Putting the Pieces Together

It's what Obama's doing anyway.

You might as well join in on the fun.

Just Because I'm a Woman I Should Know All "The Rules"

As a 24-year-old, single, middle-class, college educated, white female I have a lot of responsibilities. To recognize my own privilege, to do the best I can to give back to my community and the world at large, and, you know, other things too.

The most important?
Knowing the ins and outs of everythingweddings.

Can you imagine life without this knowledge? Without bridal shower etiquette and appropriate gift-buying guides, our society would be in a hot, chaotic mess. Gee, would anyone even bother getting married? Oh, goodness gracious! Perish the thought!

I don't know anything about weddings and don't care to know much about them. I know, so weird. It's like, I'm not even 24 or single, with a bevy of attractive, accomplished female friends who will, in the next few years, send me invitations with too many cards, envelopes inside.

I don't mind the marriage concept on its own, but just because I know people who are getting married, I'm suddenly responsible for having expertise on a subject I have zero experience with. Can I get a test prep book?

What I Should Know By Now Just Because I'm a Woman

- What to buy and how much to spend (A place setting? What if she doesn't get the 7 of 8 she's requested? What if she ends up eating on paper plates and your one place setting for a few months, and decides she never really liked the pattern on the cereal bowl or creamer? What if she decides against plates altogether?)

- What to wrap, what to not wrap (What if I don't want anyone to see what I've put in the wishing well? What if I've put a spell on the well item that will make all of the bridal party members single-for-life if they view my gift? Sing it with me, "I'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale.")

- What kind of bow would look best for the "hat" the bridal party will assemble (The one the cat abused most with his tiny claws, for sure.)

- What to write in the engagement, bridal shower, and wedding cards ("Like I said last time, I really hope this works out for you...")

- How much attitude to give the overconfident (yet single) members of the bridal party when I'm met with empty niceties ("Thanks, it was SO nice. Your directions to this restaurant were ... great.")

What am I missing? There are things that I don't yet know that I'm supposed to know about. How terrifying. Aren't you scared for me?

I think Dolly Parton might consider rewriting "Just Because I'm a Woman" to go something like this:

I can see you're disappointed
by the way you look at my wedding bingo sheet.
And I'm sorry that I'm not
the woman who screams at every gift she meets.
Yes I've made my mistakes
but was it my wishing well gift?
My everyday china is no worse than yours
Just because I'm an unsavvy woman

Now I know that I'm no angel
If that's what you thought you'd found
I am just a victim of
a sparkled invitation.

Yes I've made my mistakes
but listen and understand
My opinion of weddings is no worse than yours
Just because I'm an unsavvy woman

*****

Truthfully, it has nothing to do with lacking savviness. It's a form of knowledge I refuse to integrate into my "things I care about" brain-folder.

So I guess most of you are going to invite me to your wedding(s), right?

Extraordinary Coffee Cart Man

Bright sunlight glistens off the steel exterior of the 43rd street and 5th avenue coffee cart. Back in the day, when I took a different subway to work, I frequented another shiny silver box for coffee and plain doughnuts (by 6th avenue). I never liked the men (2) who worked in there. They were cold, indifferent, uninterested in my eager-beaver smile and soft expressions of gratitude.

The days of burnt coffee and bad service are over.

(Um, they aren't, but whatever.)

I tried the 43rd and 5th cart one day to see what he was like. Would he make me feel inferior? Or - worse - ordinary?

"Hello dear, how are you today?" He greeted me as if we were old friends, as if I'd always bought my cheap, disgusting, bowel-shaking coffee from him. I hadn't. He didn't mind.

The next time, he was just as warm and so was I.

"I am so well, sir. How are you today? Keeping warm in there?" I looked up at him with a big smile, radiating heat, I'm sure.

"Yes, because you are so hot."

Pardon? "Thanks! Have a nice day!"

We continued this for many days and then I gave him a Christmas card with rub-offs. Wait, scratch-offs. I got the idea from the television, a New York Lotto commercial.

"You know, I won $15 on your tickets!" He told the next time I saw him.

"Oh, I am so glad. You really deserve it." Nodding my head, smiling as if he just told me war is over.

There wasn't a line behind me. I lingered.

"You are very, very nice."

"Oh, please. Thank you. You are very good at your job! Best in the city."

Then it began: an onslaught of free pastries.

Day 1:

"I'll just have a small coffee today." In a hurry.

"No, you will have a medium. Half/half and two sugars?"

"If you insist, yes." Coy smile.

"Now, what do you want here?" A quick glance around his inventory.

"What do I want?" Confusion.

"From here?" He gestured at his array of pastries, doughnuts, and bagels.

"Well ... oh, I don't really want anything."

"You have something! Please!" His brown bag was open, ready.

"Okay, I'll have a plain doughnut." Meek, mild, boring.

"That is all?"

"Yes. That is all."

"Okay, that will be $1."

"No, it shouldn't be!" I pushed $2 over the lip of his window. "Have a nice day!"

Day 2:

"Hmm, I'll have a bagel with cream cheese and a medium coffee."

"What else do you like?"

"I don't like anything." Shaking head.

"You must. Pick something." Again, gesturing.

"Okay, okay. Plain doughnut."

"Very good. $1." It should be closer to $4.

"Fine, here is $1."

He nodded at me, a sweet smile taking over his face.

Day 3:

"Ah, I haven't seen you in a while!" It had been a day or two since I stopped to see him.

"Yes, I know. I've been at Starbucks." I laughed, he smiled. A gay time, we had on 43rd.

"What will it be today then? Anything you want."

"Alrighty. A medium coffee is all." One who shoots for the stars, clearly.

"What! Come now, you must have something else."

"A plain doughnut?"

"That is all? It's so small! What else you like?"

"... I don't know?" Again, confusion.

"Anything here! Anything." I shook my head. "Okay, I put this one in for you." He held out a large glazed danish.

"Sure, that's fine."

"You like this one?"

"Yeah, it's great. How much is all this?" He dropped it in the bag and shook his head.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. For you, I don't charge anything."

"How do you make a living doing this?"

"The money does not matter. It warms my heart to give it to you." He clasped his hands and brought them to his chest.

"Okay. Thank you sir."

"You are welcome. You have a wonderful weekend."

Yes, a wonderful weekend at the gym, on the treadmill. What generosity brings: unprecedented weight gain, diabetes, and an inexplicable hankering for doughnuts at 9:30 am.

The Saddest Thing I've Ever Heard

Dunkin Donuts on 36th and 8th avenue. Saturday, 10 am.

Managed by people from India and/or Southeast Asia.

Not crowded.

I buy a bottle of water, sit down to read. I'm hardly a customer.

A black man sits down at a table one row behind me. My back is two him, but I hear him rummaging through his carpetbag.

One brown Dunkin Donuts worker walks over. "You have to leave now. You've been sitting here, and now you have to leave."

"Man, I'm looking for something in my bag." Hisses as he says it. This man is not overtly homeless, not even ambiguously so, but he hasn't bought anything in the store. I saw him come in and sit down while I was standing in line with my $1.50 Aquafina.

The DD worker walks away. The man behind me says, "Fuck you. Imma fuckin' kill you" loud enough for me to hear, but the worker doesn't. He is unaffected, perhaps a survival strategy. A few seconds later, the manager ambles over, his hands clasped behind his back, relaxed.

"My friend, you cannot sit here now. You have to leave." Yellow, orange, brown shirt tucked into his high-waisted khaki pants, walks by me, is now in my peripheral view.

"Why you sayin' that!" Hands -- fists -- bang onto the dark pink table.

"Because you are not a customer. This seating is for customers."

"Customer! What the fuck do you think I am? I am a fucking customer!"

"Sir, you need to buy something here to be a customer at this Dunkin Donuts."

My eyes bore holes in the rear wall. And then he says it. He goes there.

"I've been a customer at Dunkin Donuts longer than you and your damn family have been in this country."

And then I start crying and do not turn around.

The manager walks back to his counter, eyes turned downward, and tends to his customers who are urgent and worried and unsympathetic as they order their coffees and breakfast sandwiches.

I'll never forget this. For me, that statement says (almost) everything about race politics in America today. We are not post-race. There is considerable work to do.