Here’s what happened:

Like I said, I needed milk and this store, being right across the street, was indeed convenient. Only, when I looked over there I saw that there were a bunch of people jammed into one of the doorways of this very small store, with more trying to get in. I knew just from that that Malik was on duty because when the owners are there no one just hangs out. Malik was well-known in the neighborhood, a youth football coach who was viewed by the kids as part father confessor, part big brother, part wise old man and all around good guy.

Anyway, this crowd – this was weird even for Malik days; usually kids hang out outside or pick up a broom and sweep the parking lot or make sure the gas nozzles are on straight, or whatever. Never had I seen them all trying to cram into the tiny store doorway at once, everyone looking in the same direction, plus these weren’t all teens – obviously something had happened and I hoped it wasn’t something bad.

Perhaps strangely, the crowd didn’t deter me or the guy who had just pulled up to the pumps in the late model Mercedes. Me, I didn’t feel like walking to the big store and he, well there were no other gas stations nearby and he was obviously in a big hurry.  Anyway, the people in the doorway somehow made room for us get through and as soon as I crossed the threshold I heard that noise people make in threes in the back of their throats; “Mmph, mmph, mmph,” then “Man, that’s a blessing.” So, Malik was okay, that was his voice – but why was everyone staring his way? And what was the good news? I snaked around shoulders and arms, listening to the echo as it moved from person to person -  “.. a blessing”, “Yeah, that’s a blessing.” Maybe someone won the lottery.

Just as I reached the back of the store and grabbed the milk someone said “26!” and the process started over again – Malik’s voice saying that’s a blessing and the echoes throughout the men in the store. I had what I came for but I was really curious now about what was going on, so I sidled on over to the car product section, because that is where I had the best view of the front door and the register, and pretended I was really interested in STP and stuff. From there I got my first real look at the crowd – had to be about 25 people, all but two younger than 40, most looked like they were in their 20s, all Black, all male, all looking toward Malik.

Some of the guys I recognized – like Old Pete who walks around with a shopping cart collecting cans and plastic and old bike parts to fix up bikes for neighborhood kids. And the kid with his sideways baseball cap, big shirt, big shorts and one sock falling down. He stomps around with a frown on his face, holding his crotch, and every time I see him I have to laugh (to myself) because he reminds me of some sort of Spanky and Our Gang character or something who has to go to the bathroom. I do not tell him this because I think he thinks he looks “tough.”

No scowl on the kid this day, though; in fact, he looks young and anxious and innocent as he stares at up at Malik – who looms over everyone because the shorter store owners have a raised floor behind the register to make them look bigger. Malik is already so big that, with his football-player build, shiny bald head and earring, even on level ground he looks like someone just coaxed out of a lamp. 

Another sends a number into the mix and gets the throat sounds and the blessing and then suddenly the kid pipes up – “16!” he says, looking if possible even more worried. Everyone turns to him, Malik looks at him – then shakes his head three times in lieu of the sound and says, “Man… that’s a blessing”. The kid’s face is luminous and gratified – his offering was accepted. There is also an illumination in my mind as I get an idea of what all this is about.  They are calling out ages. Their ages. I realized I was witnessing …what? A rite? An affirmation? A bonding? I had no idea what to call it, but it was something special so I ignored my warming milk and stayed right where I was as the ages and blessings moved through the gathering.

Finally Old Pete says “64!” and a murmur arises even before Malik strongly declares that that’s a blessing and the crowd echoes it. Another surprising offering comes – “65!” and things stop for a minute as everyone looks. I see it’s Mercedes Man, the guy who had been in such a hurry. He was still there, right next to Old Pete – it seems he, too, got caught up in the impromptu pageantry of whatever was going on, and put off whatever he had been rushing toward. All attention was focused on the two older men, Mercedes Man and Old Pete – and they looked at each other, eyes weighing and cataloging.

One in a $1000 suit, his whole being so soft and shiny and expensive he looked like he’d been run over with a floor buffer; the other in old overalls and scruffy tennis shoes, his whole being so scarred and pitted by life he just looked like he’d been run over, period. I saw the expressions flicker across everyone’s faces as they sincerely but distractedly offered their blessings – only a year separated these two in age, but life had separated them in far more than that.

After a moment things started rolling again.

I had to leave so I walked to the front, put my milk on the counter and, as a sort of sideways acknowledgement of what I had just witnessed, said “42!” I understood the kid’s anxiety now – would my offering be accepted, I wondered? Black women may die of different things, but we too tend to die early. I got my answer as Malik smiled and shook his head three times and declared my age a blessing, and as the men added theirs Malik presented an offering of his own. “I’m 32.” Then, maybe thinking he should explain the all male grouping (I was still the only female in the store, and there were still only Black people in there – both odd things) Malik started talking about how Black men, Black boys – they sometimes don’t live that long. Any age a Black man attained was a blessing; an older age, like he was, sometimes a miracle. He has a little girl, he says, five years old and the center of his life. He wants to grow old for her so he stays out of messes and away from trouble – but sometimes even that doesn’t work if you’re the wrong color in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Everyone listens and nods, looking somber and determined, hopeful and a bit hopeless as some offer their stories, too, of themselves or someone they know who is gone – to disease, to prison, or, far too often, to the grave. Not all sadness or despair, of course, or even primarily – plenty of triumphs and just day-to-day eventless lives. Kids off to college, better jobs, forming families and so on. All the more shocking when often senseless tragedy strikes someone-who-could-be-me, though.

I knew all this, of course, what Black U.S. American doesn’t? But after looking at and listening to this group of men and boys who were everything – rich, poor and in-between; fat, thin, baby thugs, fathers, sons, blue collar, white collar, never had a collar in their lives, high yellow, golden brown, black as coal, very young, old young, very old – after looking and listening and accidently witnessing this… whatever it was, after this I knew all this in a very different way, to the marrow of my bones.

And I walked out of the store changed, if just a little. Even now, years later,  I sometimes pass groups of young or old Black men, or Latino, or other target groups and think – that’s a blessing.

And when I look at my three beautiful Black grandsons I see them in my mind’s eye as old men, and hope the blessings hold.

[The title of this piece is from Dwayne Betts’ wonderful, thought-provoking essay, The Tragedy of Biggie and Pac / photo of group of young men is from here]

Because one apparently came in our house the other day. Through the door, or his imagination, who knows? Still, I am curious.

And a tad cautious.

[small pre-posting update] Who knew? They exist (though I don’t think this was what he was talking about.)

Said the five year old of the two year old – who got himself dressed and grabbed his supplies (a bottle and two diapers), in hopes he could go to school too.

I hope that means that by the time he actually is a teen his life will have been thoroughly spoiled already and we can be spared all the angst and acting out.

Grandma, do I look like the President of the United States now?

Yes,  my goofy grandson.  Indeed, you do.

To make a change from the regular cold or flu that’s been hanging around all winter, a little stomach bug walked in the house with one of my grandchildren last week, when they returned from a few days spent at their dad’s house, and it’s jumped from person to person over the past seven days, with sometimes devastating effect.

This is why I really haven’t written anything since then – little time, but also whenever I sat down all I wanted to do was whine and moan and start comparing 2 year olds to Linda Blair and title posts “The House of Barf” and who in the world would want to hear all that? So, I refrained from imposing my misery on anyone else. Almost

Little writing, but I’ve been doing a lot of reading and thinking and stuff, so time (such as there was) was not wasted I don’t think. I have, for one thing, a Plan! Not quite sure for what yet. Well, yes I am sure, but since I distrust both plans and sureness (surety?), particularly those arising from thoughts of escaping sick kids and adults, I’ll just go ahead let it simmer a bit in my mind.

Anyway, at least from my reading I’ve come across a few things I want to write about (that have nothing at all to do with barf or poop), so now that I have a Plan, all I need is a Schedule and I’ll be good for at least a week or two.

But it’s not entirely my fault. It usually goes something like this:

News breaks! I am full of outrage (or the even more furious poutrage) and sit down at my computer to start to send my displeasure clattering away through the intertubes, I’m really into a groove, just getting ready to -

“Grandma! The baby has a plastic bag on his head!”

I rush over, remove all plastic bags from heads and wherever else they are not supposed to be, get things calmed down and then sit down to recommence my rant, getting to the heart of why -

“Nanette! NANETTE! Can you get me a cup of coffee?”

I go refill my mother’s coffee cup, getting the creamer and sweetener just right and heating it up to the perfect temperature and then make sure her water glass is filled before getting back to expressing, in unambiguous terms just how angry –

“Grandma! We’re hungry! And the baby’s trying to smother the cat!”

I run to save the cat, then slap together something tasty and nutritious – or, at least quick – for everyone to eat, make sure more food winds up in the toddler’s mouth than on the floor, swipe a cloth over the counters, get the kids down for a nap, then get ready to really delve into the finer points of -

“Nanette! NANETTE! Can I get my cigarettes now?”

I check the time, go and hand mom her cigarettes for the time period, then walk slowly back to my computer – at which point, it seems like a good idea to check the original story so I can remember what I was writing about – only to find out that the whole thing has changed anyway, that what was reported wasn’t the whole thing and that there really is little to be outraged about after all. Or maybe more, but different reason.

So. I may miss out on good rants (and who doesn’t enjoy one of those from time to time?) but I find it easier and less time wasting just to wait for a bit before spouting off.

However! I could go on with just “off the top of my head” natter, and there is really nothing wrong with that, it’s all good – except that as long as the red outline on the calendar is there, I feel free to put off finishing my half-formed thoughts, half written articles, that I have in my draft folder. Hmmm.

So, for the next 15 days I want to make myself a new promise. I will finish at least two of those a week. Editing and rewriting as needed even after publication.  I have a “first draft” category and also an “edited to add” one so that, as long as the edits don’t affect the core of the piece, and are not related to other people or sites, so on, I won’t show what I’ve edited out or added in, just in the tags showing that it’s different from the original. Or something like that.

Another effect of this experiment is that it’s helped me figure out how to carve out time and mindspace to do what I need to do.  I have no *more* time than I had before, it’s just that I’ve finally accepted that I have to work within certain parameters, not of my choosing, and that if I don’t want my dreams to completely atrophy then I needed to do something. I’m not completely there yet, figuring out and energy wise – but on my way. With, also, more confidence.

I’ve also stopped berating myself for being easily distracted. I used to wonder why I could barely plot out one sentence during or after a really busy day when there were all these people who’d say they were typing entire articles while sitting in a noisy Starbucks, or on a train, or in the airport, and all that. If they can do it, in the midst of what was sometimes lots of noise and confusion, why can’t I? I’d wonder.

I finally realized that the difference between those people and me was that, for the most part, the surrounding noise was not for them.

It’s in the background and they can afford to tune it out – no one is asking them for something to drink or to arbitrate a disagreement between shrieking children, or to wipe their butts, or to make breakfast/lunch/dinner/snacks or … well, lots of things. There is just no way I can compare my ability to tune out the noise and theirs. In that scenario, I am not the intrepid writer, sitting in the busy shop sipping coffee while pounding out a novel or crafting gems of political insight.  I am the barrista. All the noise and demands that surround me are for me, and thus cannot be ignored.

So anyway, I find that the more I free myself from the guilt of not writing or not having time for this or that, the more free I feel to write, to pursue things I need to do and, more importantly to figure out what suits me best, and what interests me most.

So, we’ll see what the next 15 days brings.

… was the 4 year old’s plaintive reply, when asked why he was standing so quietly and intently close to the tree – after I had explained (quite imperfectly, it would appear) about the tree’s “bark”.

Said the 4 year old, upon disembarking into a completely different place after his first cognizant ride in an elevator.

Sometimes kids make up for all their other annoyances just with wonder.