Black History Month: The Super Bowl Party

I call these posts Black History Month because I’m Black, and these stories are my history

It was 1999, and the Atlanta Falcons made it to the Super Bowl. Back then I wasn't a huge Falcons fan, but since my team the Tampa Bay Bucs didn't make it, I was rooting for the home team. We decided to have a Super Bowl party at my place, which is where most of my crew hung out all the time anyway. It was supposed to be just the regulars, but everybody at work told everybody else and before I knew it, there were tons of people in my little garage apartment. I didn't really care, since this was during one of my non anti social periods. Besides, more people meant more liquor, more tweeds, and more girls.

My homegirl Terri hooked up the food, and I had a few bottles of that hard liquor. We didn't mess around with beer or wine back then. And my homeboy Lorenzo had us covered on the tweeds. By kickoff, I was already nursing a nice little buzz thanks to some strong drinks and some even stronger blunts. I remember the room cheering when the Falcons had the ball, but that's about all I remember about that Super Bowl. The rest of the night came in flashes. In random order...

1. My landlord came over and smoked with us.
2. Somebody broke my toilet.
3. Random people were going in and out of my bedroom.
4. I only had one couch and some folding chairs, so people were huddled on the floor looking comatose.
5. At halftime, we started watching Friday,
6. I woke up with some Famous Amos chocolate chip and pecan cookies half chewed in my mouth.
7. Somebody ate the chili that my mom made for me.

I knew all this was happening but I was too knocked out to do anything about it. The real story happened after the game, which the Falcons lost 34-19. About midnight, the game was long over, but stragglers were still at my crib playing spades and drinking the remnants of the liquor. I was semi conscious on the couch. I smelled something burning. Now, it could have been anything: something on the stove or someone playing with matches, but my paranoid mind just knew it was something else. I managed to get up and stagger to the kitchen. Nothing there. I wandered around the apartment and couldn't find the source of the burning smell. Finally, I decided to open a window to get some fresh air. That's when it hit me. Smoke started pouring in the apartment. I ran outside to see what was going on and found it. A big plastic trash can outside was on fire.

I tried to turn on the water hose, but yeah, it didn't work. I ran in through the back door and turned on the faucet and filled up some cups with water, but that barely made a dent. I must have looked crazy with two little cups trying to put out a burning trash can. Nobody was helping me either. They were either oblivious, or too drunk to realize what was happening. Finally, I went in the refrigerator and grabbed a big pitcher of kool-aid - a mix of lemonade and grape - and threw it on the burning trash can. That put most of the flames out. Finally somebody else got up to help me, but by then it was over. I never found how the fire started, but if I had to guess, I'd say someone threw a lit blunt, or cigarette in the trash can. At any rate, it was time for them to go. I didn't know who was to blame, so I kicked all them jokers out. That was the last Super Bowl party I ever hosted.

Savannah Bound

I'm going to take a break from Black History Month series this weekend. I'm going to Savannah for my cousin's funeral/memorial service. I wrote about her last month. She died last Friday. It's not going to be a traditional funeral service, since she didn't want to have a church service and she is being cremated, so no burial service either. Not sure what it's going to be like, but I'll be there to show family support. While I'm in Savannah, I'm going to check out one of my nephew and niece's performances of Annie. It's crazy that they are in a kids performance, and charging $20. If I didn't love them, I would definitely skip it. The other crazy thing is that one of their shows is at the same time as the Super Bowl (Go Colts!!!) My sister, who is a big football fan, signed up to volunteer at that show, not realizing that it was the day of the game. Sucks for her. Anyway, I should really go hit the road now, so I'll end this now (and post it later in the day.) Have a good weekend.

Black History Month: Uncle Daddy

When I was about 9 or 10, something happened with my best friend G’s family that really freaked me out. They were a nice Indian family, red dot, not feather. His was a single parent household, much like mine. Then later, his Uncle came to live with them. I spent a lot of time over at his house, and he at mine. Our families ate together often. Uncle was the best cook. I loved his curry everything and mango ubiquity. The food was banging. And Uncle was funny too. His Indian accent used to crack me up, not in a laughing at you way, but in a laughing at your jokes way. Man, Uncle was cool. Then something happened that messed with my head: G’s Uncle married G’s mom.

What? Are these people out of their minds?!? G was surprisingly cool with it. He didn’t mind having an Uncle Daddy. I, however was grossed out. I tried to explain it to him, but he just wasn’t understanding me. I told him your uncle can’t marry your mom. That’s creepy. He said “no, it’s not!” I thought to myself, I can’t come over here anymore. No more Atari tournaments, no more slumber parties, no more flipping baseball cards with G. This house is creepy, and I can’t be a part of it. G didn’t realize why I was get freaked out. I repeated that Uncles can’t marry moms!! He asked “why not!”

Because that’s his sister!!!
G laughed at me like I was the stupid one. Turns out, in Indian culture, respected elders were called Uncle, whether they are related to you or not. I don’t remember how he explained that to me, but I finally understood. Man, Uncle Daddy was about to have me up in there praying for them fools. I still laugh whenever I think of that misunderstanding. It was like a bad episode of “Three’s Company”, with me playing Mr. Furley and G being Jack Tripper.

Black History Month: Dwayne Warned Me

I call these posts Black History Month because I’m Black, and these stories are my history
“Dawg, you sure?”
“Yeah, let’s do it”
“I don’t know about this. But it’s your life”

I should have heeded the warning. Dwayne was only looking out for me. I’d known him for about 10 years, and in that time we became a little more than associates, a little less than friends. We would hang out every now and then, but it’s not like I would go to him for advice. I was hard headed, so I didn’t listen.

I sat in the chair, the buzzing resonating in my ears. Loud, rowdy conversations permeated the small room. I think one or two of the other patrons were drunk. I was taking a big step, but I was confident that it work out for me. I’ve never been the type to have regrets anyway. I flinched as the buzzing came closer, then bit into my skin. It stung for a hot second, but then it subsided and I sat there stone jawed as the artist went to work. I watched whatever trashy TV show that shop had on. I noticed that this was taking forever!! I wanted it to be over. I wanted to get out of that chair. But mostly I wanted to see what it looked like. I was conveniently shielded from the mirrors that hung on the wall of the shop. All I could see were pictures of the artist’s handy work on the wall, and the aforementioned TV. The incessant buzzing was getting to me, but I knew better than to ask when it was going to be over. I wanted his best work, not a rush job.
After about 45 minutes, it was over. He put the finishing touches on and then handed me a mirror to check it out. He put some rubbing alcohol on a cotton swab and cleaned the edges. I must have looked a little disappointed so he spoke.

“It’ll get darker, it’s just brand new.”

I stared at myself for a minute trying to decide if I liked it. I saw the contrast of the colors on my skin. I decided I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t say anything at the time. Everyone else had them, but it wasn’t for me. I should have listened to Dwayne, but now it was too late. I definitely would not be getting another one of these. I paid the man, and was on my way out the shop.

My first and last baldy. What, did you think I was talking about a tattoo? LOL My barber Dwayne was right. I should have listened. I had to deal with my pale white scalp for a few days until my hair grew back in.

Black History Month: Let's Play Ball

I call these posts Black History Month because I'm Black, and these stories are my history...
Spring Valley, New York 1983

'Crrrraccck'

The sound of the baseball hitting on the wood bat excited me. I hurriedly ran to the makeshift first base, which was actually a record album, with my head down. I wasn't exactly fleet of foot, but I had major hustle. I knew something was wrong before I reached the base. The other kids scattered, running off in many different directions trying to flee the scene. The chants of "no batter, no batter" and "we want a pitcher, not a glass of water" were replaced with deafening silence, and only 8 year old Rashan remained in the courtyard. I soon realized why my cohorts had abandoned me. The shattered glass next to Mrs. Chumskly's apartment let me know that I had broken a window.

I don't really know why we were playing baseball in such a tight enclosed space. The courtyard was a patch of grass in between 2 sets of apartment buildings. I guess since we were small, we didn't think anyone would hit the ball hard enough to reach the apartments, but of course, it had to be me to do it. I couldn't even play baseball that well, but one lucky swing was about to get me in trouble. That's if anybody found out. I took my cue from my homeys, and ran away too, leaving my bat and glove outside. I went home nervous,  but hopeful that I could get away with it.

When my mom got home from work, and asked me about my day, I neglected to mention the broken window. Every time the phone rang, I was nervous that it was Mrs. Chumskly or one of my friend's parents calling to spill the beans. At one point I took the phone off the receiver in the kitchen so it would ring busy. But that didn't last long. I remember having a hard time falling asleep that night, but I made it. When I awoke and realized it was a new day, I thought I had gotten away with it. Boy, was I wrong. Turns out one of the kids snitched to his parents, who later that day snitched to my mom. When my mom came home that day and asked me about it, I said something stupid:

"Oh yeah, I forgot!"

I got in trouble, not for the window, but for the lie. At the time, I thought my mom had to pay for the window, but now as an adult, I realize that maintenance probably fixed it. I don't know how I got held solely responsible. It's not like I pitched the ball to myself. It's not like I was the only one that was playing with a baseball, instead of the tennis ball we usually used. In the future, we still used the courtyard, much to Mrs. Chumskly's dismay, but we played football or kickball. There was no way I was going to play baseball there again.

Black History Month: Diane's Sausage Balls

I call these posts "Black History Month" because I'm Black, and these stories are my history.

When I used to work at another bank, we used to have potlucks all the time. I was the manager of a team in a call center and just about everybody loved me. In addition to my team of 25, I was also de facto manager of another team of directory assistance people. You know the ones that just look up names and transfer you? Anyway, so one day my team and that team got together for a potluck. It was really disorganized. There was soul food, Mexican food, Chinese food, regular old American food. For a greedy man, it would be heaven. Well, let me take that back. I am greedy, but I’m not much for eating other people’s food. It may sound cliché, but I don’t know who’s clean and who’s not. I don’t know who cooks with their cats, or who doesn’t wash their hands after changing their baby’s diapers. People tell me to get over it, but that’s not gonna happen. Diane’s Sausage Balls were enough for me to never eat food from strangers again.

There was a woman on the DA team named Diane. She was a nice enough lady, but she looked a little less than clean. She had stringy hair that always seemed to be shedding, and her desk always had crumbs and coffee stains on it. You may think I’m judging a book by its cover, but how else am I to know if I want to read it… or to mix metaphors, if I want to eat her food. I already decided that I was not going to. Diane came into work with a silver cookie tin with what she called “Sausage Balls.” They were like meatballs, but made with ground sausage. In theory, they sound good, but considering the source, I was just not sure what else was ground up in them. I filled my plate with store bought stuff and food from people I trusted. Unfortunately Diane’s Sausage Balls didn’t quite make the cut.

Apparently everybody else was thinking the same thing too, because 3 hours later, while the rest of the food was only left with remnants, her tin of sausage balls remained virtually untouched. One of her co workers came and told me that she was crying because nobody wanted to try her food. I had a decision to make. Would I be a good manager, even though I wasn’t technically her manager, or should I stick to my guns? My mind and stomach told me that Diane would just have to get over it, but my heart (yes, I have a heart) told me that I should make her feel better by trying them. Guess which one won out? My heart! I tried Diane’s Sausage Balls, and they were pretty good. Not gourmet by any means, but they would do for a potluck. It made her day that I tried her potluck food! Once again, Rashan saved the day.

A little later, I noticed Diane wasn’t at her desk. I was supposed to stay on them to make sure they were answering the phones like they are supposed to. 5 minutes passed, then 10 with no sign of her. Then one of her co workers came to my desk.

“Diane is in the bathroom throwing up.”

WHAT?!? I didn’t care that she was sick, but I was worried about me. I ate those stupid sausage balls against my better judgment and now she got the ebola? My inner circle at work who knew what I did were dying laughing at me.

“That’s what you get for trying to be Super-Manager!”

I started sweating, and all of a sudden I felt light headed. I got up to go outside and get some air. I felt queasy, and my knees buckled a little. I stood outside while I composed myself, belly full and rumbling. I didn’t know what ailment I was getting, but I knew something was coming. I called my boss, and told her that I was leaving and why. She laughed at me. I went to my car and drove home. It was only about 5 minutes away, and I had to go. I just couldn’t stay there at home any longer waiting for the inevitable eruption. At home, I laid down, and next thing I know it was 7pm. I had been gone for 3 hours. I felt okay. I don’t know if it was psychosomatic or something real, but I do know one thing. I’ll never eat Diane’s Sausage Balls ever again!

Black History Month: The Burger King Backfire

I call these posts Black History Month because I'm Black, and these stories are my history...

When I was a senior in high school, I didn’t have a car, and my only friend with a car was on a different lunch than me. So while all the more privileged upper classman would leave for lunch, I was stuck on campus. Even back then, I didn’t eat lunch often, but every now and then I wished that someone I knew would go to Burger King and get me a whopper w/cheese combo. It was literally 2 minutes down the road, and the closest place to my high school. Alas, most days, that didn’t happen. I usually sat in the library writing my rhymes, or hanging out in the chorus room with my homeys listening to music or singing the hits of the day. But one day was different. I was gonna get some Burger King and flaunt it in the faces of them clowns who never asked if I wanted anything.

My sister was in town for Spring Break, or maybe it was Winter Break. She was going to Spelman and her boyfriend went to Morehouse. Cliché, yeah, I know. But he was a cool dude. The night before I asked him if they could bring me some food at lunch, and to my surprise, they agreed. By this time, me and my sister got along, but I was still hesitant to ask her for anything. I was excited at the prospect of having BK, while the rest of the school had tater tots. I already planned out in my mind how I was gonna answer people when they asked what I was doing for lunch. “Nah, kid. Someone is bringing me some food.” They didn’t have to know it was my sister. It could have been anyone. You know I’m a very important dude, right? I’ll pause so you can laugh at my high school delusions. I know now that nobody cared, but in my young mind, It was gonna be serious!!!

So, lunch rolls around and I see Nikki and Gary pull up in his Jeep Wrangler. I go to the car and sit down while they pass me my whopper, fries and an orange soda. They tell me they have to go, so I head back to the front entrance. I had the soda inside the bag, since I also had my rhyme book in my other hand. Made it easier to carry. This dude I know says “Yo, you got BK?” I shake my head like “yeah”, but I don’t speak any words. I’m too cool for that. I’m walking towards the chorus room and suddenly I hear “WHAP”

The soda spilled, leaked through the bag causing all my fries to go scattering and my Whopper to fall on the floor. The wrapper opened and onions and pickles smeared with ketchup littered the floor. The worst part? My doggone burger was drenched. People all around me started laughing. I tried to play it off like I didn’t care, but I was mad embarrassed. I guess that’s what I get for bragging in my head about some cheap old Burger King! My plan backfired!