My Ferguson stream of consciousness. As a child of 1963. Bride of 1988.
Well, I written lots of posts in my head since I woke up this morning.
I’ve also baked 10 more pies — with a few more to go. Wrapped up two, slid them in a paper sack and delivered them to one very nice lady.
Looking through my recipes, I wrote down the items I’ll need to go back to the store for tonight.
But throughout the day, I’ve felt a heaviness. A sadness for what transpired in Ferguson and what that means for us all.
I have friends who are in or have been in law enforcement.
I have young friends of color.
My daughter had a young African American male friend over this afternoon. I make that point because of last night and days before that in Ferguson. And the nights and days and the years in the Fergusons before that.
Hannah and friend played video games and walked downtown for lunch.
Did I try a little harder to be encouraging, be nice — offer money so they could eat lunch? Maybe yes. Maybe no.
I was making pies for one thing.
I looked like a mad pie making woman or something.
And he’s a great kid. We’ve been through a bit of a rough patch my daughter and I, so I was happy that she was spending time with a nice, polite person. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to encourage that more than anything.
I’ve always hated conflict. I’ve always hated mean. I never got it.
But there is no denying things are different for people of color.
My wedding day. Twenty-six years ago next month.
After the ceremony, we were in the church taking pictures with the wedding party. Alease, the woman who cleaned house for us since I was a baby (and spanked my rear plenty of times because I needed it) and her husband sat in the pews.
The sanctuary was empty and I wondered why are Alease and Charles sitting there watching us take pictures instead of heading to the reception? They must enjoy seeing a bunch of kids dressed up in wedding duds posing amongst the poinsettia and white marble.
I walked over and spoke to her, giving her a big hug.
The wedding party left, Alease left and we walked out into the cold Florida morning.
I overheard my parents.
“You know she didn’t want to get to the club before we got there.”
“Well, nobody better say anything,” my dad said in a slightly serious, I-might-have-to-kick-some-ass tone.
The conversation between them turned to other weddings when other African American housekeepers were at the club celebrating marriages of a child they watched grow up. And everything was fine.
Standing there in my wedding gown — bouquet slack at my side, I was stunned. Are you kidding me? Was this really an issue?
If anyone said anything to Alease going into my wedding reception, I’d be kicking some ass, in my bad-ass ivory — Princess Diana knock off — wedding dressing.
Not that I imagined ever having to do so on my wedding day. This was December 1988 for the love of the Fourteenth Amendment. Who were these people hiding amongst the potted ferns and trays of shrimp cocktail and sliced roast beef?
But mostly, I was so very sad. So embarrassed. So afraid that I had somehow hurt my dear, dear Alease.
Alease who waited with us after the wedding because she felt uncomfortable entering a place because she was black.
I brushed back tears in the car on the way to the reception. I cried writing this post.
I don’t get it.
Things are changing —
But.
NaBloPoMo Day 25
