Is Crossing Legs a Bad Habit, Unhealthy or Sexy?

Believe it or not the subway propels the mind. Take a ride and be your own judge.
____________________________________________________
Crossing legs or “cut ten”, as I often say, seems to be the craze among subway commuters.  I guess there are those who cross their legs conscious or unconsciously whereas others will do it for comfort or custom.  They will sit erect or slouch with their legs crossed in various ways, particular at the knees or ankles.  The most popular is the legs crossed at the knee.  While this position seems to be the favorite, it is evident that the leg that crosses over the knee has little restrain on its movements and can be a nuisance to other commuters as they move or stand along the narrow aisles of the train.  Expect a swift kick once the speeding train rocks and tunnels its way.

When crossing legs, the long skinny ones seem the perfect choice to maneuver this custom.  Amazingly as I travel the subway I have discovered that this is not the case.  It is evident that the fittest of the fit comes in all forms.  I have seen commuters who are pleasingly plump in stature cross their legs with ease.  Their dexterity is mindboggling.  It is then no wonder that I should find it necessary to abort the “F” or “B” word when referring to them.  In today’s world where sensitivity surrounding physique is at its peak, it would behoove us to substitute the words “fat” and “big” with pleasing plump, voluptuous or well-built.

Seeing the vast amount of commuters crossing their legs, as they ride the trains, had me contemplating on several occasions to do the same.  Try it; I would hear my inner voice saying. Your legs look more appealing compared to the ones in your view, it prodded. Unfortunately my inner voice hasn’t been much of an influence to eradicate or override the old school teachings.  As it were, back in the day, leg crossing was forbidden among the females in my village.  Words such as vulgar, rowdy and loose were used to describe the guilty one.  The scorn sometimes went beyond your wildest imagination when it came to the house of worship.  There would be a cry against irreverent and ungodly behavior especially if the female indulging in such custom was a member of the church.  Rest assured that she would be brought before the helpers committee board regarding her conduct and the possibility of being suspended from one round of Holy Communion. 

The elders were very alert.  They had an aptitude for the tiniest detail.  They also never ceased to amaze me when they used their eyes as minds. They became incongruously suspicious about any female who crossed her legs and then discreetly constricted her muscles to hold her legs tightly together.  “Take down that cross! And what are you squeezing?” they would yell.  Or, at another time, depending on what their eyes are telling them, they would say, “stop cutting ten and rubbing out the seat.  Keep still!”  As far as the elders were concerned ladies should not lift their legs higher than the steps they take when they walked.  The proper and polite way for a lady to sit was in the upright position with shoulders squared, knees together, feet planted on the ground, hands in laps and chin up.  

Listening to the elders was imperative but as time went by I began to associate crossing legs with status.  The affluent and hoity-toity ladies were always sitting with their legs crossed.  I was fascinated by this deportment so the minute I entered High School I decided that it was time for me to begin crossing my legs.  To my surprise I did not know that the sharp eyes of the elders had extended beyond my village as I sat perched on a stool in my Home Economics class with my legs crossed and shaking my body.  “Don’t,” my teacher said, looking at me stunned.  “Girls should not cross their legs nor shake their bodies”.  I bowed my head, ashamed, thinking that the only time girls could cross their legs and get away with it was when they had to delay their pee due to the lack of immediate convenience.  Consequently I kept wondering what was so damning about females lifting their legs to cross them.  It was acceptable for the male to throw their legs anywhere and anyhow but not females.  Were the elders practicing double standards?  Going a little further, perhaps if it weren’t for the beliefs and principles of the elders, I could have been the Kristi Yamaguchi of my genre.  Maybe I could have served up cartwheels, and mind boggling flips and turns at many Olympic Games and elsewhere.  I could have been a gymnast, a ballerina.  The sky could have been the limit for me.

Talking about limit, there is none surrounding on what materializes on the trains in the subway from day to day.  For example, some commuters will indulge in their exercise routine.  I recall riding the ‘Q” train, one morning, where I witnessed a man sitting in the lotus position looking wide-eyed and busy tail so to speak.  He had scooped his entire body and fitted it on the narrow seat.  I kept my eyes on him and then decided that he was a show off and not in a meditative mode as the pose would have implied.  The thought gave credence that a Humpty Dumpty fall would be proper as the train tumbled along but to my surprise he held his balance extremely well.

Looking at the way some commuters cross their legs this brings to mind the many unofficial talks about the ill effects of crossing legs.  High blood pressure, poor blood circulation, varicose veins and back pain are some of the examples. In the field of superstition it has been mentioned that a pregnant woman should not cross her legs because the child will be born with knotted intestines or with legs crossed, obviously adopting the mother’s behavior.  Crossing legs can reveal what’s going on in the mind.  Actually some people have alluded to the fact that it is easy to read a person’s body language depending on how the legs are crossed.  A man will cross his legs to hide an erection.  A female will cross her legs to maximum tightness against a male who wants to use her as his sexual thorough fare.  I have observed that some subway commuters will cross their legs at the knee and rock back and forth in their seats even when it’s not warranted.  It’s interesting to watch the look of glee and then giggle with caution.  Adding to that sometimes I wonder if there is a mini Picasso in their bodies stirring up blood and doing some mad dash brush strokes flushed to the faces which reminds me of a variegated garden of flowers.  Clearly the elders back in the day didn’t want the females to discover the Picasso in them.   Hence, is crossing legs a bad habit, unhealthy or sexy?  The choice is yours.

Tah-tah!   Be observant. Things are not always dull.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2013


Page views as of May 14, 2013 6:24pm:

A Peek at Same-Sex Relationship

Looking at all the controversial topics that I have come across, I have never encountered one as big and ongoing as same-sex relationships. I expressed to a few friends and family members that I was going to tackle it and got various feedbacks: Leave it alone. I hope your back is broad. I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole. Maybe you are setting yourself up for trouble. People are entitled to make their own choices.

Did I listen?

_______________________________________________________

I was hardly settled back in the USA after a welcomed vacation in the tropics, Jamaica, when circumstances had me rushing yet again.  Besides that, I had no clue that going back so quickly would put me in the path of some peculiar fowls at a relative’s home.  I almost ran out of breath counting the fowls as I peered into their coop.  They all looked like lovely red hens and were extremely noisy.  Caw- caw they went.  Without any doubt I quickly identified their sound as the one I used to hear as a child.  They were “calling,” an indication that they would soon lay eggs, so many that my relative would collect more than one bucket each day.  This was a welcome benefit as she tested another facet of her agricultural skills.   However, amidst all the gloating there was one concern after I took stock of the fowls again and again and noticed that some were mounting one another.   How on earth is this possible when they all look like hens?   Not even one had fit the description of a rooster.   I then allowed my mind to go wild.  The thought that some fraudsters were in the coop with those hens did not elude me.  It’s possible that a covert operation was engaged.   After a few minutes of wild thoughts, I busted out laughing at the silliness that resulted. 

Then again, I will concur that sometimes there is a bit of soberness in wild thoughts which is more fetching than what is expected of the real ones.  I think about choices when I consider the hassle those fowls would have gone through if they had to contend with the roosters.  It is no secret that roosters indulge in rough sex.   At any given time a rooster will hop on the back of a hen and then ride her furiously, lasting only a jiffy.  If this is seen as a struggle for the hen, then by all means it’s a worthwhile one, bringing new life.  Sometimes we are bound by our duties or where duty calls we should obey regardless of the journey.  Given this view, I decided to approach my relative, hoping that she would educate me about the gender of her caged fowls.  First, I practiced for several minutes, in my head, the following question that I would pose to my relative:  How can you tell the difference between the roosters and the hens that are in the coop?   Eventually the time arrived for me to tender my question so I made my move, ending up in my relative’s kitchen where she was preparing breakfast.  I cleared my throat to grab her attention.   She looked up.  I stared at her.  “Are the fowls in your coop gay?” I asked.  She busted out laughing while I stood still with my mouth agape, shocked by my own question.   It was posed wrongly.  My relative laughed uncontrollably for about a minute and then spoke.  “Why?  Dem luk gay to yuh?” she asked.   “To tell the truth I don’t even know how gay look,” I responded.   “But is you first ask the question about gay,” she countered.   I looked up at the ceiling, back at her and then commented.  “From my observation I am only able to tell you that all those fowls in the coop look like hens to me.  Not only that, the question I posed to you wasn’t the one I had in mind.  It should have been, “How can you tell the difference between the roosters and the hens that are in the coop?   However, for reasons beyond me, it didn’t come out that way.” I explained.   My relative smiled.  She rubbed her forehead for information.  “I have a feeling that a few roosters are in the coop,” she reported.   I giggled.   It was obvious that she too did not know much about the gender of the fowls that she owned.

 With that in mind, I left Jamaica thinking about the many disguises, untruths, uncertainties, and twists and turns there are in life; likewise the perverse behavior of nature and most importantly the speculation and hostility towards same-sex relationships.   The stance taken against it has been around for eons.  Is this true?   Well, on September 6, 2012, I attended a funeral of a childhood friend, in Connecticut, USA where there was more cheerfulness than mourning as all the funeral- goers gathered at a recreation center for the repast.  While there, I mixed and mingled with strangers, and chatted and laughed with friends, some of whom I hadn’t seen in as much as fifty years.  As a matter of fact, we had so much fun that friends and family members of the deceased referred to the occasion as a reunion instead of a funeral.  Most interestingly, though, as we told childhood stories which had occurred in Jamaica; one of my childhood friends, Maryam (not her real name), reminded me of the day when she and I had gotten married.  We were eight years of age and attending Primary School.  The idea of having a wedding during one of our lunch hours came about from us observing the rate at which Wednesday weddings were taking place in our village at the time.   

On the day of the wedding, which of course happened on a Wednesday, Maryam and I and a few friends had gathered wild flowers which we used to decorate the venue, an area on the highest point of our school’s playground.  The wedding cake was Bulla Cake, a small loaf which is flat and round and is made of flour, molasses, vanilla essence, and baking soda.  A bottle of aerated water, cola champagne, was chosen as the wine.  Our officiating minister, guests and bridal party were our classmates, all girls.  We enjoyed ourselves to the point where we lost track of the time, and in doing so we returned to our class a few minutes late.  Our teacher was waiting at the classroom door with her strap in hand.  She overlooked my classmates but not Maryam and me.  She pulled us aside and beat us thoroughly, leaving us with welts on our arms and legs.  Obviously our behavior was too grown.  To compound things, each stroke from her belt was punctuated with her saying, “You must learn to behave yourselves!  This is slackness!  Two pot covers cannot shut!”  It seemed as if our teacher had lost her mind because Maryam and I didn’t have any pot covers at our pretend wedding.  Her anger steered her to report my supposedly bad behavior to my parents which warranted me another whipping that left me with more welts on my arms and legs. 

As Maryam and I told our story to our dumbstruck, amused and alert audience, Maryam tried to recall which one of us was the husband but neither of us could remember. We only remembered the fun we had at our pretend wedding, the whipping from our teacher and the comment she made as she performed. Her comment: Two pot covers cannot shut, surfaced again years later, in my late teens, during a quarrel between two women who were selling mangoes at a local market. Throughout the course of their hubbub which drew a large crowd of excited people, I gathered that it wasn’t normal behavior for two women to be in an intimate relationship let alone marriage. Hence, the reason our teacher had shown concern was that Maryam and I would turn out to be lesbians or “sodomites” as they were referred to back in the day based on the bible story of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Is sexual orientation more important than a job well-done? Both women at the market were striving to make a living for their families yet one was criticized for being a lesbian. This case brings me back to the fowls that I had seen at my relative’s home in Jamaica. They were busy laying eggs yet their gender was under examination. These views awaken the mind. Besides a well-known source, society dictates that an intimate relationship constitutes a male and a female. How concrete is this? Let’s think for a moment about the heterosexual couples we come across daily, married and unmarried. Are they living a lie, acting as frauds so as to live up to the standards already established? Same-sex relationships draw all shades of people yet the people involved in these relationships have been ridiculed and ostracized publicly on numerous occasions. In light of this, should this group of people be compared to the “back of the bus” people? Aha! Pardon the audacity. This shows that not a soul knows the depth of a journey until he or she has trod that path. I pause to take a deep breath and reflect on an old saying: Is not every ting gud fi eat gud fi tawk. Is it then befitting to say that people, especially those who are involved in same-sex relationships, often come under scrutiny because they disclose too much of their personal business?

As we look at same-sex relationships, it is obvious that the wheels of our society have ejected mixed arguments and opinions based on equal rights, emotion and interpretation.   Faith is usually one of the strongest ingredients in the arguments.   Can this ever go away?   Ouch!  The answer is in turmoil.  Sometimes it’s best to go to the source when seeking answers to some of our concerns and controversial topics such as same-sex relationships.  Opportunity lent itself to me one day and I took the privilege to ask one of my same-sex friends some personal questions.  I went to a local eatery where I met my friend and sat at a table with a pencil and notebook in hand as if I was a real sex therapist or psychologist.   “So, tell me, how you feel about this same-sex relationship.  How did it come about?  Were you born that way?”  I asked all at once.  Maybe, I was born that way because I was in a heterosexual relationship before and my feelings for that person was as dead as a door nail, was the reply.  “Oh”, I said, sitting up straight.  “Do you get that loving lovey-dovey feeling, and kiss up and all of that in this current relationship?”  The reply was a resounding yes.  “So, tell me, when you do “the thing” do you come, climax, spent or whatever you want to call it?”  Of course, was the reply.   “Isn’t that something”, I said, coughing to hide my amazement.   My friend saw the surprise look on my face and then said, “So, what happen, you didn’t expect that to take place.  I have feelings and blood course through me just like the straight people”.  I shifted a little bit in my seat, not expecting such a delivery from my friend.  “Well, that sounds reasonable to me because I have heard about many heterosexual couples who have never experienced orgasm no matter how they get poked and touched and kissed”, I revealed, ending our layman therapy session.  

In summing up is it reasonable to say that a guaranteed orgasm is the basis for a good relationship.  Or, does it go beyond that.  Also, should belief override emotion?  Some heterosexual couples in the throes of a romantic maneuver or sexual passion will indulge in the same sexual acts being committed by same-sex couples and see themselves as normal because they are involved with the opposite sex.  If this is a legitimate measure of homosexual behavior and the acts are being committed by heterosexuals then why throw stones.   

Tah-tah! Tan ah si nuh spwile noh dance. A interference mash it up. (Leave people’s business alone)

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2012

The Bully

How would you deal with a bully if you ever came across one? Here's an outside of the box perspective.

_______________________________________________________

Intimidator, tormentor, aggressor are some of the words used to define a bully.  The word terrorist which weighs more in meaning is often used by some people in an informal setting.  There is no gender discrimination when it comes to being a bully.  A male can be a bully likewise a female.  A bully is not necessarily a “screw-face” or a person who wears tattered clothing.  He or she can wear a pleasant face and also dress to kill.  Oooops!   See, the ultimate dogma of the bully cannot be hidden, “dress to kill” as written here is in essence “dress fabulous.”   Anyway let’s keep our minds on the bully.   A bully can be muscular, scrawny, short, or tall and be of any nationality, color or creed.  

In the island of Jamaica phrases are popular.  Thus on the colloquial market “Bull buck and duppy conqueror” is used when referring to a bully.  How is this relevant to bully?  Looking at the phrase, the word “Bull” is versatile.  It is associated with the financial market, virility, and also scopes in the male species of the upper and lower class of animals to the thresholds of profanity.  However, the main purpose of it as used in the phrase is to project force, specifically within the realms of the lower class of animals.  A bull in its ferocious state is known to have left many individuals nursing physical pains and wounds.  Its weapon is the head, using it to thump or “buck” its victims.  There is also another observation when referring to the bull.  

Some people will say “Bull Cow,” which has many arguments surrounding its correctness.  In my opinion the bull is not a stranger to the world of entertainment and in the throes of being entertained who knows the names we conjure or even dare to say aloud.   One thing that does remain certain is the fact that the word bull triggers thoughts of drive, doggedness or tenacity, all in line with the bully.  

Continuing with a full account of the phrase “Bull buck and Duppy conqueror” and its relevance to a bully, there is no doubt that the word “Duppy,” otherwise called ghost or spirit, injects fear given the paranormal beliefs that surround it.  Some people will swear that they have seen duppies of all shapes and kinds and in diverse places while others will only say that they “feel its presence or hear sounds”.  In the village where I was raised, it was forbidden to kill the bird known as “Ground Dove” because it was touted as a duppy.  Do duppies eavesdrop and travel around incognito?  Maybe at the time the elders wanted the bullies to heed the commandment “Thou shall not kill” so they purposely linked the Ground Dove with the duppy.  The duppy is elusive and has power, much more than a bully.  Yes, in the past a duppy was elevated more than it is today.  So whenever someone was unkind to me I would secretly wish that a duppy would just “blow” on that person, letting him or her fall to the ground writhing in pain.  

The duppy is a menace like the bully.  I have been told many stories about feisty duppies who boxed people in their faces, leaving them to foam or cry out for help.  A duppy even has the nerve to pinch people while they are asleep.  According to one source the black and blue mark we often awake and find on our skin is evident of a duppy’s trait which reveals that the duppy, quite like the bully, enjoys attacking a peaceful person.  To be honest I would rather live on Mars than to encounter a duppy with zest and violent behavior.   Could you then imagine the might of the human who has captured and conquered a duppy?   Or, the might of the individual who punches others, leaving results that match the bull’s when it bucks its victims.  The phrase “Bull buck and duppy conqueror” surely spurts a comical air or set the tone for a blockbuster ghost and bull fight movie but ultimately when equated to a bully it is not a laughing matter.

A bully comes in all forms and deeds and can be found anywhere, including our homes.   I recall my juvenile years at the dinner table where my brothers on numerous occasions diverted my attention to “the big scorpion on the wall” only to find out that they had tricked me so that they could seize the last and juiciest piece of meat from my plate.  They would laugh and make big chews, pleased with their conquest while I bawled and rolled about the floor, knowing that my meat would never come back.  My parents being on hand would scold them out of their laughter, telling them that “Practice becomes perfect.”   The reprimands of my parents would be of great use in today’s society after seeing and hearing about all the blooming bullies especially the ones who have become so perfect at snatching people’s iPhones and wallets.   The bully has a revolting insatiable thirst for victims.  A person can be victimized because of his or her sexual preferences.  A child that is holding good grades in school can be bullied because of his or her achievements.  Likewise is the child who is not wearing designers’ clothes to school.  Or, the child who is able to splurge on snacks more than others.   The bully will also attack his or her schoolmates based on the parents’ appearance.   My younger daughter, during her elementary school years in Brooklyn, New York, had told me to wear jeans and sneakers to parent-teacher conferences so that her classmates could see that she has a young and “hip” mom. 

A bully lacks self-respect which is the key ingredient to having respect for others.  We see it daily in the simplest kind of physical movements.   An incredible cache of antics and habits have been reaped from some commuters on the city’s subways which resembles the traits of a bully.  For example the person who sprawls across more than one seat on a crowded train with no intention of offering a seat to any of the tired fellow commuters in view.  Or, the person who wears a backpack on a crowded train and then curses at the straphanger who asked that it be removed and placed elsewhere.   A bully has an urgency to be in control. It is seen in relationships.  A lover is sometimes referred to as a “bed bully” because of his or her conduct in bed.  Sometimes in our daily maneuvers we may come across the “control freak” whose mantra is “It’s either my way or the highway.”  The individuals with such extreme behavior are also referred to as “silent killers.”  This is so because the people in their path are afraid of retaliation and loss of friendship and will therefore bottle up their feelings to the point of bad health.  The human bullies’ behavior is no different from the bullies that exist among wildlife and domesticated animals.  They lack compassion and are not afraid of the dire consequences for their wrong doings.  Most of us who have experienced rural living, particularly in the tropics, can attest to this fact.  Looking at the rooster, it uses its fancy foot works to bully a hen into having sexual intercourse.  A lizard will chase one of its counterparts to the tip of a tree limb in an earnest bid to please its carnal appetite, not caring about the precarious spot.  

How did a bully achieve his or her unkind disposition?  Is there something in our foods that triggers the behavior of a bully?  Are some movies instrumental in a person becoming a bully?  Is bullying a learned behavior or is it genetics?  Are some people susceptible to bullying more than others?  Is it possible to tame a bully?  What have scientific studies revealed about the bully?  Can science intercept the making of a bully?   How can society put an end to bullying globally and individually? These questions and more become common place each time a bully wreaks havoc.  Would it then be a fair statement to say that the barbaric behavior that we are witnessing in our society today is an indication that maybe we are not as civilized as we think?

Sometimes in conversations speculation often leads to answers and believe it or not the use of Jamaican vernacular always delivers best, no holding back.  Putting the bully under microscope in such setting it wouldn’t be tasteless to hear someone say, “A bad breed.  Mummah tan suh, puppah tan suh, pickney bound fi cum suh.”  The refined version to that is: “The child inherited his or her behavior from the mother and father.”   

Bullying has now become a hot topic so at the turn of the year 2012 I mentioned to my children and grandchildren to be on the lookout for bullies.  In response to that my energetic seven year old grandson who is in First Grade at his school, and has been officially identified with reading and comprehension skills at the Grade 5 level, decided that he would write an essay about “Bullying in Schools.”  On this note I said to myself that there is no way I should silence the voice of my grandson.  Below, in unmodified form, Shadrack Sims of Buffalo, New York has expressed his thoughts of a bully in an art work and essay.  

Tah-tah!  Incline the tree when it is young.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2012   

He Shared His Banana With Me At A Brooklyn Restaurant

To share means to divide, split, go halves, distribute, disclose. Many will also say that sharing is caring but to what extent?

_______________________________________________________

My Flatbush neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York has allowed me many privileges. Take a walk to a house of Worship, Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM), Brooklyn Center for the Performing Arts at Brooklyn College, Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, West Indian Day Parade/Labor Day Parade or the pleasures of Prospect Park on a Sunday in summer where Drummer’s Grove hosts its drummers, playing sounds that draw a vast cross section of people as its audience. Some moved by the beats will boldly step into the center of the Grove and dip and fall and wheel and turn until their beads of sweat pierce the ground or until they have had their fill of the exhilarating rhythms.

My Flatbush neighborhood is a place where, on any given day, I can mingle, smile, laugh or even have my blood pressure taken on the streets by concerned healthcare groups. Inasmuch as this is true it is also a place that is filled with surprises. Surprises that will make me cry or contemptuously holler in silence, especially at the people who choose to be a mobile fashion industry. Nothing moves me more than the stamina that some people have displayed towards certain kinds of fashions whether they are blessed with the physical attributes or not. Seeing a figure dressed in pants which slip far below the waist, exposing the crack in the behind is a ghastly sight as are the figures that are in the business of wearing thongs, inappropriately. On the other hand it is said that art can be found in all things. Abstract? Look long and hard and a “Y” or a “T” will appear.

I wasn’t looking for art on a sun-filled Sunday morning in the heights of spring as I left my apartment and headed to one of my favorite restaurants on Flatbush Avenue. My purpose like many Sundays before was tradition driven, to have a hefty Sunday breakfast. It would be a breakfast which consists of freshly squeezed orange juice, hot chocolate, hot coffee and boiled ground provisions ranging from bananas to all sorts of yams. To name a few there is yellow yam, pum-pum yam, Saint Vincent yam, yampie yam, Lucea yam, mozella yam, renta yam, tau yam and sweet yam, the unofficial names which I refuse to let go. Indulging in the official names would probably take away the enjoyment of a well deserved meal.

It is suffice to say that the ground provisions are served with the most delicious saltine. Meat, fish and poultry fall in the category of saltine or even fruits and vegetables nicely seasoned and cooked. The field of saltine is vast but it is certain that Sunday’s breakfast brings out the best…callaloo, cabbage, mackerel, smoked herring, saltfish, escoveitch fish, kidney, liver, and ackee and saltfish. Side dishes are also available: bammy (flatbread made from cassava), buttered bread, fried ripe plantain and the must-have breakfast staple which is Johnny Cake also called fried dumpling by some. One way or the other, if it weren’t for the presence of Johnny Cakes Sunday’s breakfast could easily be mistaken for dinner.

Setting the record straight, Sunday’s breakfast doesn’t mean that during the other days of the week there is neglect in feeding the body a good amount of food for physical existence. Over the years, in my culture, I have observed that it is a mark of honor to overindulge and dabble in the best on a Sunday, especially in the area of deportment. Furthermore, as practiced, it is a day of rest, reflection, worship, communicating with family and friends, visiting the sick and the needy, giving thanks for the week that went by and to also welcome the week ahead.

As I continued my walk to the restaurant my strides were quickened by feelings of guilt. It was becoming a habit of mine not to be at church on Sundays because I was afraid of taking part in the “hand of fellowship”. The last time I attended, someone forcefully tried to pull my right hand from its stiff position by my side to give me a nose-picking handshake. This incident was enough to tell me not to go back because a peace be with you handshake could very well turn into a piece is with you. I would rather listen to the sermon on the radio at the restaurant while enjoying my breakfast than being set up with some nose-picking handshakes.

Some people can be very inconsiderate, I told myself as I moved along. I looked up and down Flatbush Avenue. The street was slowly coming alive with daily activities. I noticed one of the ushers from my place of worship dressed in her white attire, coming full force towards me like she was the angel Gabriel. I didn’t want to be reprimanded for not being at church so I ducked behind a van, waiting for her to go out of sight. It happened quickly and once again I came in full view of my surroundings. The store shutters were down with the exception of McDonalds and Burger King Restaurants. Passenger vans and New York City Transit B41 Buses drove back and forth from Downtown Brooklyn and Kings Plaza, picking up and dropping off passengers. I also saw buses returning from Atlantic City and Foxwoods Casinos with sleepy, dejected looking passengers. There were Canadian buses, preparing to return to Canada with passengers who did a weekend of robust shopping in and around Brooklyn. The telltale signs were obvious, suitcases and shopping bags stuffed beyond capacity with some bursting at the seams. In the midst of all the happenings, stray cats were patrolling the street while a few dogs were being led by their masters. At this point, I considered that all things great and small are the Lord’s handwork. I smiled. I still had the gospel teachings within me.

My spiritual loyalty increased as I moved along. According to the Word, what if God should come for His world while I am eating, I thought. The Word said He would come like a thief in the night. I smiled again because I would have had no problem if He decided on that day to come in the morning, middle day or afternoon. My spiritual realm would be intact. I prayed everyday, sang songs of praise and read from the Good Book. That is all the Lord needs to know, I convinced myself. Furthermore, I work hard therefore I warrant a good Jamaican breakfast. I wanted someone to cater to me at a Sunday breakfast like my Mama did.

My trip to the restaurant was narrowing. Besides being anxious to have breakfast, I also looked forward to seeing the usual Sunday breakfast patrons. They were my conversation buddies, familiar faces at the breakfast table with no names except for the names I mischievously coined in my mind based on character-trait or physical appearance. There was Long-mouth, Loud-mouth, Round-face, Stingy, Greedy, Hot-stuff, Winkie, and Body-builder just to name a few. Time was moving fast as I was one hour behind my regular schedule and I prayed that the foods would remain appropriate in portions, fresh and piping hot.

I was two yards away from the door of the restaurant when I saw Body-builder coming from the opposite direction; he too was late from his physical fitness activity. I hastened to get to the door first but his strides were much longer than mine so he went in with me following a minute or two behind. He waited on line to be served. I stepped right behind him. I noticed the sweat marks in his clothing. The radio sermon filled the room. People were eating. I looked around and saw some of the familiar faces. My eyes met Winkie’s. He winked at me in his usual provocative manner. I smiled and then looked away, to browse the foods. Body-builder was also browsing the foods. I saw my favorite saltine, ackee and saltfish. There were plenty of potatoes, yams, fried plantains and dumplings but only two fingers of boiled green bananas. I sighed. Body-builder would be served next and all the bananas would be gone.

“Next person please step down,” said the server.

Body-builder stepped forward and began pointing at the foods that were laid out in buffet style, choosing the ones he wanted.

I looked at the bananas and said to myself that a miracle needs to take place. The Good Book mentioned that Jesus had turned water into wine and had fed a multitude of people with five barley loaves and two small fish, therefore nothing was impossible. “Oh no! There goes the miracle,” I said aloud as Body-builder asked for the bananas. “Are those the only ones you have left?” I asked the server.

“Yes,” Madam, she replied briskly. “You know that you are late this morning.”

“I know my child. Some days are like that,” I said.

Body-builder looked at me and smiled. “We can share the banana. You get one and I get one. No big deal,” he said. “I see you here all the time.”

“Thank you so much,” I replied.

“That is so sweet,” said the server, looking on in awe. She almost dropped the container of food.

“That took you by surprise,” I commented.

“Yes,” said the server. I have never seen anyone so kind.”

“Well, she is a beautiful woman,” said Body-builder. “Who wouldn’t want to share a banana with her?”

“Ahem,” I cleared my throat, putting a stop to what could have been a sexually charged conversation.

“Here’s your order,” said the server to Body-builder. She had packaged it to go.

He took it and paid the price. He then looked at me and smiled. “Have a nice day,” he said as he left the restaurant.

“You too,” I said, admiring his physique and wondering how many men would have shared their banana with me in a restaurant.

Tah-tah! Wine, dine and live well.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall Copyright © 2010