Small roads

I suddenly realized something this past weekend. I've missed out on a great deal of the beauty of California because of my mom's fears. Specifically my mother has a fear of bridges and two lane roads.

When I first started going to Pt. Reyes Station, I mentioned it to my mom. She asked about the roads. I told her the truth. She said, "No."

But I love two lane roads. I love drawbridges. And so it was perfect that Saturday afternoon/evening found me driving through the Delta. (Even if I had "Walking in Memphis" stuck in an endless loop in my mind.) I thought of y'all while I was driving. Like, "I should pull over to take some photos," but the sun was setting and I try not to do those kinds of roads after dark if I've never driven them several times. So I'll be heading back.

I previously said that Sunday was my "me" day but Saturday evening was as well. Getting behind the wheel of my car on open, or fairly open, road is very relaxing. By the time I got home Saturday night I had clocked around 260 miles of driving from the time that I left home for work on Friday morning. Looking at the number, I think that it really isn't that much but then I think about the reality of it all.

Friday morning I drove to work in San Francisco. At the end of the day, I drove home through Friday night commute traffic. It was road rage worthy. After eating dinner, I gathered my stuff and then drove to Sacramento. After doing three and a half hours of work in my dad's office on Saturday, I drove to Tobie's housewarming. And then home.


On the road between Sacramento and Lodi.


Brannan Island Levee Road in the Delta.

It was the drive to Tobie's and then the drive home that took me through the Delta. I haven't spent much time back in that area. Might have something to do with the great number of folks who some may classify as being "rednecks" around those parts. Always made me a bit uneasy.


Berkeley Plantation, Virginia.


James River.

Just like how I will do ten hour drives by myself through the Deep South but I don't stray onto those small roads unless I really know them. Because solo driving in the U.S. means that I look at things not only through the lens of gender but through that of race as well. When I lived in Virginia, my downstairs neighbor, the self-proclaimed "redneck," told me the places that I should avoid. Oh, and I should explain. Her calling herself a "redneck" had nothing to do with her political beliefs. Nah. She just didn't have a college degree, liked country line dancing, and Jack Daniels. It was more an acknowledgment that white folks with more money than what she had looked down their noses at her. A lot of her kind of folks were my friends when I lived in Virginia. Maybe there was a shared experience that the dominant society would never think that you were good enough for them.


Yorktown.


Williamsburg.


Jamestown.

I digress. Bottom line is that I need to do here what I did in Virginia. It was much easier there because of the French Bitch, the Peugeot I drove back then. My car had phantom problems in the electrical system. This meant that I called the towing company -- in a town of about 10,000 people -- at least once a month. Since I apparently have a distinctive voice, they got to know me at "hello." Now I don't know how much experience you have with getting a jump start but the deal is that you should ideally drive the car for at least 30 minutes after getting the jump. It gets boring driving the same streets and ideally you should take the car on the highway. So while I was waiting for the tow guy, I would pull out my map and look for unfamiliar lines. I quickly learned that I could drive to Jamestown and back if I was in a rush. Have a little more time? Head to Yorktown. Or just explore the other nearby towns. And then there were the days that I would just head out with my camera riding shotgun.

I have been trying to find balance in my life. Over the past weekend I have noticed quite a number of things that were lacking. Hopping in my car and driving down some unfamiliar road is one of them. So now I'm going to figure out how to include these explorations into my life. Because they are me. And I just need to reclaim the pieces of me that have gotten lost along the way.

Note: Photos added from Google the afternoon of 20 August 2008 at the request of
Fluffycat. One day soon I'll go through my old photos and post some of the stuff that I actually took while I lived in Virginia.

Deuces

I first saw this home several months ago. Every time I pass it at night, I think to myself, "I should take a photo." Then tonight I saw Nat's post that I believe was inspired by Hilly's post. Whatever the case, I ran for the door. Wearing PJ pants. I figured all would be well as I was parked close to the front door. And when I returned? Well, it was so late. And on my return one of my neighbors was standing on the stoop, smoking a cigarette.

"You lost your space."

Not really. I ended up parking in the space I've been in most of the week.

But lost? I have lost too many things to even begin counting.

My cousin's husband should be home from the Middle East in the next week or so. And she'll probably forgive his cheating ass. (The last time that he was stateside, he gave her an STD. Because how else do you say, "I love you"?) I must applaud my cousin for her personal growth. In the past, she would have gone all Lorena Bobitt on his ass.

But the photo is so un-Lorena. It's about the people that I believe that we could be. People who aren't like the society in Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talent.

Bottom line is that I would love to see a true peace in this world. I mean some of you may irritate the hell out of me. Doesn't mean that I wish you ill. (Your thoughts toward me -- or at least my perceptions about your thoughts -- I'll address in another post.) But in the meantime, let's just co-exist.

And while writing this, I suddenly remembered for the zillionth time this week, that this week is the anniversary of Martin's death.

Randomness

These are the other thoughts that eluded me yesterday...

1. My cousin pissed the fuck out of me on Thursday night. She told me that I couldn't bitchslap anyone; they were grieving in their own way. (OK. So I accepted this but not the next.) When I told her about my dad dosing my stepmother with the experimental drug, she was cool with this. Yesterday I talked with my cousin who is a psychologist and she agreed that this is a huge boundary issue. (I also shared some other stuff with her that I may or may not share here but that has added to my stress level.)

2. My uncle pissed the fuck out of me on Friday afternoon. While driving up to Sacto on Friday, I decided that I needed some "company" on the road. I realized later that I had broken one of my cardinal rules -- never call the man after noon his time. What the hell am I saying? Never call after 10 a.m. his time. Because he will be probably be lit. And spewing nonsense that he swears his truth. (Why you looking like that? Like you don't have at least one person in your family like that...) So first he was telling me how I couldn't get overly emotional when I saw my dad. Like I don't know how the fuck to act in a situation like this. But the real clincher? That I must never say the word "hospice." I asked him if he really understood what this meant. Every time I tried to start a sentence at this point, the mutha fucka was cutting me off. Finally I told him that I had done the research and if he was not willing to listen to me, then perhaps he should do the research himself. Until then? Shut the fuck up. Especially when the other person is driving. Drunk ass lazy mother fucker who tries to act like he's shit because he has a masters degree and all but hasn't worked steady in who knows how long because he thinks it's the responsibility of others to take care of his drunk broke ass. When he converted to Islam, he learned the talk but not the walk. Unlike my other uncle whom I should have called since he's sane and all. But that uncle would have been at work at that point in the day. Like a lot of folks I know.

3. In dealing with family over this past weekend, I was able to make a huge decision. My peeps are having a reunion this summer in Nashville. If I was going to venture to the South, it would be to Virginia to see my mama's family. I haven't seen them in three years and my grandmother, my last living grandparent, is getting on in years. Besides, my mother's people have always been real. I have never felt the need to stifle myself in any way around them. And right now, I desperately feel the need to be real. So I'm going to skip the reunion this year. I may feel guilty but in my heart I know it's not the healthiest choice for me. If I had unlimited funds and time, I'd show up. But by then, I know that there will be a profound sense of needing to take care of me. And spending time around my dad's side of the family has never been anything about taking care of me. This was a hard choice to make. My father will be greatly disappointed. Then again, he's the one who recently reminded me that I have to make myself happy.

4. No matter what a sycophant I have thought my stepmother to be over the years, I know that she is a strong and resilient woman. She survived divorcing her first husband when he was cheating on her. And raised two sons. And received a masters degree. No, her behavior otherwise served a purpose. She did what needed to be done. And her "friends"? They have always said how lucky she was to end up with my father. So I'm keeping an eye on those heifers. Because my mom keeps warning me that they are trying to get in position to be my new stepmother.

5. One of the women who dropped off food was perfectly innocent. She is the wife of my dad's dentist. I know the husband went to college with my dad's younger sister who lives in Oakland. My dad really wanted me to meet them. Upon seeing one another, the wife and I instantly realized that we had met at some social occasion previously. This frequently happens with our folks. But her daughter? Well looking at her, I suddenly felt like a fat pig. And I'll let those of you who have met me in person ponder that one. Because I quickly dismissed all of those images in my mind. Well except for the perfectly flat stomach that I had up until about five years ago. And there's a little part of my brain that says that if I puke at least a couple of times per week, then I can get there. Because now I remember that back in the days of the flat stomach, I used to puke at least once a week -- sometimes more. And now at this point, I know a few of you have puzzled looks. Cookiecrumb is taking back her comment yesterday about my being grounded and sane.

6. I have a secret. Well not really because I shared it with my cousin the psychologist yesterday. Saturday my dad returned from the center and received a call from his wife's niece -- the daughter of her sister. She told my dad that she had been visiting with my stepmother earlier in the day and that my stepmother had told her that she was giving up and was ready to die. My dad's reaction was, "Now she'll go telling her mother this and her mother will tell everyone she knows." There was also, "I don't need to hear this right now." And then I walked into the garage when he wasn't expecting me. He barely had time to put the vodka bottle back in its hiding place. But they have tons of alcohol throughout the house. So the hiding? Makes me suspicious. Kind of like when I found the bottle of port at his office a couple of years ago. But we all know our roles. And I'm the enabler -- the one who denies things as vehemently as he does, who lies for him, who turns a blind eye. And all I can think is that it's not just my stepmother who is dying. My family is dying. And I know that hospice care would be the best thing for all of us -- to stop this dying -- but I don't know how to speak up.

7. There's a lot I'd like to rant about but, as I said previously, there are more pressing things in my life. (Yeah, I knew back then how things were going to end; I just didn't think it would be so soon.) Now I don't feel so bad. Thanks to a post that Sizzle shared, I have found my way to The Angry Black Woman. They cover the topics upon which I feel to rant more than sufficiently.

8. After all that cooking this weekend, I realized that I didn't have anything for myself at home. Nor did I have the energy to cook. So friggin' tired. I thought of going to Berkeley Bowl but just couldn't. More on that later though. Poulet came to the rescue once more. Sorry Nat. No carrot cake this time. But there was apple-rhubarb crisp.

9. That said, Buzzgirl sent me a link to this blog yesterday. I'm still wiping away the tears from laughter. There are several funny posts there but this is why I just couldn't go to Berkeley Bowl yesterday. Going to Berkeley Bowl is like going to Whole Foods. Except the prices are lower.

10. I'm starting to see some of Marin's concerns. One of her warnings about this whole mess is how other folks, especially one's boss, don't really understand about being an only child. When things start going wrong with your parents, there often isn't anyone else to help out. These thoughts started to fill my head yesterday when I called Thrive!. There's this one group that meets at 10 or 10:30 in the morning. In the past this group met in the evenings. I can't really see my boss going for my being gone once a week for this. Maybe I should just have a meltdown in the office.

11. Today started off well. As I was parking the car, the radio station was playing "Square Biz." Teena Marie always makes me feel better. And this radio station actually played the full song. This other station plays the song near daily but they have a version that does not include the rap. What's up with that?

12. Yeah, sue me for re-posting but I suddenly remembered what I had previously forgotten. One of my fave parts of American Hustle was when Katt was discussing going to war with China. He said that black folks were not going to have any part of it. He pointed out that black women love their Yaki hair too much. And I've gotta say that he's right. Part of what has helped me to maintain my sanity over the last couple of weeks is OPH -- that's other people's hair, if you are not familiar with the term. And they do make some quality because some folks actually think it's mine. Well, it is because I paid for it. Like my aunt said, "Your hair has really grown and it looks so nice." Ummm. I had a bob at Christmas and now have a ponytail that hangs past my shoulders. I don't think they have invented a drug yet that makes your hair grow that fast. So if you're feeling kind of down, go out and get some hair. I plan to get some more in the coming weeks.

Fuck it

Note: I wrote most of this post before Christmas so there are statements in here that may not be relevant in some ways. But the emotions that made me make those statements? They are just as strong. And I decided to go on and post this after almost a month of letting it marinate because now I think I understand the root of it all. At least for me emotionally.

I've spent weeks trying to think of how I could say this all without sounding bitchy. It's just not possible. So I'll live with the fallout.

Being snobby? I know it well. My problem? When others project a whole other level of being snobby. This self-imposed feeling of being superior. When I have seen this in the past, it has been the case of someone from the paler nation versus a person of color. Here's a hint. No matter what egalitarian argument you throw out, you will lose. At least in our minds. And if you're on a dark street in "out" neighborhood, do not be surprised when you are mugged or get your ass kicked. I know that you are all about the gentrification and stuff but at some point, you have to get real.

Yes, this probably goes back to my feeling of a lack of acceptance during school. I know that I was sophomore class president, but I also ran unopposed. If I had had competition, I probably would have lost. Probably why I root for the underdog.

And this brings me to the topic of food once more. I will admit that I try to buy organic most of the time. But local? Yeah, that's fine as long as my favorites are grown locally.

What brought this to mind? Why, the holiday season of course. It's not the holidays for me unless there is an appearance of cranberries in some form. And of course I like to mix them with a number of other ingredients. Most produce at Berkeley Bowl is prominently marked with its country of origin. Fresh ginger? No American sources. Didn't mean that I passed it up.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I like foods of other countries and often one cannot find all of the ingredients locally. Local tastes? (And I'm sory but at this point when I think of local taste, I think "Caucasian." And then I think, "How utterly boring.") They're OK. But I love the spices of North Africa, the Mediterranean, and the Indian subcontinent. Many of these flavors are not local. Some are if you have a garden, but I no longer do.

And when I think of this whole "eating local" thing, I know that I did for several years. I spent most of my summers through age 15 on my grandfather's farm. The majority of the food that we ate was grown on the farm. And so I started thinking that this whole "eating local" thing was merely a mirror of what I had experienced as a child. And I must say, I am sorry that you did not have that experience. The experience of grinding corn for feed for the hogs, the experience of picking whatever vegetables were necessary for dinner. How many of you who proclaim a love of local foods have experienced that? Do you have the memory permanently etched in your mind of being in car at age 8 while your father is driving and noticing a hog being bled? (And yes, I still eat pork.) Bottom line. Get off of your high horse, folks. Because, at least to me, some of you come off as rather condescending. (That's why you're at the bottom of my list of folks who can join me in VIP at a club. And maybe it doesn't matter to you, but that's how I rank folks. Who can join me in the VIP. Because if I'm in a club, I will probably be in the VIP.) But what life has taught me is that the melanin-challenged will create "movements" that mirror the life of the rest of us. And then are shocked when we don't jump on their pretentious bandwagon.

Bottom line is that I do try to eat local. It's just that the tastes that appeal to me most are not local. I guess that it is easy to say one should eat local if your palate was merely formed by local tastes. But mine wasn't. I am the child of Southern transplants. I know the joys of adding Old Bay Season to seafood and why one adds okra but not gumbo file to gumbo -- at least when okra is in season. I also know that there is almost nothing better than a BBQ sandwich. Depending upon where in the South you are, this could be chopped or pulled. The location also tells how much vinegar there is in the mix. Bottom line is that coleslaw and hot sauce are always accepted as options on a BBQ sandwich. And sometimes I look at the food y'all have prepared and ask myself, "Where is the flavor?" Funny. When my good friend, La Nicoya, encounters folks of the paler nation, she will turn to me and say, "You know what? They ain't got no flava." Hmmmm. I wonder. Of course, this does not seem to apply to folks with hyphenated labels. Jewish-American? Italian-American? Turkish-American? Mexican-American? Chinese-American? Well, you get the point. These folks usually have flava. In their personalities and their food.

So you say to yourself that I seem to be in agreement with most of these blog writers. Therefore, why am i writing this post? Because when I read their posts, there doesn't seem to be much option there. And that pisses the hell out of me. It seems elitist. And yeah, racist. (And by the way, there is a difference between being "prejudiced" and "racist." Racism connotes political power. Therefore, only the dominant group can be called racist. However, all people have prejudices.)

I know that my second statement is probably the most disturbing to so called liberals. Guess what? I don't give a fuck that you're disturbed. You should be. When you go to your farmers' markets, how many people of color do you see there? I want you to compare this number to the whites/European-Americans that you see there. Do the math and figure out the percentage.

I have seen arguments that say that it is the responsibility of the middle class to set the tone. Which middle class is what I ask. I bet you never thought that there was a difference between the desires of the middle class groups of the various ethnic/cultural groups.

And then there is the sudden popularity in offal. Sure it may have been popular but in other parts of the world for years. But here in the U.S.? It is the meat of those who don't have much. And suddenly I was reminded of catfish. Growing up, catfish was about the only fish I ate except on special occasions. Why? Because it was relatively inexpensive. Then some chef in New Orleans started blackening it and it became trendy. And you know what? The price went up. Enough that those at the lower end of the income scale could not afford it with the regularity that they had previously. So now I worry that the same will happen to offal.

And yes, I grew up middle class but not everyone in my family did. Like my mother. And after my parents divorced, it took more than one paycheck for my mother to make the house payment each month. So meals were rather frugal those first few years. And that's why I wonder about catfish. It was about the only kind of fish we could afford back then. And there were a lot of nights back then when we had "breakfast" for dinner -- cheese omelets and toast.

Then there's the things that my parents -- who grew up in the segregated South -- told me when I was growing up. My parents knew that the history texts during that time were rather lacking so they went to places like Marcus Books to supplement my education. In the South, offal is a part of the Black diet as a result of slavery. When the slaves did get meat, it was the castoffs -- the offal. And so it is now a huge part of my heritage. And the thought of my people no longer being able to afford something because once more the dominant society has chosen to appropriate it, pisses the hell out of me.

But the nail in the coffin for me? Menu for Hope. I applaud that people want to help others. I understand that it involves food bloggers from around the world. But you know what? There are people in the United States who do not get enough to eat every day. And that's what really pisses me off about so-called liberals. They are quick to jump on the bandwagon to help the rest of the world. But here? Screw those people of color here. Like I said, I applaud your effort, but I will continue to give my dollars locally. Like maybe to the folks who are still trying to recover from Katrina.

And I do realize that at least one food blogger that I know is involved in Menu for Hope regularly participates in activities for people locally. I applaud this blogger for his/her efforts. I was tempted to bid on this blogger's package for that very reason. My sheer respect for him/her. Because I know at least for this one person it isn't a feeling noblesse oblige but of genuine caring for others.

If I was like Conspiracy Guy, I'd say that this it all a part of the man's master plan. Make sure they don't know what diversity is and they'll never ask for it. Or maybe it is more of the continuing attempt to erase ethnicity and culture. Yeah, it will be great when we can all stand around singing "Kumbaya" and holding hands and crap, but do we all have to be the same? Because when I look at the foods that y'all are preparing, while I like the looks of most, there is very little that takes me back to my grandmother's or even my mother's kitchen.

And so now for the why of it all as I have come to understand it. What is it that makes me lose hope in the world? Not the politicians because politicians will always be just that. Instead it's the moments like these. The ones that make me think, "These people live in the same world that I do?" And then I think, "Well duh. No they don't." And more often than not, I think to myself, "Can folks have their heads that far up their asses?" Because there are days in which I feel like I have had the dominant culture shoved down my throat endlessly and they only way that they have any clue about my viewpoint is when I ranted and raved. And it gets really frustrating. Because isn't there a point in which one should no longer have to do it?

Comments? Bring it on.