I Don't Want to Talk About It... Right Now

By now, you know I had a sudden trip to the hospital last month. (If you didn't get the story, then don't worry about it. Obviously, I'm still alive.)

I have tried to write about it so many times, but I can't put it all together. Heidi asked me what was stopping me. Fear, of course. If I think about it too long, I can still feel the pains and the panic, the overwhelming sense of helplessness. It still rakes me raw. And until I can approach it from a little more distance, I just don't think I can get it down on paper.

Sometimes, the good guys win one...

After so many kidnappings, every time you hear about a little girl gone missing, you steel yourself for the announcement of where and how they found her remains. But this time, they got her back.

It's ironic. The perp's name is Milagro...it means "miracle." It was a miracle that they were able to find that little girl and deliver her alive back into the hands of her family, a miracle that will surely send Milagro to jail.

So many of these stories pop up here in Florida. It makes me wonder, does our state have a disproportionate share of sickos and creeps? And if so, why? Why do they all seem to drift down here, to steal our kids out of their beds, and creep up on women in the parking lots? I've heard some say that the transient nature of Florida attracts drifters, the high number of tourists makes it ripe for the criminal element. But that only explains pickpockets and purse snatchers. Grifters and con artists. How do you explain someone who would look into the face of a scared little girl, commit unspeakable acts, and then snuff out her little life to cover his tracks? No one seems to be able to explain that to me.

I Have a Dream Too...

One of my students, Eliza, a sweet, well-meaning, suburban blonde, wrote her research paper on Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr. It was not only very well-researched, but also insightful, hopeful, and touching. At the end of it, she wrote this: "In spite of the great strides America has made, we still have a long way to go till we reach what Dr. King envisioned, and prejudice is a thing of the past." I think all civilized people hold out this hope, but I have to say that after this weekend of running errands, my little flame is going out.

I never feel so marginalized as when I try to shop for beauty products in my own neighborhood. Mind you, I don't live in Westchase or New Tampa, which, frankly, are both so white-flight, overpriced, upper-upper, "god-help-me please-Mrs. Robinson" suburban, that you practically have to have your country club membership tattooed on your ass to drive through them. I live in T and C. I've got a bodega down the far corner, a family-owned sushi joint across the street, and boot-scooting biker bar sharing a plaza with a rap recording shop about a half-mile away. Got diversity? You bet'cha. So, in an area that is essentially Jesse Jackson's Rainbow Coalition, why can't I easily buy makeup and hair products that are formulated for me?

I went to the drugstore in my neighborhood to buy some foundation. Toasted Almond, that's my shade. I search the racks. Revlon. Cover Girl. L'oreal. Maybelline. Rimmel. Jane. Not even close. A light tan is the best I can do. Now, I know these companies make these shades; I read the fash-mags, I pay attention to style TV. So what am I missing? Help from the saleswoman amounts to a polite shrug, and a semi-apologetic intonation, "oh, I am sorry. We don't carry those shades."

I also happen to be out of my hair conditioner. Dark and Lovely Dry Hair Healer, with shea butter. Takes out the tangles, makes my hair like a silk curtain, and I waft a yummy choco-coconut scent wherever I go for the next four days. Off to the beauty supply a couple of miles away, where I again meet the same shrug from a slightly younger pair of shoulders. "Oh, I am sorry, we don't carry those products."

In fact, I drove to four drugstores, three beauty supply stores and two branches each of the big discount chains (Big Red and Big Blue, you know what I mean), and nobody had "those" products. I am really starting to hate that demonstrative pronoun. 'Cause what it is demonstrating to me is disdain, disregard, and bias. "Those products" is the retail equivalent of "you people" and I know what that means. So what? My 20 dollars is somehow less desirable than Tiffany's or Brittany's? I don't deserve a convenience of popping down the corner and getting a little matte finish that matches my skin tone? I don't get to have shiny bouncy hair because I need something a little richer than Pantene?

Let's get with it, retail America. The extra 3 inches of shelf space it would take to stock my makeup colors is not going to ruin you. Bringing the "black hair care products" in from the exile of the tampon aisle will not lead to the fall of civilization. In fact, I think this will lead to a new level of democracy. When Brittany, and Maria, and Yumi, and Annie Mae can all rub shoulders together in the cosmetic aisles, we will reach a new level of understanding among us. We will not be strangers to each other. We will be united in our pursuit of beauty. We will all be sisters under the oil-free, non-comedogenic, SPF 15, perfectly blended skin.