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Singing a different Yum for a once Yuck
A few years ago my sister and I harvested bitter melon and we couldn’t wait to bring it home and eat it.
We ignored the word bitter.
It was so bitter we put it in compost and did not harvest anymore. I think we let the rest return to the earth.
This week during PD, I heard some teachers talking about bitter melon as if it was the most wonderful meal they had in a while. I was curious.
Did y’all say bitter melon?
Yes, you had it before?
Yes, from the garden! It was really nasty tho.
Oh, Ms. Hurley, don’t Yuck someone else Yum.
Okay…I am curious thou, are y’all cooking it?
Yes, with salt fish and we eat it with bake.
This morning, Ms. Cheryl, shared some out to the staff – she said she made the bitter melon with salt-fish and her husband made the bake. It was much better than the raw one I picked from the garden.
It is Well with my Soul
I am currently reading, Four Hundred Souls: A Community History of African America, 1619- 2019 edited by Ibram X. Kendi and Keisha N. Blain. While reading part seven of the collection, I came across, Reconstruction, by Michael Harriot. The essay reminded me of Sunday morning service and thinking of Sunday’s service made me write the following post.
The except that inspired me reads:
The hero of this drama is Black People. All Black People. The free Blacks; the uncloaked maroons; the Black elite; the preachers and reverends; the doormen and doctors; the sharecroppers and soldiers- they are all protagonists in our epic adventure.
Spoiler alert: the hero of this story does not die.
Ever.
This hero is long-suffering but unkillable. Bloody and unbowed. In this story- and in all the subsequent sequels, now and forever- this hero almost never wins. But we still get to be the heroes of all true American stories simply because we are indestructible. Try as they might, we will never be extinguished.
Ever.
Harriot continues his essay describing the fight for life, and political freedom during this tumultuous time in America. He tell us of the many murders that took place, and about the three major attempts to put an end to the Klansmen.
Somewhere inside of my psyche, Harriot’s historical account and my experience on Sunday made a connection.
Before I tell you about Sunday, I must tell you about Bis (changed his name for confidentality). We met as children. He is the 15th child of his family and I consider him a little brother.
Outside of being handsome, he’s an extremely kind person and very brotherly. He’ll open the door for sisters, carry heavy boxes, and greet everyone with a charming smile. What I enjoy most about his character, is that he is one of those brothers who can sing and isn’t afraid to do so. And chile, he can saaang. It is not a surprising fact because; mostly everyone in his family can sing. (Not even kidding- one of my close friends who came to church was mesmerized by his mother’s voice).
On Sunday, however, when Bis begin singing; his voice was that of an old man who smoked for many years. I turned around to see who was singing and was shocked that it was him. He must be in pain, I thought. I looked into his eyes. His young, carefree spirit seemed to be holding on to something greater than himself.
I cried and cried and I can cry some more if I think about it all.
He started singing Your Grace and Mercy by Frank Williams. I heard Bis’ mother singing along. She was lining out each word with a motherly wail; which made me cry even more. His beautiful sisters surrounded him, singing and crying too.
The song ended and he shared his testimony with the congregation. He arrived at his doorstep and while entering his building, was shot in the neck. God kept him alert and aware of everything in the moment.
He knew he was shot.
He knew he should seek help.
He ran for his life in the direction of the hospital. On the way, he spotted an ambulance truck. He banged frantically on the door and on the side of the truck. The two sleeping EMS workers took one look at him, and didn’t inquire or offer to help.
He tried talking with his hands. Making symbols.
Heart!?!!
Shot!!!!
Gun!!!!
But, nothing would do. They wouldn’t open their doors.
He gave up on them and ran the rest of the way to the hospital- Ten NYC blocks.
They rushed him into the emergency room. They told him the bullet traveled to to his shoulder, and eventually to his back. But- he had very little bleeding. Already his body was growing around the bullet and fighting off the new intruder.
“You’re a lucky man”, the doctor said to him.
“The bullet”, he was told, was “a stray cop bullet.”
A cop bullet? I looked around at others. Most people had their heads bowed. There wasn’t much noise. No amens or hallelujahs. Nothing. The Holy Ghost Fiery church was listening… with sorrow.
I thought, how many innocent people a year are killed by cops? Is he really a lucky man? Will the cops be moved into a new community to practice getting their target? Did the target look like him? Will they find the gun, trace the fingerprints, and hold the person who pulled the trigger responsible? Or is he lucky to have the innocent bystander story of I was just walking into my building when I got shot?
Also, is any money being made on account of his luckiness in getting shot? Is he getting a huge sum that will pay for any damage? I know the doctor is getting paid, the the ambulance drivers are getting paid and the cops are also getting paid; but what about his mother and her now new job of having to care for this young man and his days of missing work?
Is this all luck? Is luck to be Black and not die from a stray bullet? Blacks die from stray bullets and have been dying from their stray bullets since the beginning of the war they started in 1869.
After struggling for his life, Bis was released home. He is still recovering and rejoicing for another chance at this thing called life.
Everyone was impacted by his testimony and the mood of the sanctuary was now changed. The ex-cop who sat behind me held her head down. Not just down, but her entire torso was bent over and grunts could be heard as Bis spoke.
Young sisters thought of the safety of their brothers and brothers thought of the safety of their sisters because who’s exempt from a stray? No one was ever exempted from the noose. No one is exempt from a stray.
Mothers. Mothers. Black Women. Their pain was uncovered as Bis spoke and spoke.
What a powerful testimony, one mother said as she resumed her seat by her husband. She stood frozen by the entrance. Listening.
Bis spoke of his worry of being able to use his limb, his nervous system, his respiratory system…systems. Will his body ever be back to normal?
I thought of another brother who was also shot. I was sympathetic to his personal tragedy. He said he had two bullets in him which sounds frightening. The word lucky never came to my head. However, feelings of anger came to me.
While Bis was sharing his worries with the church, I remembered the agility of the other brother and was comforted to know that perhaps Bis will be okay in the long run.
The service continued and the Minister called on Sister Williams. She started singing the 1871 hymn by businessman Horatio Spafford. Spafford needed comfort in his situation of mourning the death of not only his son who had passed due to the Great Chicago Fire but also the death of his four daughters who had died the following day while trying to escape the fire engulfing their community. Once again, young people trying to escape fire. It was as if God himself was using the same Spirit to calm the fears of the congregation.
When peace like a river attendeth my way/ When sorrows like sea-billows roll
Whatever my lot,/ Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Her soprano reached up and called, and the church responded
It is well, It is well, with my soul.
In no account do I see luck or chance but a lot of fiery trails. A lot of running and a lot of people determine to live in-spite and despite of.
The essay by Harriot ends by telling us that even through it all, the most magnificent part is Black people in America still exist. Every imaginable monstrosity that evil can conjure has been inflicted on this population, yet they have not be extinguished. The hero remains.
Still.
And that is the most wondrous part of all.
Sunday I cried and cried and I can cry some more if I think about Sunday Morning service while reading Reconstruction by Michael Harriot.
Pretty Black
A trek across the Bridge- without tech
The young people in my church do not communicate with one another as I did with my peers growing up. One main factor is technology. Some of the children have the bad habit of scrolling (as adults) when around the temple. I didn’t realize it was an issue until I asked one child to call another.
Who him?
Yes! You see him every week and don’t know his name?!
Not all the children have a personal phone but all of them at one point or the other use the phone for recreational activities while in the temple. When school let out and it was time for the Youth Conference, I had one agenda: get the children to learn each other names. I planned a day trip to Brooklyn and got the parents involved. The morning of the trip, I asked the children:
Who can name everyone in the group?
No one could.
Great. This leads me to the next ask. I ask you all to leave your phones at the church while we travel.
What?! Not my phone!?
Yes, your phone. Leave it here. Challenge yourself to talk to each other and learn one another names.
It didn’t take too much begging as I thought it would. As a matter of fact, they did so willingly.
When I told the Little Flock we were going to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, they were ecstatic.
It’s a mile long to said to them.
Oh, that’s no problem! They said. One of them, Carter, told me of the time he and his dad rode their bikes over 5 miles!
The picture above is of them before the trek. Standing with them is Mother Grace. She’s excited as well.
Here’s another photo. This one really captures their joy. What you don’t see is the huge black cart I have filled with their bags and food. What they didn’t know at that moment was, I was NOT going to be responsible for pushing the food cart alone.
I warned them of the many people crossing the bridge and told them to stick with the group. I also told them about the many vendors and reminded them that the only food we were eating was in the cart.
We started out and there was so much to see and learn!
By the time we were half way across the bridge, everyone was looking for an exit, a way out, and even though I am smiling, I am too!
Mother Grace was doing a great job taking photos. As you can see, the cart is being passed around and now Ely is pushing it. He did so with the joy of a child which made him the official cart pusher until someone else got jealous and he happily passed the job on to them.
We reached the end of the bridge (finally) and you would have thought they never walked a block in their lives. I was weighed down by their lack of not wanting to walk anymore. They began to remind me of the itinerary for the day:
Are we getting pizza now? Where is the park? Can we get ice cream?
We got to the park and they ate lunch (from the cart) and played for almost two hours! I couldn’t believe that they couldn’t walk abut could play and play and play!
Soon it was time to get brick oven pizza but instead of going to a pizza parlor, we ended up at an ice cream shop that sold all sorts of ice cream even for lactose intolerant children.
Ely who helped the most and made it his duty to remember everyone’s name got a milk shake. He was the only one who didn’t have to spend his own money.
They laughed and talked garrulously.
The mall had some fun exhibitions to check out.
But pretty soon it was time to go back home and the first question they asked was-
Are we going back across the bridge?
Maybe. Why?
Because we are tired. We can’t walk across that bridge.
Well maybe we will take the train from here.
Please. Please. We beg of you.
I looked at them and laughed. We took the train instead of walking across the bridge. Everyone went to sleep on the long train ride back to the Bronx. Even I dozed off right before it was time to get off!
I was awaken by the little boy with the high pitched voice. Amir shouted in my ear and pulled my arm.
Sisstria! Sistria! It’s our stop!!
How he remembered our stop is still unbeknownst to me.
I jumped up and everyone followed. Scrambling. We got on the platform and I trudged along with the sleepy children. One little girl was walking with her eyes closed, holding on to my arm. We maneuvered through the crowed station until she cried ouch!! ouch!!
I looked down at her.
What happen?
I bumped into his arm!! Ouch, my eye!
I looked up at an embarrassed tall man who was standing akimbo. “Sorry”, miss, he mumbled. She walked smack into my elbow.
I quickly moved on.
How did you walk into his elbow? The child was holding my arm tighter.
My eyes are closed. I am sleepy.
But darling, I said, stopping to look at her face, you can’t walk on the platform with you eyes closed. I scolded as we continued walking and picked up our pace. “You can hang on to my arm but you must open your eyes!!” I thought of the irony of it all, here I am hoping they will get to know each other names and these kids seem to have an agenda of their own. The audacity, walking with her eyes closed!
We finally got out of the station and walked back to church. I thought they were going to be anxious about using their phones once we arrived back at the church; but they continued to eat and talk with one another (with their eyes wide open) until it was time to go home.
Chopped Cheese goes a Long Way
One night during tax season, I had a victorious night serving others. For me, it wasn’t strange. It was humane.
When I got home, I told my sister about my night.
A couple of days later, I told my mentor.
I testified about it in church.
Finally my experience was published in the New York Times:
Chopped Cheese
Dear Diary:
I was on my way to a Jackson Hewitt tax office in the Bronx on a Monday night. I stopped at a Bengali place for dinner. I left with two samosas, plus dinner and lunch for the next day. It was 9 p.m. when I got to the subway station. I looked around and noticed a boy on the platform. He was playing a video game. I opened the container with the samosas, but before I could dip one in sauce, the boy interrupted me.
Excuse me, Miss, he said. Do you have a dollar for water? I’m thirsty.
I put my food away.
Let’s go, I said.
We went downstairs.
Are you hungry? I asked him.
Yes, he said.
We walked to a Jamaican restaurant on the corner known for its jerk chicken, bread fruit and steamed fish.
Please, Miss, the boy asked, can we go to a deli?
We found one nearby. He ordered a chopped cheese and an Arizona iced tea. I paid, and we ran back up to the station. The train pulled in immediately. We got on, and the boy took out the sandwich. I listened as he talked about wanting to be a doctor and ate his chopped cheese.
Stay focused, I began to say. Before I could say more, he hugged me and said good night.
I got off at the next stop and walked into Jackson Hewitt.
You are my last customer, the tax preparer said.
Oh, great, I said. I stopped by a Bengali restaurant to kill time and…
Oh really, he said. What did you get?
When my taxes were done, I left without my curry. I saved my dinner to have for lunch the next day.
— Lystria Hurley
I received many emails from readers who read my story.
One reader wrote:
Hello,
If today’s story is yours, it was beautiful. What a sweet and selfless thing to do! You are such a good and kind person. I’m sure you are a phenomenal teacher. The world needs more people like you.
I searched on the name used in the Metropolitan Diary and found your blog. Again, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of your photography and your subject matter. So brilliant!
Thank you for being you!
Stephanie
Another Reader Wrote:
Dear Ms. Hurley,
I read your piece in the Metropolitan Diary this morning and was so warmed by your thoughtful story and brilliant description of your NYC moment.
Thank you so much for sharing with the world.
Sincerely and gratefully, Jolie
New London, New Hampshire
I heard my pastor once say, when God gives you joy, you take it. So I took those notes and printed them out. Pasting them in my journal.
Today I received a package in the mail. Ms. Jolie of New London, New Hampshire, inquired about my book list for my class and brought three books from my wish list. She sent the books with a note that reads:
Hi!
Dear Ms. Hurley,
Here are the books. I hope you and your students enjoy them.
Best Wishes,
Jolie
What I didn’t know was that Jolie worked at a bookstore and what Jolie didn’t know was I am running a free art and race relations summer camp using my own dollars from the school year for funding. I must say that when you cheerfully give, cheer come back to you.
Thank you Ms. Stephine for your kind words and thank you sincerely, Ms. Jolie
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