Saturday, August 8, 2009

Neo-African Americans, the end of suffering and beautiful things





Last week I volunteered for the 11th Roxbury Film Festival where I saw an amazing thought provoking docu-film “The Neo-African Americans” (Check out brother Kobina Aidoo’s work at http://neoafricanamericans.wordpress.com/) and spent a hot minute in Dudley Square. I ask you: What could be better than tipping into a dark theater on a swelteringly hot August day for a cool-down and a mind-tickle with films that celebrate people of color?

Beautiful, historic Dudley reminds of the interstices of 125th Street Harlem which I used to pass through daily on my way to and from work. This black urban Mecca teems with life – street vendors, old school players, suited ladies from Freedom Hall prophesizing to AWAKE!, average-working Joes, crack heads and other chemical-dependents, shoppers in search of Aliiyah black velvet paintings, three-card Monty hustlers, bored/tense Five-Ohs, disciples of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad and more. Walking through this peculiar madness is a bit like being jettisoned into the twilight zone and Dudley Square rests squarely in this zone. I had no idea!

Tasha, the Hibernian Hall site leader at the fest, sent me to Haley House on a lunch run. The Haley House’s food is fresh and fantastic, the vibe is copasetic and their mission is on-point. Support: http://www.haleyhouse.org/cafe/home.htm

I haven’t needed to don my “don’t-start-none-won’t-be
-none” face” in a long time. Fortunately I was able to pull it out instinctively as I walked though the streets of Dudley Square. I was not in danger, mind you, but the area demands a certain sort of armored alertness. Maybe it was the old whore in the skin-tight, camel-toed hot pants with the I-Dream-of-Jeannie clip on pony tail whose posture exuded ‘Love for Sale’ while she anxiously pulled a pretty man-child behind her? She was searching for something. Maybe it was the Night-of-the-Living Dead couple who seemed so in love and so high while they nodded with ballet-like grace towards one another in defiance of the laws of physics? Or the familiar Tally’s Corner poppas pontificating at the bus stop with their brown-bagged-bottles (http://www.amazon.com/Tallys-Corner-Streetcorner-Legacies-Thought/dp/0742528960)? Or was it brother-man cutting his drugs with a razor on the stone chess-board table in the Hibernian hall park in the afternoon sun? He gave me a shout-out. Pink! Pink! I like you in that dress! I did look good y'all. LOL. There was nothing else to say but thank you. The last sad straw was listening to an elder sister sitting in the same park as brother-man shouting “I’m just a N, I’m just a N”. ‘cept she was not saying “N”. I blamed it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol and I don't know what else that seemed to be coursing through her blood stream. Notice a pattern?

I guess this made me ripe for this week’s NY Times/Style of the Times/Modern Love essay in which Laura Munson wrote that she’d committed herself to a non-negotiable understanding to end self-induced suffering. Munson helped me to think about the ways that I habitually suffer. I wonder what would happen if we all committed to the hard work of ending self-induced suffering? What would happen if we fought to, as Munson writes, "exile the voices in our heads that tell us our personal happiness is only as good as our outward success, rooted in things that are often outside our control? What would happen if we all worked to see the insanity of this equation and decided to take responsibility for our own happiness?” (Check out her essay: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/02/fashion/02love.html?_r=1).

What would the world look like indeed? A couple of times this week I tested the waters by refusing to engage in power struggles, making myself vulnerable and believing I deserved a place at “the” table. I wasn't always successful (you can't break lifetime habits in one week!) but I was happier. Not ecstatic, not reborn but more peaceful and grounded. I was reminded of Langston Hughes’ poem “Mother to Son” http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=177021...Life ain't been no crystal stair but I appreciate the struggle and beautiful things like Garden Girl’s farm fresh eggs, purple cherry tomatoes and the good friends God has blessed me to have.

Gooseberries, race matters and Rosie's Place






This afternoon I left work early to go to high tea at the Shirley-Eustis (SE) House in Roxbury as part of the "Discover Roxbury" food series. The house is the only remaining country house in America built by a British Royal Colonial Governor. The missus and I were wed there. Check it out: http://www.shirleyeustishouse.org. HEADS-UP: the grounds are covered with fruit trees that can be harvested by anyone. Apricots are due in a couple of weeks.

High tea is distinguished by low tea by the time of day it's served -- 4:00 - 6:00 and sometimes there's alcohol (low is earlier and dry). Gooseberries were passed for us to sample as Chef Nadine Nelson who prepared our bites described the menu and the locally grown treats (of which gooseberries were one). Gooseberries look like vintage grape-green marbles with soft grey/brown striations. Their skins are tight like plum skins and their flesh feels like green tomato. They burst in your mouth with tart and citrus goodness. If you can find them, try them.

Andrea Taafe is the Executive Director of the house. She talked at length about the importance of neighborliness -- residents connecting with institutions and vice versa. It got me to thinking about Professor Gates (Who isn't thinking about him these days?) and the mission of Discover Roxbury. How we all work so hard to dismantle perceptions.

I had a fascinating conversation with a colleague, who is white and shared what she described as the "pervasive liberal white perspective" on the matter: Professor Gates is arrogant, got what he deserved and is trying to promote his next book/project. I was stunned (and she was too)! Not the uppity-n-word accusation!

What can we do about this? How did Gates' neighbor manage to mistake him for a robber? How does one get pulled out of their house and arrested for peaceful discontent? I saw an article on NPR.org today that said the Cambridge cop that arrested Gates is a diversity expert on the force. See: http://www.facebook.com/ext/share.php?sid=122053508216&h=46Ids&u=f4Aof&ref=nf Does this excuse him? Are we supposed to swallow the "he's bias-free" pablum? It fascinating how our particular lens shapes our view of this situation.

I'm no victim but not a single day goes by without me being reminded of my race. Sometimes it's the demoralizing billboard ads featured in my neighborhood. Other times it's white colleagues diminishing my ideas then word-smithing them and claiming them for their own. I struggle with how to behave. "Should I Tom?", "Should I finger-wag, eye and neck roll?" or "Should pretend like I'm a wise mammy and teach the pretty-not-black-babies?" The shit is deep, sad and frankly, tiresome.

Most days I focus the hazel browns on my listener (what?!) and serve up a big dose of me. HEADS-UP: The good thing about getting older: You don't worry so much about what others think:0)

I employed this technique rather effectively last night at Rosie's Place where Pam and I are responsible for dinner preparations as part of Trinity Church's service ministries one night (sometimes two) per month (Interested in serving? Find your passion: http://www.nationalservice.gov/Default.asp

I was slightly intimidated by the white professionals I was charged to lead: a college professor whose spouse is a dean, a lawyer, a public policy wonk, a pediatric intensive care nurse and more! I had to force myself to remember that we were all there to work and I was the leader (along with Pam, of course). I took a deep breath and got busy: "X (aka Dr. X), please wash the potatoes (40 pounds of' em y'all) . Y, Esq and Nurse Z please help X. So glad to see you again this month! When you're done, guys, we need to chop like nobody's business. The potatoes must be in the oven by 4:45 PM. Questions? Thank you! You are awesome!"

I was wracked with excess energy by the end of the meal so danced it off with Michelle Bach-Coulibaly at the Dance Complex. It was fantastic. Check her out at: http://www.brown.edu/Departments/Theatre_Speech_Dance/people/bach-coulibaly.html).

You know what made it all good? The seconds line. Guests of every race, creed, color, age and sexual orientation were on it (Funny? Hunger doesn't discriminate). They wanted more and I was, in part, responsible (the menu: salmon burgers on a whole wheat bun, herb-roasted potatoes, fresh salad and watermelon). I sat with Natasha, a guest, when I finally got to sit down (it's important to me to talk to the ladies we cook for at meal time plus the dogs were barking). Natasha told me everything was great and she emphasized this by ditching me and my small talk to get seconds.

There is one elder though who describes herself as "picky". She said the meal was "so-so". My goal is for her tell me: "I loved it". It's a tall order but hey you gotta reach. Right? I have a year to work on it. Wish me luck.

the Ultimate Root Soup, my roots and Black Jesus





My challenge ingredient this week: beets.

My earliest memory of beets: dinner circa 1968 mid-town Manhattan East-side in the apartment of a woman who reminded me of "That Girl" -- except she was Russian and a friend of my mother. This was also one of my earliest memories of being in a white person's home. Life was pretty segregated in the 60's. We played Clue. I was Colonel Mustard. She served borscht which needless to say went gracelessly uneaten.

Fast forward to 1999. I awoke one day with an inexplicable taste for dirt. I thought beets would help and they didn't disappoint:-) When I eat beets it triggers a reaction in my brain that makes it think I'm digging my toes in the dirt during a sun shower on hot day.

This week's CSA food stuffs: beets, carrots, cabbage, potatoes. There was nothing else to be done except to make borscht as my Brooklynite-living-in-Bost
on friend Jamie reminded me. It's part of my Jewish heritage which as a New Yorker I feel perfectly comfortable claiming.

Composing this soup forced me to go zen -- my mediation: I deserve to love me (yes, I went there!). I made stock from vegetable peels and other stuff I normally send gleefully down the disposal. I shredded, minced, diced and chopped for over an hour. I was rewarded with a fragrant (even Pam said it smelled good though she's threatening not to eat it) jewel-colored soup. And lots of it! Borscht, my darlings?

on a not totally unrelated note: regarding the Brooklynite-living-in-Boston thing. I've lived in this city for nine years. New York will always be my city (and it's the best damned city on earth. Yankees rule!) but Boston is where I've chosen to lay down my roots. Provincial, slow, up-tight Boston has made me love it. Boston is home.

Last night I was chatting with my friend, Derek (who is the Program and Marketing Manager for Discover Roxbury. Thanks to him I'm discovering Roxbury and you can too. Go to: http://www.discoverroxbury.org/), about Boston treasures and he hipped me to the Roxbury Black Jesus. Apparently the brown people in his MIssion Hill aka Roxbury neighborhood decided the Jesus that looked down on them e'ry day needed to look like them. In an act of communal rebellion they painted white Jesus brown.

Wow, Jesus is black and beautiful. Repeat after me: I deserve to love me.

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't.







Shout out to Amanda for the bok choy and tofu recipe. It was delish and I'd eat it again!

For a hot minute, I thought I should resist eating meat as part of my food journey. I said "no" to the steak and mushrooms at Pasquale's Rigoletto at my nephew's graduation dinner. I convinced myself that a sober chicken cutlet was the better choice. It wasn't. But I did feel morally superior for denying myself the pleasure of meat.

On my way home tonight I thought "What am I going to put on all that damned lettuce I've got in the 'frig? Cod encrusted with panko? no. Sword steak seared with sesame seeds? No. Shrimp grilled on the barby?" NO. The choice was simple, really, an organic black Angus Sirloin -- grilled medium rare with sea salt and black pepper.

I sauteed garlic scrapes and mushrooms in enough butter to make gravy. Made a cilantro chimichurri sauce instead of salad dressing (giant handful of cilantro minced, a clove of garlic minced, the juice of half a lemon, equal part olive oil, a little salt and red chili pepper to taste). Ah....bouefgasmic!

After several minutes in omnivore heaven I took pictures and have no regrets, burp;-).

My curious relationship with food



Have been recently rethinking my relationship with food. Two important things have happened to me (to those that know me well: uncle, uncle re: buying cookbooks! I'm down to one per month. I'm not hurting anyone!).

Living La Vida Local
I've signed up for a community-supported-agricu
ltural share (for more info see: http://www.thefoodproject.org/buy/internal1.asp?ID=137) BY MYSELF. In past years, I've buffered myself from the experience by sharing my box with friends or neighbors. If food went to waste, I didn't have enough to justify a second thought.

Spurned on in part by Pamelasitas no meat/no poultry diet I've gone hard core. The box is mine alone. I can count on Pam to take a bite of most everything I make but honestly all them vegetables are on me.

To make matters worse, I'm a farmer's market junkie. I often buy food just because it's gorgeous -- not because I intend to eat it. With the box I'm forced to stop my wasteful ways and focus on eating the food God, by way of the Food Project, has given me.

Last week I had bouquets of scallions (I stored them in a vase for a day or so). I made pad thai noodles and scallion pancakes. BAM.

Week 4 -- I definitely had to step up my game. Our groceries have practically doubled as mother nature is ramping up. I've decided to meet the challenge by resisting unnecessary consumption and to frame all of my meals with the box foods.

Lovely nubile carrots: Indian spiced carrot soup with ginger (http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Indian-Spiced-Carrot-Soup-with-Ginger-241886). Gigantor zucchini: zucchini-pineapple-walnut bread and rice-zucchini frittata.

There were some wonderful loopy garlic shoots in the box too -- they look like curly scallions. I'm using them where ever there onions and garlic are called for. This is what I enjoy about the box: it gets me out of my food comfort zone. I eat what's in season and I'm eating things I would never buy. Like my grandparents used to do. Red swiss chard, watch out!

Don't Compare Your Life to Others. You Have No Idea What Their Journey Is All About.
Pam and I have been asked to lead Trinity Church's Rosie's Place ministry. This involves cooking a meal for 130 people one night per month.

I'm blown away by the face of hunger. Whatever you think hungry people look like -- rewind! There are mothers with their school-aged children, grandmamma's, girls-nite-out women, old hermit-like ladies, addicts, trannies, back-packing students, bejeweled ladies who've fallen on hard times, mentally ill people, butches, femmes, Chinese, Haitian, Dominican, Af/Am, White, Eastern European, Indian, Jamaican, and people that look like you and me. In short: e'rybody.

What I love about working at Rosie's Place: composing the meal, competing with other fast choppers, passing with the King's English (there are very few people of color volunteering), stirring/sauteeing/mixing big vats of food, listening to people's stories, flirting with the women (it's not about sex. It's mostly about: hey baby, I see you) and feeling real.

Sort of related: visited my dad in Brooklyn last week: he and my step-mom, Conchetta, grow tomatoes and use them to make home made sauce.