Top Ten: This is how we do it.

Christmas 2010

Well, good people. . . . Thanksgiving has come and gone which means one thing and one thing only: The flood gates are now open for the season of jingle bells, pine cones and holly berries! And--yes--the time for latkes, dreidels, and Chanukah gelt!

Pause.

That's right, I said it. And you don't EVEN have to tell me how impressed you are with my knowledge of non-Christmas holiday traditions (or especially my spelling of Chanukah with a 'c'.) Because me? I'm culturally competent like that. See, thanks to my friends of Jewish faith like Lesley M., Neil W., Natalie L., Ann I., and Nat F I have mad skills when it comes to menorahs and I'm nice with my Yiddish. Matter of fact, this came in handy last year when Isaiah's friend gave him a dreidel.

See, I would start telling y'all about how Hanukkah (sorry, it felt like I was trying too hard with that whole 'c' spelling) isn't even the same week every year or about how (contrary to what many people --okay I--used to think) the kids aren't opening a whole Christmas morning's worth of gifts for eight nights in a row.  Maaaan, I could even go so far as to tell you about how annoyed all my Jewish friends are with us non-Jewish folk going to the movie theaters on Christmas day. I mean, I would tell you all of those things, you know, because I could. . .but see, I won't because THAT is not the point of this post.

The point of this post (yes there is one this time!) is to do for you what my Jewish friends have done for me. . . .to provide you a little extra insight into my culture--just in time for the holidays!

Now. For those new here, I should share with you that I am a black woman living in the Southern United States. I was raised in California by my parents--both African-Americans and Alabama natives-- which technically means I'm not a GRITS (girl-raised-in-the-south) but I am the next closest thing.

Anyways, I have found that being up on other people's cultural traditions is a good thing. Especially as a person who works in a hospital, it always makes things so much easier when you have a bit of a clue about things outside of your own little world. And beyond that. . . . you never know who you'll find yourself down with. Or in love with. . . . .

Basically, I think the more we share about each other's cultures the better. Especially this time of year because there's no telling who might invite you over to their house to break bread. And we all know that being outside of what you know can sometimes feel like being on a completely other planet!

So in the spirit of the holidays, I bring you this week's top ten:


Top Ten Things you should know that would make participating in a holiday meal and/or celebration with my people a lot easier for you.  

Let me first say that I apologize for being a day late and a dollar short for those who this would have helped on this past Thursday. Oh, and I'm the first to say--I am NOT the authority on black folks and holidays at all.  These are things I have noted in my own experiences and nothing more. Seeing as my father is one of eleven children, I've had my share of big ol' holiday family shindigs.

Disclaimer: If these kinds of things offend you, stop reading now and go straight to the list of favorite posts for some good and unoffensive reading. Otherwise. . .

Doing the holidays with my people? It just might behoove you to know the following things:


#10   -- We are on a first-name basis . . . .

. . . .with our greens.

Isaiah on Thanksgiving with collards

"What's these? Collards or Turnips?"

"Collards with a little bit of mustards mixed in."

"These the turnips?"

"Naw, those collards, too. They just cooked all the way down. Oh and these aren't cooked with pork."

"Y'all didn't make no turnips?"

"Naw. Turnips taste too bitter."

"Not my turnips. My turnips never taste bitter."

"Hmmph. Well you shoulda brought yo' turnips, huh?"

Rule:  Don't ever show up with a pot full of mustards. I just read a wonderful article that properly described mustard greens as the "Tito Jackson" of the greens family. So true!


#9  -- Don't get too fancy. . . . .

. . .with the cranberry sauce.

*This may or may not occur depending upon whose house you have dinner at.*

"What the hell is this?"

"It's cranberry sauce."

"This ain't cranberry sauce!"

"Shhhhh! Mama's work-friend brought it. She said it's from real cranberries."

*silence, followed by keys jingling in hand*

"What you 'bout to do?"

"Maaan, I'm 'bout to go to Kroger's to get me some real cranberry sauce in the can."

(*This may or may not be based upon true events. Ah hem.)

Whew! Crisis averted.

Rule:  It's fine to make cranberry sauce from real cranberries. HOWEVER. Depending upon whose house it is, just be sure to have a can of the jellied Ocean Spray kind in your purse in case of emergency.

#8 -- Dressing for the occasion.

Dressing is what my people have next to the turkey. Not stuffing.

Stuff it!

"Oh, wow! Your cornbread stuffing is delicious."

*crickets*

Rule: Stovetop by Stouffer's is stuffing. My people? They make dressing. (At least in my experience.)

#7  -- "Sure! Here you go!"

This is the only proper answer to the following question:

"Excuse me--can you pass me some hot sauce?"

Which reminds me: it better not be Tabasco, either.  Regular old Lousiana hotsauce or RedHot or Crystal's will do. Those little peppers with the vinegar also may or may not be present.

Rule:  Hot sauce is a staple for my people.


#6  --  Don't forget the lyrics.

You are absolutely of my culture if you can relate to this:


"'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring not even a mouse. . . . ."

If in your head you immediately heard the first few bars of The Temptations singing "Silent Night" followed by someone belting out "in my mind. . . I want you to be freeeeee" after reading those words there is a 99.9% chance that you are either African-American or deeply connected to someone African-American. As a matter of fact, of all of the things I say on this top ten, this specific music is the one indisputable thing that you will absolutely find at every single house. And this? This song will be played if you go to a holiday celebration with my people.

Don't get my reference at all? Take a listen:



Now that I think about it, if you don't want to feel left out at the celebration, I would suggest listening to and learning this song--particularly if spirits are being poured. You never know if you just might be expected to be the high falsetto Temptation in a front-of-the-fireplace impromptu concert. (Yes, people. This could happen.)

Rule:  No holiday celebration is complete without the Temps singing "Silent Night."

#5  -- And while you're at it. . . .

. . .you might as well learn this one, too. NO gathering of my people during or around the holidays is official until you hear this song a minimum of twelve thousand times.



As a matter of fact, if you made a iPod playlist with just The Temps singing "Silent Night" and Donny Hathaway singing "This Christmas" my bet is that not a single one of "my people" would even notice. Also, if you have never heard this song on the radio, it means that you have never listened to the black radio station in your city at Christmas time. Without the least bit of exaggeration, I can assure you that in Atlanta you can hear it every hour on the hour from Thanksgiving until December 25.

Rule: Familiarize yourself with Mr. Hathaway's version of this song. (You'll get extra cool points if you know the part where he says "shake-a-hand, shake-a-hand.")  OH!! Don't be tempted by the other renditions either--Donny Hathaway singing "This Christmas" is the holy grail of soul Christmas music--constantly imitated, but never, ever duplicated. Also -- this, too, might be a part of the impromptu concert in front-of-the-fireplace. (But the good news is that because it doesn't involve multi-part harmonies, you might be safe if you just nod your had and do a two-step.)


#4  -- A pound of butter. . .  .

. . .is in the pound cake. For real.

Oh, and there will be no less than seven hundred and thirty seven forms of dessert. Pound cake will definitely be one of them but also count on some sweet potato pie, pecan pie, and a red velvet cake. If you're lucky, someone will bring a caramel cake and some banana pudding. And you know you are celebrating with my people if you encounter a 7-Up cake or a Milky Way cake--which are prepared with 7-Up and Milky Way bars, respectively.


Rule:  Watching your weight? Step awaaaaay from the pound cake. Matter of fact, just don't come to the party because there is NOTHING you can eat.

#3  -- Chit-chat

Let's just get one thing clear: "chitterlings". . . is pronounced "chitlins" not chitter-lings. Got that?


Me-myself-personally?  I don't eat chitlins nor have I ever even put a single chitlin in my mouth. Why, you ask? Real talk--after watching my T'Renee (Auntie Renee) clean them once when I was a child, I was so traumatized that this was all I needed to assure that I'd never, ever try them. So. . . . you DO realize that chitlin's are pig intestines, right? So cleaning them involves. . . .*sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little bit* . . . .cleaning what's inside of intestines. (See above scary-photo. Sorry, smell not included.)

Now. Usually this is followed by some history lesson about how when our people were slaves we had to get creative with what we had. The chitlins were scrapped, so voila! They became a delicacy in the slave quarter.  And y'all know how I feel about history, especially black history, so I once got very, very, very close to tasting a teeny-tiny bite smothered with hot sauce after hearing such an explanation behind the fact that we were actually eating intestines. Just as the fork got near my lips, my PTSD of seeing that pig-poo rolling down the drain and into the sink made me dry heave.  Couldn't do it, man. Still can't.

Confession #1:  When I was pregnant with Isaiah, my mother-in-law cleaned and cooked chitlins in my house. I immediately threw up when I walked in from work and smelled them. Like immediately. Mother (my mom-in-law) felt so bad for me that no chitlin has been cleaned or prepared in my home since.


Confession #2:  During that last time while carrying Isaiah, I saw my husband actually eating some chitlins and am still wondering if that should have been grounds for divorce.


Rule:  Never, ever volunteer to clean chitlins and make every effort to not be there when it's taking place. Even if you're trying to get in good with the future in-laws. Don't do it. Especially if you happen to be pregnant.


#2  -- Know what this is:

photo courtesy of my pal Lesley M. who snapped a photo of this because she knew it would make me laugh!

Question:  What you know about some chow-chow?



"Pass me that chow-chow, baby."

"I'm sorry-- pass you the what?"

"The chow-chow for these collards and these chitlins."

*crickets*

"Pass me that hot sauce too while you at it."

Okay, okay. Maybe the chow-chow thing is an exaggeration, but my Mudear always had some handy whenever one of those eleven kids asked for it. We were at our Thanksgiving party at Grady a few weeks back and I loved it when I heard one of the nurses ask for some chow-chow! (Made me think of my Mudear.) Oh and the best part? They had some!

Rule:  Okay, look. The deeper into the south you go and the higher the median age of the attendants at the holiday dinner, the more likely you are to encounter a request for some chow-chow--a pickled relish that goes on top of some of everything. Mostly young folks? No chow chow necessary. Expecting the Grady elders? Uuuuuh, at least consider it.  Consider yourself officially in the know.

#1  -- Amazing grace.

image credit

Dining with my people? You might consider having a snack before somebody starts praying over the food. Especially during the holidays. Ha. Now, if you're lucky, you might have my dad who keeps it real simple with:

"Good bread
Good meat
Good God
Let's eat!"

But don't count on that.  By November and December, a lot has gone down in the lives of black folks so in addition to showing your appreciation for the vittles, there's a whole year's worth of shout outs that just might have to precede that. These may or may not start with individual words of wisdom. I'm not ageist, but I've noticed that the length of the prayer mostly depends upon the age of the food-blesser. Be particularly skeptical of those who have a tendency to randomly break out in singing old negro spirituals while waiting for the elevator.  Then again, depending upon where you are in the bible belt, some young folks can sneak you with some surprisingly long-winded sermons dinner blessings.

Essentially, just be ready for anything. (Oh and if you are asked to recite a scripture, the shortest one in the entire bible is "Jesus wept." - John 11:35.  *You're welcome.*)  

See anything can happen. . .it might not quite like this one, but this one is pretty doggone comical. . .




Rule:  Anything can happen at the holiday dinner table. Even during the blessing of the food.
***

Now!  You should be fully prepared to fit right into any holiday celebration with my people!

Okay, so what's up with you and your people? What do y'all do during the holiday season? Do you eat chow chow, too? What songs should I know before coming over there? And most important--should I bring my own can of cranberry sauce in my pocket book to put next to your. . .err. . . stuffing?

Weigh in. How do you and your peoples do it?

***
Now playing on my mental iPod (in addition to the standard soundtrack.) James Brown always helps us get on the good foot for Christmas!

Unreasonable doubt.

After the execution of Troy Davis.

This haunted my husband. Haunted him. Gave him nightmares and everything. We sat on the couch together after the kids were off to school and I listened to my husband saying over and over again, "This could happen to me. Totally. This was right here where we live. It's crazy."

And I just nodded and thought about how Harry felt. I also thought about the day when Harry was driving his (own) car down Ponce de Leon Avenue and got pulled over by a cop. That cop hollered in his face with spit flying out of his mouth and demanded Harry to lay on the asphalt. Right next to this busy Atlanta street.

Lay on the who?

Any who know Harry either in real life or virtually through this blog know that Harry wasn't about to get on nobody's ground. But that officer kept pointing and bellowing in his face something about how some "black guy" had just carjacked a woman in a white BMW. Now. Seeing as my husband is in fact a black person--or "black guy" depending on who you ask--who happened to be driving that overpriced white car, then surely it was him, right?

Okay, maybe there was a wee bit of doubt, but still.  Not enough to stop this cop from making this grown ass man lay down on some dirty Midtown concrete. Or at least try to make him.

That story ends with Harry telling that officer his most respectful version of "hell naw" and letting the accuser know that he might really want to check the registration on this car before asking him to "get down" and "put your hands where I can see them."

Registered to a Harry A. Manning. And a "black guy," too.  Imagine that.

No apology.  Just some mumbling about how "it's our job to protect" and some other mess about having a good rest of the day.

Look.  I'm no dummy.  I know that there have been some instances--okay maybe a lot of instances--where a "black guy" committed some sort of crime such as robbing a car or even shooting at a cop. But I'm here to stomp my foot and say that, dammit,  there's a whole lot of other "black guys" out there who aren't. Like my man or my daddy. Brothers who go to work, come home, love on their wives, and pray to their Lord. Every single day. And I can testify that some of them are working hard to train up their own little "black guys" to do great things in this world. They are. They're doing it with all of their might and trying their damnedest to get it right.

It's terrifying to imagine that after all of that, somebody could potentially roll up on one of them one day and force them out of their car and onto some asphalt. Just for looking like they look or being where they are. But what gives the real nightmares is the thought of someone locking them up for two decades and ending their life. . . . .all in the name of the "job to protect."

Look, Mr. Officer. It's our job to protect, too.

We've since gotten rid of that overpriced car. See? We should've known that anything with that high of a note and that cost that much to fill up was nothing but bad news.
***

It's a small, small world.

What you know about this?

It's a world of laughter
A world of tears
It's a world of hopes
And a world of fears
There's so much that we share
That it's time we're aware
It's a small world after all. . .

There's this funny thing about blogging. You sort of make "friends" with people that really kind of feel like sho' nuff friends, but instead of it being because you're both on the P.T.A. or in the same class at the gym, it's because you've been privy to some of their innermost thoughts and them to yours. And even if it isn't your innermost thoughts they're privy to, it might be, at least, your random musings which, if you ask me, is the stuff that some of the very best sho' nuff friendships are made of.

That said.

When I started this blog, I sort of imagined it being read by a smattering of local medical students and residents, my doting family, and perhaps a teeny weeny number of others. But something rather interesting happened. More people than that ran across it and actually read it. And then they read it again.  Guess what happened next? We all (sort of) became "friends."

Now because I am not Facebookey nor am I a Facebook-er, it somewhat pains me to acknowledge that I've. . .errr. . ."friended" a few wonderful people in lands near and far thanks to this blog. Oh, and for the record. . . . the reason I don't Facebook is because something about Facebook slightly scares me. Kind of like it has the capability of becoming its own form of crack kind of like that Angry Birds game or Sudoku puzzles.  For that reason, the only people I'll "friend" will be nerds who read blogs or folks who are on the P.T.A. and in the same class with me at the gym. (Although I did watch and was deeply intrigued by "The Social Network" movie on pay-per-view last week!)

Wait, what was the point? 

Don't worry, I do have one. Tonight I am reflecting on one of my blogworld "friends." Specifically one who happens to live in New Zealand. Yes. You read it right. New Zealand.  New Zealand Lucy---who not only faithfully reads these crazy and oft times non-medically related ramblings, she also happens to be one of the most consistent comment-ers next to my parents (which, if you blog, you realize is mighty kind.)

Anyways. This morning I was watching the news and all of a sudden this breaking story comes on about this awful earthquake in New Zealand.  Buildings collapsing. People getting hurt. Others losing their lives. . . .

Oh no!

That's what I said when I saw the news story. Before I started this blog, I am certain that I would have seen that headline and still said, "Oh no!"  But this, "Oh no!" today was different.  It was like the "Oh no!" I said when I watched the levees breaking in New Orleans. I actually knew people who lived in the Big Easy and I also knew people whose people lived there, too. With that it was personal.

When that tsunami swallowed an entire coast, I also said "Oh no!" But again. It was different. Yes, my heart ached for every single person affected. . . but I didn't have a real person to call up and ask, "Hey, Is your mom okay?" or "How is your sister?"  With every natural and unnatural disaster, I pray. . . often cry. . . look for ways to give. . . .but many times, especially when it happens far away from home. . . I am mostly praying for nameless strangers.

But not today.

Today, I saw that news and immediately worried about my "friend" in the South Pacific.  I know so little about New Zealand and other than it being very far, very beautiful, and obviously very gnarly considering it was good enough for the "Lord of the Rings" movie trilogy and to be the location for the last cycle of America's Next Top Model, I am pretty much clueless.  So I hear of these terrible earthquakes and their aftershocks, and I hope that New Zealand Lucy is no where near the fault line and that her "people" aren't either. I see a building crumble and clutch my chest because in a way that I can only describe as indescribable it is a little bit personal.  Imagine that. I am a black woman in Atlanta, Georgia and there is somebody in New Zealand--yes, New Zealand--that I am hoping is okay.

Crazy.

So right now my prayers are with my "friend" in New Zealand, and perhaps some other New Zealand "friends" who also read but don't comment. I am reflecting on the blemishes to your stunning countryside that I've only seen in pictures and I'm hoping you're okay. And even if you're okay, I'm asking, "Hey, how is your mother?" and "Is your sister okay?"  I am crossing my fingers and looking for your faithful comments at the end of my posts. . . .and hoping they can somehow be translated to mean "Yeah, girl, I'm okay."  And what's really crazy is, now that you all are reading this post. . . . you're hoping it, too.  Will you say a little or even a big prayer, too?

Thanks.

Yeah, man. Writing this blog has taught me a lot. And one of the very best things it has taught me was something Walt Disney tried to get into my thick skull over thirty years ago -- it's a small world after all, man. . . . . .Crazy small.


Hope you're okay, Lucy.


~ Dr. M

Cultural competency.

The following conversation between Isaiah and me took place tonight on the floor next to our Christmas tree:

__________________________________________
"Hey Mom. . . . wanna see something cool?"

"Sure, bud. What's so cool?"

"This."

"Jon gave it to me."

"That was nice of him."

"Do you know what this is, Mom?"

"Uhhh. . . .yeah, son. I'm pretty sure I do know what it is. Do you?"

"Yeah, Mom. It's a dreidel. You spin it and see where it lands."

"Okay. . . "

". . .and then, if you're lucky, you get some money. But not regular money."

"Oh yeah?"

"Chocolate money."

"Sounds like my kind of money."

"Do we have any chocolate money around here?"

"No, Poops, we don't."

"Well, how are we supposed to play the dreidel game then?"

"Uuuhhh, I'm sorry, bud. I didn't really expect us to play the dreidel game this year. . . ."

"You know, Mommy. . . ."

"Uh huh?"

". . .. anybody can play the dreidel game. You don't have to be Jewish, don't ya know."

"Well, that works in your favor."

"Yeah."

"Mom?"

"Yup."

"What country are you from if you're Jewish?"

Hmmm.

"You can be from anywhere. It's a religious faith, not a nationality. Kind of like how we are Christians, but that doesn't have anything to do with what country we are from."

"Oh."

"When I was in Mexico City last week, I met a lady in my hotel who was Jewish. She was Mexican and Jewish."

"Was she celebrating Hanukkah?"

"I'm pretty sure she was celebrating it when she got home. But it was her birthday. That's why she was there."

"Oh. 'Cause we talked about celebrations in my class. That's why I asked."

"These are good questions, Isaiah."

Keeps spinning the dreidel.

"But we share, though, right? Christian people and Jewish people do?"

"Sharing is always a good idea, I think."

"Jon let me have this dreidel on the bus. I said I would tell Santa to come visit his house. I need to add that to the bottom of my list. To go bring toys to Jon. Even though he got some gifts for Hanukkah already. A lot, actually, since Hanukkah lasts a long time."

"That was nice."

"Can I tell Jon 'Happy Hanukkah' even though I'm Christian?"

"I can't see why not."

"Okay. . . . . .but you know what?"

"What's that?"

"Tomorrow I'm gonna ask if he can give me some of that chocolate money, too."

"Let me know how that works out for you."

To my friends (from all countries) celebrating Hanukkah. . . .have a wonderful celebration!