LITTLE DEBBIE VERSUS JIM CROW: WHO’S THE BIGGER BOOGIEMAN?

Lotta of controversy these days about weight, obesity, health, race and all that jazz. First Lady Michelle Obama claims that the problem for African-Americans these days is not Jim Crow, but Little Debbie (damn). While her stance on racism in this country gives me great cause to pause and makes me wonder if she really “has a clue,” I kinda have to agree. Her comments crossed my mind recently, as I drove through College Park. I am surprised at how many people, mainly folks of a darker hue, were walking. I observe their demeanor—and what, if anything, affected their disposition. With or without heavy groceries, crying children, etc., it was easy to see that most did not want to be walking. Furthermore, most were likely traveling to or from a bus stop. See, when your choice to travel is limited to mass transit (i.e. using public transportation to save money versus because you have to), it can weigh heavily mentally, especially when the scenery and the path en route to said train or bus is an ugly backdrop of where you spend most of your free time. Those driving in and around College Park did not look much happier, either.

Moreover, with few lucrative jobs in the ‘hood, traveling is a must to make money. So the place we probably hate going—work, is usually located in a neighborhood we cannot afford to live in. Hence we are stuck abiding in an area of town that more often than not, is quite, “unpretty.” Adding insult to injury, one is either forced to drive in abusive traffic (that’s if they can afford an automobile) or wrestle past piles of trash, walking treacherously narrow shoulders to the train or bus.

No denying this scenario is depressing, regardless of race. Still, is it our fault and should we do something about it? It’s sorta our fault, and you damn skippy we need to get busy changing our reality.

Black folk have always been creative. Why, pray tell, haven’t we figured out how to re-invent commutes into a genuine workout and keep people from opening greasy, artery clogging eateries in our ‘hoods? Guess the bottom line, as always, is money. When I look at areas like Dunwoody, Chamblee and certain parts of Decatur, there are plenty of sidewalks and jogging trails. Residents living there can afford to pimp their house with a gym or acquire a gym membership, plus they can still “go outside and play,” or exercise, as it were. In contrast, citizens of the SWATs, Bankhead Highway, East Point, Candler Park, etc., trudge over overgrown roadside weeds, never searching because they know they’ll never find any real recreation except maybe a movie theater. Those in the more affluent parts of Atlanta speed walk in their neighborhoods, they have parks nearby and can stop at a Smoothie King, Starbucks or Panera Bread. Meanwhile, other areas of town lack manicured landscapes, the footpaths are just that—paths created by foot traffic, and are limited to “the corner sto,’” Church’s chicken, or McDonalds. The latter, by the way, is not your kinda place, calorie-wise. The damage to your body is far worse than the “French fries between your toes, hamburgers up your nose,” etc.

But I digress.

Perhaps Little Debbie is gaining on Jim Crow. Shit, maybe they’re in cahoots together. I dunno. But I give the First Lady this: part of the problem is on us. We must find ways to better our community—force local grocery stores to stop carrying shit that’s bad for us and quit patronizing places like, “This Is It,” or, “Popeyes.” Stop sitting and waiting for solutions to be handed to us; stop looking for folk to wave a magic wand and end generational issues of poverty, obesity and mis-education. No sir. In Michelle Obama’s words, we have to, “Get Up and Move.” We gotta do it ourselves. Walk our families to the library monthly and have everyone including yourself borrow at least two books. Push back from the table. Read the ingredients BEFORE tossing items into the cart (my kids and my nephews, especially, “Esai the Apple Cider Alcoholic” constantly remind me of that). Have a “poor folk” dinner night at least once a week; something inexpensive that will fill you up, yet low in calories. Suggestions: soup & sandwich, chili with whole wheat toast or cornbread or tuna fish with a green salad. And for Pookie’s sake—stop drinking Kool-Aid and extra cheap soda loaded with dyes (that’s a whole other blog on genocide right there).

Demand better and accept nothing less. Write your congressman, councilmen, etc. and tell them that you want a Whole Foods, or (decent) Publix in your neighborhood. Tell them the library just does not stay open late enough. Tell them that you want a park within 4 miles of where you live. Above all, be a registered voter and let them know that you do in fact vote. Yes, I believe there is still some Jim Crow crap going down, but we gotta battle it with all our might. Shoot, during the fight we may lose a couple of pounds or three…

Axe.

AHA MOMENT #10 (D WIDTH)
(OR NO LOVE )

For almost 3 decades, I’ve had a love-hate, and “hate some more” relationship with shoes. I love them, but my feet do not. I wear the same size shoe as Oprah, except my feet are wide. Moreover, I do not have Oprah’s money; hence the “hate some more,” part of the union.

Now, this is no pity party—just the pitiful facts. By the time I was 12-years-old, my shoe size rivaled that of the average grown woman’s. The constant joker, I thought the shit was funny. That lasted about 3 minutes when I realize that I was stuck with my feet and that they might not stop growing. I grow straight up embarrassed and ashamed. Even the mention of shoe size brings me to tears. Many a shoe shopping trip with my Mom ends in an argument. Everything that she picks out that was affordable I find ugly. Anything I think the least bit attractive is either outrageously expensive, or simply not available in my size. Salesgirls look at me with either disdain or pity. By my sophomore year of high school, all I want are sneakers or boots. Neither let me down on cost or fit. When I join the military, combat boots fit me, like an old pair of shoes—pun intended. Sure, they blistered the first few months, but as soon as I could afford it, I buy a couple of different pairs of stylish boots that make me feel like a rock star.

I dated my (now ex-) husband for almost six months before he knew what size shoe I wore. From jump, I was determined he would never know that the sweet young thang he was seeing had ocean liners for feet. But one night as we cuddle on the couch in his barracks room, he happens to look down and see my shoe size staring at him. Initially, he guffaws and teases. When he realizes, however, how sensitive I was on the issue, he offers the following words, “Big feet, tight coochie.” As he is a decade older and had “been some places,” he probably thought (and maybe still thinks), this was some deep shit—pun intended. And as a young girl impressed by almost any damn thing, I giggled then, and any time he told me this when I became frustrated with my “big ass feet.”

Yet as I trudge through Dillard's tonight, I am not giggling. I’m pissed, hurt, and almost depressed. Why cannot I find shoes I can afford in MY size? A male friend recently suggested I order them online. “It's just not the same,” I whine. For me, it is about walking into the store and having a pair shoes call out to you. Or walking past the window display—especially on 5th Avenue in NYC, and seeing “the” pair of shoes. Once, upon finding the most perfect pair of Bjorn sandals on clearance in Value City, I declared aloud that if I had to choose between the sandals and a man, the sandals would have my undying love and the man would receive my deepest regrets. Ordering online takes all the romance out of buying shoes. Plus, if they don’t fit or just aren’t the shoes you thought they were you gotta send them back.

Recently, I was at an event at Carol’s Daughter in Lenox Mall. While there, I cross paths with a tall woman about my age with the natural yet radiant looks of a model. In a word, this Sister was gorgeous. She overheard me talking about my shoe issue and chimes in, “I have the same love-hate issue to—I love ‘em, but hate looking for them! I can never find what I want!” She further advises that she wears a size 11, wide!

While I should have been relieved that a beautiful woman who simply lit up a room was having shoe issues, too, alas I was even more saddened.

So tonight as I reflect on the whole pathetic situation—plight of the big feet women, I consider my ex-husband’s remarks again. Over time, of course, I realize that he made up this outrageous, ridiculous shit to win the affections of an impressionable, naïve girl. Still, I feel that perhaps there is some validity to what he said. You see, women with large feet have a difficult time finding shoes to wear, and therefore more often than not, do not date much—hence the tight coochie…

Axe.

Currently Listening To: Square Biz by Teena Marie

PARK AVENUE WEST & BAKER STREET
(OR BE SPECIFIC)

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. It is that we are powerful beyond measure.
~ Marian Wright Edelman

No humbling experience or “a-ha” moment here. It is, what it is, as my little brother, “Big Jerm” loves to say in his serious grown-up tone (you gotta talk like that when you got two older sisters who always boss you). And what it is, is a lack of definition, void determination, and deficiency of clarification, all brought on by overdoses of trepidation.

Tonight I am working a charter in the Centennial Olympic Park area. After I dropping the group off, I head over to Subways. Upon approaching the door, I hear, “Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me.” I turn, and standing just outside the door, out of the store clerk’s view is a guy in his mid 50’s. He is neat, but clearly down on his luck. I throw my head back and shrug my shoulders as if to ask, “What?” “I just want something to eat,” he says and I realize he is perhaps slightly mentally challenged. I fish around in my pocket and come up with $.36. I am sorta surprised at my actions, too. Of late, my attitude toward those asking for money has been downright nasty. I usually spit back, “Shit, I’m hurting, too!” I know it’s wrong, but it’s how I been feeling…

Nevertheless, as I fork the change over to him, he turns it down. “No, I want something to eat. I was hoping you could buy me something,” he says, his voice still quiet, yet unwavering. He wanted food—not money. At first, I thought, “The audacity of this mofo.” But then, I took a step back, literally and thought, “Shit, what’s he got to lose?” Either I will say yes or no, and by stating exactly what he wants and being specific, there can be no misunderstanding. Then he adds, “I have not eaten since Friday.” Howsonever, I ain’t impressed. And then the shitty tip week I had comes to mind. Calmly, I advise, “This is all I got,” placing the change in his hand.





As I wait to place my order I am shaking my head (SMH for you twitters, FBer’s, textaholics, etc.). Again, it has not been a good tip week. Executives flying in on private jets, drinking up “complimentary” water that I am required to buy, making racially f’d up statements in front of yours truly (I almost put those bastards out on GA 400—for real, for real…)—yet not leaving a dime! Plus, a couple of my “easy” trips had major hiccups (wrong location, wrong flight information, clients running ridiculously late but still asking me to make stops, etc.). Needless to say, I hate this job and not too crazy about the other two I have.

Then I begin to wonder, what specifically do I do wrong, or not do right, to wind up here? What about the man outside begging? What’s his story? Regardless as to the answers to all these questions, what struck me was that despite whatever his situation is, dude does not feel less than man and he stood up for himself. He knew what he wanted and that’s what he asked for—specifically. No stuttering or hesitation.

Not sure if it’s just the economy or the “way of the world,” but we used to happily ask for stuff and folks would happily give it in return. Remember? “Hold the pickle, hold the lettuce…have it your way!” Nowadays we ask for nothing, keep our heads down and pray for the best. We are all scared individuals afraid to “rock the boat.”

Or we are asking for shit we don’t need—“Can I super-size that?” “We are a family of four, but we have to have 3.5 bathrooms, ‘just because’…” I’m guilty my damn self. One small bag of M & Ms in one week was like, the max when I was a kid. Now that I am “grown,” I inhale two in one day. Furthermore, if I feel up to it, I’ll kill a large bag by myself inside of 3 days and dare someone to ask me for any (I don’t share boyfriends or my M & Ms).

But this guy wasn’t asking for anything he did not need. He said he needed to eat. Nothing more, nothing less.

I buy 2 bags of my favorite chips to go with my 6” ham sandwich. When I get outside, however, the guy is gone. I take a quick stroll through the south end of the park to get some exercise in since the hectic work schedule over the past 2 weeks has left me without time to work-out (really, really SMDH!). As I approach my bus, I look across the street and there he is, this time in a different spot, yet still stating his case to those who will stop and listen when he asks for something to eat. I grab an unopened bottle of water out of my cooler and hustle across the street. I walk up to him just as a guy is turning him down. “Here you go, Bruh,” I say, handing him a bag of chips and the water. “God bless you!” he exclaims “You, too,” I quickly call over my shoulder as I turn to jog back across the street.

Back at the bus, I could see him eating and drinking like it was the Last Supper and he KNEW tomorrow he was going to be crucified. He was hungry. I watch the light change twice as random thoughts play in my head. He finishes, puts his trash in a corner can and walks around the corner, out of sight. Specifically, he knew what he wanted and was not afraid to state his desire. Specifically, he got it—plus $.36!

Axe.