Tag: friends

Falsely Accused

Falsely Accused

Fresh off a Zoom webinar titled Midwest Reparations, I rushed to my local coffee shop for a takeaway to sip during my upcoming current events group.

“12-ounce coffee in a 16-ounce cup?” The White barista asked. That’s my usual, with room for cream.

“Yes, please. What are all these new pastries? Chocolate cake? Key lime pie?”

“Yep, they’re new. All from different bakeries” said the barista.

“I’ll be back later with friends. They. Will. Love. These.” I said.

The Blackroots Alliance webinar that morning enlightened me on reparations projects in the Midwest. These are nascent activities reviving the 159-year-old “40 Acres and a Mule” policy for emancipated slaves that was promised and then revoked during Reconstruction. The initial focus of current reparations projects is research to uncover the descendants of enslaved people and how they’ve been impacted. Non-Black allies join at the end of the process when it’s time to distribute funds. Research is conducted by the harmed community, Black Americans, particularly African descendants, who look through the eyes of the tortured generations of chattel slavery. Non-Black Americans cannot be trusted to do this research since they see through a different lens: the eyes of the colonizers, the enslavers, the guardians of the dominant culture.

With this new information,  I was wondering how I, an old White woman, could fit into the reparations movement as I filled my coffee with half and half and rushed over to my current events group.

The group discussed the news of familiar territory: TFG, the former guy, and his latest legal shenanigans, immigration, climate change, gun control, and the ever-evolving White Christian Nationalism. Afterward, a small group sauntered over to the coffee shop where I’d spotted the new pastries. Six of us pulled up around a small table, coats draped over our chairs, rising one by one to fetch our drinks. 

I was the last one to the counter.

“I’m sorry, we can’t serve you.” said the barista.

“What?”

“We can’t serve you. The manager wants to talk to you.”  I joined my friends and announced what happened. The manager appeared and asked to speak to me privately.

“We can’t serve you because there’s been a report of you using a racial slur this morning.”

“What? What racial slur?

“The “N” word.”

“Well, there’s a mistake. I’ve never used that word in my life.’

“You understand we have to investigate when something like this is reported?”

“Wait. Are you accusing me of this?

“We have to investigate. Meanwhile, we cannot serve you.”

“For how long?”

“For the unforeseeable future.”

“You’re kidding. Look at me. I really don’t have an unforeseeable future.”

My friends were incredulous. ‘You? Boy, have they got the wrong person.’ They were ready to mount a protest in front of the building, signs and all.

In the following days, I connected with the company’s Chief Operating Officer. She apologized and emailed me a store voucher for $150. That’s a lot of coffee.

The coffee reparations, however, failed to dispel the lingering notion that I’m not a credible witness to my own story, that I’m not sufficiently worthy to be believed. How can we expect descendants of enslaved Africans to automatically manifest self-worth after enduring generations of false accusations, lynchings, and pressed-down powerlessness? 

We owe them a lot.

Day of the Living Dead

The Day of the Dead Mexican holiday, observed on November 1st celebrates the deceased with ofrendas (home altars) and festive gravesite visits. Tombstone gatherings include offerings of the deceased’s favorite food, drink, and music.

When I learned about my sister Mara’s death last spring, I reflected on our estranged relationship in a blog post. Since then, I’ve received a slew of messages from her friends that piece together a life I never knew, stories that give life to the dead.

Borrowing from the Mexican tradition, I offer an ofrenda to my older sister Mara Burke, with a sampling of those messages.

…we double-dated, attended formals at The Peddie School, and listened to music we loved. Her shop, where she helped us look stunning, but never as stunning as she looked, was where she generously gave us all our first credit cards! The slim silver bracelet she gave me many years ago is still my favorite, the many articles she sent knowing I loved cooking and gardening, and the tiny blue and white dish on my nightstand are fond remembrances of her love.

…I met Mara at the Catholic Home for Unwed Mothers.

…I interviewed Mara for a job a few years after her store closed in the early 90s. She was a talented clothier, but she showed up smelling of booze.

…Mara was on my mind,  i Googled her, saddened by the news i now read. I am happy to say that even though Mara and I were not close, we shared plenty of sobriety, laughter, and lots of very good coffee and pastry over the past 33 years.

… I met her in the 90s. We did a lot of meetings and healing through friendship with other recovering folks. She moved from Florida, and we lost touch.

…Mara came to care for me when I lost my mother years ago in a horrific accident. She has been through much with me and was selfless in her caring when my son died suddenly. My pain was her pain, and it was real.

…she always showed up for work even when she couldn’t stand up straight because of that hump on her back. She’s the best salesperson I’ve ever had.

… she was my neighbor for seven years. I set her up on a senior dating site. We laughed about all her dates. She never drank anything but coffee & ice water, attended Mass down the street and knew the priest. She said many times she wanted her ashes spread around her mother’s grave. 

…she had that beautiful speaking voice.

… we had a beautiful day to carry out Mara’s wishes. We buried a small crystal heart dish Mara had given me with her ashes. We planted daffodil bulbs to bloom in the spring, said a prayer, and sprinkled her ashes over her mother’s grave. 

Mara moved from Florida to Virginia for inexplicable reasons. Two weeks passed before her body was found on the floor of her apartment, and another week before I was called. The death certificate says she died of natural causes complicated by dementia and follicular lymphoma. 

 

RIP, Mara Burke. Born February 14, 1945, died March 13, 2023.