that something had kept the insect population out of my place previously. I’ve always enjoyed patio breezes before–even after a nice rain.

Apparently, the pest control person always comes by the apartment complex on Wednesdays; so this time around, the person actually entered my apartment while I was at yoga to spray (so I imagine) around the inside of my place.

So far, so good. One of the small pleasures I take in my humble existence is patio breezes while writing and otherwise working on creative projects in my living room. I can’t surrender that to beings that survive a nuclear blast.

Notorious RBG

The Austin chapter of the League of Women Voters (LWV) sponsored movie night at one of my favorite theatre chains. Normally, no one is allowed to talk or even have their phones out at a certain point and the theatre becomes a quiet zone.

Yet, this was a “rowdy” viewing of “RBG,” meaning we were allowed to clap and cheer for the brave, bold, logical assertions of one of the remaining liberal Supreme Court Justices, The Honorable Ruth Bader Ginsberg. LWV seized the moment to register voters, disseminate voting information, especially about early voting, including a time-saving convenient website, vote411.org, where registered voters can enter their address and find personalized election information.

For this special viewing, even the tables were decorated with placemats similar to RBG’s judicial collar. I started the evening with my favorites: a glass of water and Malbec.

Prior to the movie, a spokesperson from the movie theatre welcomed us and explained that when management and staff previewed “RBG,” they couldn’t stop themselves from cheering, booing and applauding and knew they had to offer some “rowdy” viewings for the general public.

Next, the president of LWV, flanked by two members who dressed like Supreme Court Justices, gave us a brief history of the suffrage movement in Texas and the organization itself. They invited those of us who weren’t members to become members. As luck would have it, I sat beside the next LWV president, who will take over those duties in June.

Throughout the documentary, the same two struggles kept lurching forward: gender and racial discrimination. When there was progress in one area, the other area used it as a basis of analogy. Yet, the most entertaining gender/racial analogy was when RBG acknowledged that not only did she know who The Notorious B.I.G. was, but they had several things in common, such as they were both born in Brooklyn.

I had a heroic moment after the movie–at least for me. As I walked toward my car in the parking garage, a woman approached her car and screamed. Ever so cautious, I stopped walking and called out before coming over, “Are you OK?” She answered, “I think a crazy guy put a snake on my windshield, but I can’t tell whether it’s real or not.”

It just so happened that I’d witnessed the incident that she was talking about. After I’d parked, I walked toward the theatre when one of those black overcompensating-male-ego trucks vroomed by. Thank God I was paying attention because I stepped between the parked vehicles, making sure that fool didn’t hit me. The other driver, the woman who was now concerned that he’d left a snake on her windshield, started screaming obscenities at him, which was a moot point since he was long gone. Apparently she’d taken a little too long to get out of his way, but still….

I turned on the phone flashlight, shined it on the windshield, and that snake turned its head to look at me.  And you thought Michael Jackson could do the moonwalk!  Next thing I know, I was several meters away from her vehicle.

The woman was about to work herself into a good hissy fit over that asshole leaving a snake on her windshield, but I reasoned with her. First of all, I didn’t think the guy would return after the fact and toss a live snake on her car because the incident in question was too trivial in nature to go to such extremes.  Secondly, even if he had left a live snake on her car, it would not have remained there for hours. Lastly, I saw a pipe running along the ceiling, which went over the top of her car. I hypothesized the snake slithered across the pipe and dropped onto her car.

My reasoning calmed her down, but the next dilemma was to determine whether the snake was poisonous. She’d wanted to take a picture, but it had slithered away. I backed up even farther. Just then, an SUV, with two guys in it, started to park nearby. I approached the guy riding shotgun.

“Excuse me, can you tell the difference between a poisonous snake and a nonpoisonous snake?”

To his credit, he didn’t seem at all fazed that I’d asked him that question in a parking garage while his (boy)friend(?) was attempting to park.  He readily admitted to being a park ranger and knew how to tell the difference among snakes. As he stepped out of the car, I pointed him in the direction of the woman who needed his assistance and continued to my car.

Not nearly on the level of RGB’s contributions, but I think she would agree that everyone should do her best within the moment and situation.

All Knowing Mother

In honor of Mother’s Day, I reflected about the unsung contributions of Black women such as the generational and social network of wisdom. To represent the Black Woman Network, I used an African paper doll template, complete with a curly afro. Taking advantage of the gift of fabric given to me by a friend, each of the 12 African cloth cutouts graced a different decoration.

The T-shirts read, “A Black Woman Probably Did It First.” In the great tradition of shining a light on something we in the Black community have taken for granted, but the world now cannot live without, I present to you the following: The Internet.

I’m not saying that Black women invented the internet. I’m saying we WEREthe original internet, especially my mother’s generation and the Black women who came before them. Their network of knowledge passed from neighbor to neighbor, flowing from one generation to the next. If they didn’t know the answer, they knew who could supply an accurate answer. News traveled so far and fast among the network of Black women that it took the male-dominated fields of science, math and engineering centuries to approximate, match and finally surpass the natural efficiency of the Black Woman Network.

My foremothers never needed any fancy cumbersome gadgetry to disseminate their wisdom as they went about their wifely, motherly, daughterly, womanly duties. We are always so bedazzled by the bells and whistles of electronic devices that we dismiss the greater foundational basis of wisdom, information and entertainment. Sometimes mischaracterized as idle gossip, the network also provided social status long before friending, tweeting or liking on social media platforms. Back when “facetime” actually implied interacting with someone face to face. And not showing your face meant you were either ashamed or told not to be present in a space or event as in “you better not show face here again.” If someone defied that warning, they got a “you got a lot of nerve showing your face here” reaction.

Ever needed a recipe, home remedy, natural cleaning product, hair product, or know who has been born/graduated/married/divorced/diagnosed/died, moved away, moved back, moved on, or just updated on how your great uncle’s youngest daughter’s husband’s grandmother fared in her recent hip replacement, because remember I told you she had the first one done two years ago? Then ask a member of the Black Woman Network.

Depending on the age of the participating Black women, their depth of knowledge reflects their collective richness in wisdom. And make no mistake: they’ve seen it and heard it all and in their combined experienced, they’ve done it all. We may laugh at the refusal of older Black women to abandon outdated technology and upgrade to modern conveniences that younger generations cannot live without, but nothing’s really new under the sun. No matter how fancy and high tech we think we are, we’re still the same human beings who used to huddle together in caves around a fire, subjected to the same shortcomings and fragilities as we always have been.

As a consequence of being brought to this country in chains, Black women learned the intimate details of the human condition from slave to enslaver. Fusing traditions they’d learned from their homeland with survival strategies in their strange land, the network regularly updated and not just at 2 AM. For the first couple of centuries, knowledge couldn’t be written down since literacy for them was illegal. Imagine how much wisdom has been lost when the minds which housed such treasure troves died.

Yet, the Black Woman Network persisted.

Throughout the constant gaslighting of not having souls to not having the intellectual capacity to not having citizenship to not having the vote to not having property to not having credit to not having agency to not having…they had one another.

Generations upon generations of Black Woman Network motherwit. Against so many odds. Working at least twice as hard to get half as much. Whether her contributions were trivialized or in some unbelievable instances, even criminalized, I honor my own mother and the network of mothers who came before her for minding everyone’s business and ensuring we progressed.

B 12

Anytime the leasing office at my apartment complex offers free food and drinks, I make sure to attend since they raise my rent every year. I figure over time, I can consume my money’s worth. This particular event centered around Bingo.

Even though I’m middle aged, I feel too young for this particular game, which I associate with retirees despite the fact it’s seen a revival among the younger generation. Nonetheless, I’m either too young or too old.  The cards were already on the table when a handful of us entered, fixed up our bowls of nachos and ate while the first game began.

Throughout the evening, the winners only needed to be the first ones to get a straight. The first game took an incredibly long time to conclude when two guys both won with G 59. I made a mental note of that number since Dad has always been an avid Bingo and Pick 3/Pick 4 lottery player.

After I finished eating, I sipped red wine and used the Bingo chips to make designs. They wouldn’t allow us to use more than one card; so I had plenty of time on my hands in between numbers being called.

In between games, I’d refill my kiddie cup of wine, but at one point, the leasing agent noticed that it was empty and offered to refill my glass. I shared with her my sentiment of having the bottle on the table since I was the only one drinking it. At that point, some dude, who was sitting at another table, piped up, saying he could help me with it. As if. At least I no longer had to make the 20-step round trip to the kitchenette counter to refill my glass.

Then, a miracle happened: I won a round of Bingo.  I’d just said, “I need B12,” and thought of how I take that vitamin supplement both for energy and to ward off memory fog, when I heard the Bingo caller say, “B 12.” I turned around and asked, “Are you serious? You just said, ‘B12’? Bingo!”

After initially teasing me that I didn’t have Bingo, the staff laughed. The leasing agent happily screamed, “I know exactly what you want!” She disappeared into the kitchenette and brought me an unopened bottle of merlot. That wasn’t even one of the original prizes offered. As a matter of fact, I was the only one offered a bottle of wine. The other Bingo winners either got their choice of a $5 gift card or one of several apartment knick-knacks.

I readily accepted my wine. Much better than a mere $5 gift card and I didn’t need any knick-knacks.

Freedom Fighter?

When I first heard the phrase “freedom fighter,” it was used as a euphemism for a military presence in a foreign country. Yet, this time around, while I was in traffic after leaving my yoga class, I learned of a different fight for freedom.

I wondered about the legality of selling these marijuana-laced sweets in Alabama, where this van’s license plate hailed from. I wasn’t even aware that  people could sell such goodies in Texas. I spotted this on the Monday following 4/20, which may account for why it was here: there has always been a Marley Fest in Austin around this time of year since I’ve lived here.

The longer we sat in traffic, the more I pondered what would citizens from Weed World actually look like. At first blush, I was inclined to believe that they would be very laid back and hardly anything would get done–good or bad. Then, as reality crept in, I remembered that many a professional already smoke and consume edible marijuana foods; so Weed World has been embedded into this one for some time.

Dining Reviews

I’ve been an independent health insurance agent for about seven months now.  Before I began, I had brunch with a former coworker, who’d left the dead end situation where we’d both worked as agents. I greatly appreciated her taking the time to meet with me, answer my questions, and encourage me to be far more successful.

We checked in with one another a month later at a different restaurant, after I’d quit my former job and started training with the company where she worked.  I was just one of the latest agents who’d defected to that company for both greater opportunity and to set my own schedule. For the second meeting, I’d chosen the place and we’d invited another agent to join us.

With the success of those Saturday mid-afternoon “brunches,” more agents from our former workplace, who now worked as independent agents for the new company, joined us. We celebrated, shared strategies and marveled at how wonderful our new opportunity was.

Throughout this entire time, we rotated who chose the restaurants and enjoyed trying out new restaurants…until we finally hit one with bad service. It was inevitable. I was so distracted by the horrible service that it became the focus of my experience rather than connecting with my coworkers, which was a shame since we all work from home and hardly see one another in person.

When I returned home, I looked up the restaurant’s website and left the following message, using the “contact us” feature:

“Although the food was absolutely delicious, I will NOT return because the service was lousy. STRIKE 1: host didn’t escort me nor point me in the direction of my friend, who had arrived ahead of me and had left her name. Instead, the host informed me that “we don’t write down names, but you can walk around and find your friend.” I opted to just call my friend, so she could come to the front and escort me to the table. STRIKE 2: Although the server brought all 6 of us water, she, nor any other member of the wait staff, refilled our water glasses.  For a place that has the word “grand” in it, shouldn’t refilling water glasses be an achievable low-hanging fruit? STRIKE 3: I expressly asked for a to-go box because I wanted dessert, ordered dessert, but never received it.”

By the following Monday, a manager reached out to me, first by email and then by phone. She first apologized for the service I received. Then she asked for details, specifically who was the host and server because she wanted to address those women. Then she offered to send me a $25 gift card to try the restaurant again. I’m planning to return to next Sunday.

In the meantime, the one thing I didn’t comment about, but was certainly a factor in my experience was the demographics of the restaurant. As soon as I walked in, I was pleasantly surprised at the diversity of the diners. Even with the upscale atmosphere, I was most impressed by my fellow diners. Given the poor quality of the service, I wondered if the staff, who were also people of color, didn’t feel that my table, which consisted of 4 women of color, a child of color, and a white woman, weren’t important enough to give adequate service to or if all the other tables were experiencing the same thing as well.

What stopped me for mentioning this observation in both writing and during the telephone conversation? Conditioning. I’m so used to not being listened to by white people when I suspect race is one of the factors involved in an incident. I can talk all day long to other people of color, but I don’t want a white person to dismiss my entire claim whenever I suspect race is a factor.

As a a matter of fact, the main reason I hardly ever visit a nail salon in east Austin is because of bad service. Time and again, if the clientele is mostly women of color, the service has been bad. If the clientele is mostly white women, the service has been much better.

The following week, I’d met a friend at one of my favorite restaurants after yoga.  As I told her about my experience the previous Saturday, I looked around and noticed the same rich diversity at that restaurant as well. The big difference was their service, along with their food, had been consistently good.  I went to their website and left the following:

“I recently commented to a friend that the only places where I’ve had bad service at a restaurant, the clientele is mostly blacks and latino with the notable exception of TNT. This is not to say that EVERY restaurant with a majority person of color clientele has bad service. Far from it. It’s just that, the times I have had bad service in Austin, the clientele has been mostly been people of color. I started writing on their comment sections after my experiences in the hopes of doing my part as a woman of color who also enjoys good food, good service and good company. With less than 6% of Black people in Austin, I now feel compelled to balance things out and thank TNT for being consistent with the quality of your food and service. I’ve noticed that your restaurant has a good racial mix of people and your staff members are well trained. Please keep up the good work. I especially like to detox at Bikram yoga and come to your restaurant to retox!”

At this point, I felt very comfortable mentioning race since the overall comment was positive. The manager answered immediately, stating how my comment just made her “heart sing.”

Since I normally eat at home, weeks passed before my next dining review. This next review happened to be the very next monthly “meeting” (more like “happy hour brunch”) with my coworkers. Once again, diverse crowd, delicious food and great service.

“Just had lunch at G—— in the Domain with two of my coworkers.  We are successful women of color who work from home and meet once a month to talk shop and pump each other up for another month of being independent health insurance agents.  Since we try out a different restaurant every month, I’d like to compliment G—— not merely for the wonderful service, drinks and food, but for providing an inviting experience that an ethnically diverse clientele enjoy. I especially want to commend the service that M—– provided us,  from refilling our chips, dips and water glasses without being asked, but cheerfully engaging with us throughout our entire dining experience.”

Again, since this was a positive review, I stated all the factors, which led to my enjoyment of the experience. As a matter of fact, I shared my review of the last restaurant with my coworkers. They agreed that the service was horrible and they’d been tempted not to tip. One in our group hadn’t tipped, but the three of us had. The next day, the general manager replied that she’d share my comment with the manager of that restaurant location.

And then the incident at a StarBucks in PA happened. I’m not a StarBucks customer. Yet, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to add my two cents, especially since I’d begun letting management know my experiences.  In this case, I wanted them to know my perspective on Dining While Black.

“Kudos to CEO Kevin Johnson for his refreshingly straight-forward apology over the arrest of two Black men who were accused of trespassing at a Starbucks. As part of your company’s investigation into this incident, I’d like share with you 3 criteria to tell if something is about race, taken directly from Ijeoma Oluo’s book, “So You Want to Talk about Race,” pp. 14-15: 1) It is about race if a person of color thinks it is about race; 2) It is about race if it disproportionately or differently affects people of color; 3) It is about race if it fits into a broader pattern of events that disproportionately or differently affect people of color. Lastly, trespassing laws are reasonable, but only enforcing them when black people trespass is a racist practice. Since this incident, many white people have self-disclosed conducting business meetings at Starbucks without purchasing anything and not being approached by management, much less being arrested. I hope this incident leads to more training for all the Starbucks locations to ensure that people of color aren’t demonized/criminalized for doing the same thing that white people do without adverse consequences.”

Like a good teacher, I led with a compliment before diving into the criticisms and suggestions for improvement. I received a boiler plate response, then I heard on the news a few days later that Starbucks would close 8,000 locations for a day’s training to counter “unconscious bias.”

To be clear, we Americans will need the rest of our lives to counter unconscious bias. The collective effort against unconscious bias includes the big movements along with the billions of tiny gestures, far too small to ever make national headlines.

Randomized Headshot

I’m always impressed by the high-tech art displayed at the Interactive Installation Meetup events.  Who knows if I’ll ever understand any of it on a coding level, but theoretically I know what’s going on. So, I sat in front of a laptop, which took my headshot. Then the program randomly chose pixels to recreate the headshot. I’m not exactly sure what other algorithms were at play because the portrait originally looked just like a stylishly pixelated photo.

As time passed, the image became increasingly randomized. I think this was both a cool effect and tapped into everyone’s ego. How often can we see a distorted image of ourselves without it being a distorted sense of ourselves?