i can hear the bells...i mean, i did eat the bells...

So just recently I was perusing some photos from my sister’s recent wedding and I was reminded of a recent Google search. While searching online for random things that would add to my sister’s wedding, the term “wedding bells” popped up a few times. Immediately my mind took me back to a place when I was much younger, maybe 10 or 11. In my mind’s eye, I can see myself downstairs in my mom’s “school room”, cross-legged on the floor. For some reason, the picture is slightly hazy and tinted blue.

I remember finding on the very bottom shelf, nestled in a corner, a special looking box that was labeled “wedding cake bells”. Curiosity got the best of me and of course I opened it. Much to my surprise and delight, I found baby blue sugar bells with delicate silver detailing. There were slightly less than a dozen and for the most part, they were completely intact. I picked one up and could sense the history and sentimental value even at that young age. As I was carefully replacing the bell, I noticed that a few of them were completely broken and that a few others were chipped. I wondered what they tasted like. Rationalization, at its best, took the stage as I decided that eating a broken bell wouldn’t hurt anyone. It was nasty and stale….but it was also sugar and colored blue. I nibbled on another one.

Over the course of the next few months, I would occasionally make my way downstairs to visit this special box. I don’t remember now, how many I destroyed, nor how many times I fought off the guilt, but I did it one too many times and kind of still feel bad about it. Maybe I should tell my mom. Anyway, at least my sister won’t have this same problem ten years down the line. She used flowers.

Don't think for a moment that just because it's April it was uneventful

Staten Island Ferry Adventure

what about my bag?

So the other day I had to pick up a few groceries. I walked in right behind a man who appeared to be in his 20's and I'm guessing that he was of African decent. The security at the door made him check his bag. The young man actually offered it up as if he knew the drill and then went on his way. It was my turn now and I offered my bags (I had multiple). He waved me on and shook his head. I didn't need to check mine. At first I was relieved because honestly, I don't trust anyone and it takes extra time. But as I made my way to the dairy section I grew increasingly unsettled. This wasn't the first time that I didn't have to check my bags. It wasn't the first time that security had waved me through without a second glance. And it wasn't the first time that I had seen racially diverse men get profiled in such a way. Why don't all customers get the same treatment? Don't I look threatening enough? Before my brain could really even formulate a response to my rambling thoughts, I was out of the store and headed home. But since then, this situation has popped into my head more than once. I offer no explanation or opinion (although you might already have an idea), I just wanted to write a little diddy about it and post it for all the world to see. Yes we are blessed with freedoms, but not all of us experience them in the same way. Something to think about...

anything for my people

The other night I had stayed out pretty late and decided that I didn’t want to mess with the late night subway schedule. So I crossed the street and tried to look for an open cab. Cab after cab with lights alighted passed me….but no such luck. I couldn’t find a single cab that said, “off duty”. Suddenly, I remembered that “off duty” actually meant “off duty” and that they wouldn’t pick me up no matter how high I raised my hand. Instead, I should have been hailing those clusters of cabs that had passed me a few minutes ago--all of which were available. Once the midnight fog lifted from my brain, I found one, signaled the direction I was traveling, and hopped in.

My cabbie, a friendly fellow, told me that he was going in the opposite direction but because I was a Latina he would take me home. “Anything for my people,” he said. The truth of the matter is, I am not Latina. I am Polynesian--specifically Hawaiian. I know that we are somewhat of a rare specimen out here so there is often confusion as they have never seen one before. (And I will just try to ignore the fact that it was dark and he was on the other side of the street when he saw me. How could he have even seen me well enough to assume I was a Latina anyway?….Weird.) Anyway, I was about to tell him that I was actually Hawaiian but didn’t have an opportunity because he kept going on an on about his pride in “his people”. I smiled and nodded politely, and decided that I would play the role so he wouldn’t feel stupid. I then silently prayed that he wouldn’t bust out the Spanish. (Por favor y gracias) I mean, could I really claim to be a Latina and not speak Spanish? Yes, I could but then how could I explain that? My mind raced as I formulated my elaborate story which was turning into a really convoluted lie. I didn’t want to lie but I might have to. Much to my relief, he was a speedy driver and we arrived a mi casa muy pronto. Que bien! No lie necessary…well, no spoken lie necessary.