A Writer's Blog, Rightfully

The number prior to 30 in any of the poems I post during April will only represent the day in April, not necessarily the number of poems written.

My nephews
   One mulatto, one dark chocolate
Clay just beneath the Earth’s crust
Rusted copper
I’ve never seen a shade of brown I didn’t like

Only a people
Who couldn’t sit comfortably in the color of their skin

Only mothers
Who felt their biggest blessing was not birthing a boy with flesh as problematic as having mahogany melanin often can be

Only sons
Whose faces carried the likeness of men they didn’t even know

Only fathers
Who fear for the protection of their families when absent

Only daughters
Who love like the brown in their father’s skin is a shield the world has yet to acknowledge

Organic honey
Fertile soil
A handful of shiny pennies
I’ve never seen a shade of brown I didn’t like

Only grandfathers
Sharing stories that fragile ears weren’t meant to overhear or ever learn the burden of

Only grandmothers
Who pray like knowing women, birthing generations of brown men two times over

Only brothers
Who get caught in the battle of choosing between their family behind closed doors or their second home in the streets

Only sisters
Who experience a different level of disrespect when their brother’s aren’t beside them

Muddied water
Grounded coffee
Cardboard boxes
The Burnt Sienna Crayola crayon
I’ve never seen a shade of brown I didn’t like

Only struggle
Only hatred
Only affliction and misunderstanding

Ever present reminders
   … there will always be a price for wearing such beauty

Yesterday (meaning, sometime last week.. because that’s when I started writing this) was the real. Remember how I had all this confidence and enthusiasm regarding my ability to serve? Yeah. Well, about that.

The trainer I followed yesterday was pretty hands on about allowing me to do all parts of serving: the greet, taking drink/appetizer orders, pitching our combos/specials, preparing the table for food deliveries, taking entree orders, bussing the table in between, delivering the food - if necessary, offering dessert, leaving the bill, charging the bill, and closing out the table. Reads like a lot, right? It felt that way.

The irony in all of this is that I want to work on educational policies and plan on attending law school after teaching for a few years. My reason for teaching first is relative to the difference between theory and practice. e.g., when creating policies, there is a theoretical concept surrounding the effect they will have. In practice, a lack of understanding for the actual environment in which the policy is applied causes the policy to be useless or invalid.

Believe it or not, serving is like that. At least for me it is. I had all these mental notes in my head that I would enact when serving my own table.

When it came time to actually put them into practice, I forgot most of the things I said I would do and just couldn’t find time for the rest. Muscle memory is key though. That, and repetition. I’m still not defeated. Just know I’ll need to do things, on my own, repeatedly to really get into the swing of things.

I have my validation with the manager I’m most intimidated by this weekend. Me. Intimidated. Imagine that. He seems hopeful in my ability, and I think that’ what’s got me so weary. I don’t want to disappoint him.. or me.

My feet hurt. My back feels like it took a mild pounding, and my right arm is sore in a way I’ve never experienced.

This means yesterday was a good day.

Some Lifetime movie I watched during childhood (because our grandmothers are responsible for all of us watching Lifetime, no?) depicted a girl who was hung up on incurring “first times”. I can’t remember much else of the movie, but I liked the idea.. to constantly be doing something new. So, it stuck with me.

Being hired as a cocktail waitress in March marked my first time working in the restaurant industry. This Monday was my first time holding a tray of food. If you recall, I said I couldn’t vouch for whether or not it was graceful. As of today, I can tell you that it wasn’t. So can 4 of my coworkers who helped me correct my carrying posture yesterday.

It’s not as easy as waitresses/food carriers make it look. Trust me. My genetics aren’t helping either. These lanky arms lacking upper body strength aren’t proving to be good for much but training.

When seeing a girl effortlessly pick up a tray and walk off with a plate in her opposite hand, I was impressed to say the least… now that I’ve developed an appreciation for the art of carrying trays. Please don’t underestimate it.

When she came back from carrying food to the floor, I immediately said, “You’re going to have to show me how to do that by the end of the night.”

Well, then. A manager over heard this, as well as another coworker.. and there I ended up. In Tray Carrying 101. I was repeatedly told to walk around the kitchen holding the tray with one arm. After doing that succesfully and “finding my balance”, as my manager put it - she added plates to the tray [insert more laps around the kitchen] - then she removed the plates and added 4 waters [insert more laps around the kitchen] - than she added 4 more waters and distributed the weight on the tray unevenly [insert more laps around the kitchen].

You get my drift? Needless to say, my (what I thought was helpless) right arm felt like Jell-O. Yet and still, I was beaming with pride at my ability to complete such a (seemingly) miniscule task. Success is success, though.

In addition, a few people said they liked the way I hustle, and I appreciated the recognition coming on only the second day. I won’t bother mentioning the piranha mentality of men in the work place when seeing a new face (or “fresh meat”). I’ll just say it comes with the territory, and I’m not moved by it.

I’m still waiting to be waitressing on a weekend to see the real hustle and bustle of things, but I’m feeling good about this decision. The fast paced environment works for me. So does the lack of windows in our facility (comparable to a casino). It feels a lot like a time wharp. If I’m busy, when I finally get a chance to check my phone for the time, 5 hours have gone by. That’s nothing like my full time job where I watch the clock to no end. For example, I’ve been here for 50 minutes today and have about 8 hours to go… Whose counting, though? Me.