“I’ve got a quiz question for you,” our driver said, smiling, as he maneuvered the yellow Econopark shuttle into the flow of traffic. “Who invented the traffic light?”
My eyes widened. “I have no idea..,” I whispered, and grabbed my phone with my left hand while poising my right index finger. “She’s got Google,” my daughter declared, and the driver laughed.
The World’s Best Donuts (according to the sign, and the bustle outside the shop that sells them) are just down the street from our rented flat, in a lovely small town, on the north shore of Lake Superior. This is our first morning in this gorgeous part of the country, and I am sitting at an outdoor table, at the aforementioned sweet shack, just a block from the water. A cool breeze is blowing, and I have my nearest and dearest (husband, son, daughter, brother, sister-in-law, nieces) all around. There are even some friends who happen to be here (in town, and at this popular hangout), just for good measure. Life is good, right?
My daughter is beaming, so grateful for this treat. And I am smiling, but not because of the treat, and not because of the blissful setting. I am smiling because I should be smiling because of the blissful setting, and I’m trying to mean it. But inside, I’m trembling, afraid to touch the crumb-and-sugar-coated table. Afraid to touch my (equally crumb-and-sugar-coated) son and daughter. I am just hoping this will all wrap up soon. And then, someone declares that we must, must, must begin each day this way.
Xanax, anyone?
Let me explain. I have Celiac disease. Celiac is an auto-immune disease triggered by gluten, a protein in barley, rye and wheat–and thus, in donuts (and nearly everything else). Continue reading
Today we brought mini-popsicles and donut holes to our son’s preschool (because he was quite clear that he wanted both popsicles and donuts) for a bittersweet celebration of his moving on. The school is year round, but because we’re heading out for vacation–and because he got into a Pre-K class in his sister’s public school–this was goodbye, to a loving bunch of kids, and some of the best early-ed teachers I’ve ever known.
I remember visiting the school years ago, and–as I had for my daughter before, at other institutions–furtively counting the children of color to make sure my child wouldn’t be the only, or one of the only, Black kids in the class.
As it happened, in his class there were a disproportionate number of kids who came from mixed-race backgrounds, just like my boy. But despite reading all the right books with him over the years (The Colors of Us, Shades of Black, etc.),and quite unlike our daughter at that age, our son didn’t seem to notice such distinctions. Continue reading
Earlier this week marked the beginning of the Hebrew month of Elul, the month that precedes Rosh Hashana. I have not completely absorbed just how early the High Holidays are this year. The Jewish calendar–a morphing of solar and lunar time-keeping–neither wanders as freely as the Muslim calendar (which has Ramadan moving year to year through all of the seasons), nor cleaves too closely to the Gregorian calendar. Our holidays float back and forth, generally falling in the same season each year, but not the same week, or even month.
There’s a joke that the holidays are either early, or late, but never on time. To give more of a sense of how early “early” is this year: Hanukkah, which overlapped with Christmas just a couple of years ago, will begin this year with Thanksgiving. And Rosh Hashana will fall just days after Labor Day. Suffice it to say, I’m not ready. My husband is a pulpit rabbi, and he’s not ready. Tomorrow, we go on vacation (because this is the one week my brother’s family was free), we come back just in time for school to start, and then BAM. Rosh Hashana, the new year, and the start of a long month of holidays focused on teshuvah (repentance), and making a fresh start. Continue reading
One day a long time ago, when I worked on the National Mall, I was blessed to have the experience of being just a pale dot, a solitary young white woman, in a virtual sea of Black men–simply by virtue of stepping out of my office building for lunch in the middle of the Million Man March.
I was nervous only that someone might scorn me (even with a sideways glance) for being so out of place. But there was only one of me, and I was met only with friendliness as I gently navigated my way through the crowd. In fact, the one and only notable thing about that day, for me, was just how relaxed, how at ease, how comfortable everyone clearly was.
At first I simply found that reassuring–but then, at some point in that journey across the Mall, it became soul-stopping…as I realized that the only reason that their comfort level was notable was that I had very rarely experienced Black men permitted, permitting themselves, to be so completely at ease, particularly in public spaces. Continue reading
A Woman of Pallor 