Oh man. Writing this on my phone in my Gran's hospital room. She's surrounded by all four of her babies, one gran and a great-gran, trying to rally after a ferocious first round of chemo. Lung cancer be damned--still we eat, we chide and chat, we laugh until the tears stream down our cheeks.
I just observed one of these age-old commonly referenced, so-called differences between white folk/black folk. Gran is eating her dinner, honoring our incessant pleas to nourish herself for once. She of course is imploring us all to have a taste in between nibbles. Suddenly a sweet-faced woman in a Christmas sweater crosses the threshold with bright-eyed, head humbly bowed Gracie, a cinnamon colored golden retriever. Her face is eager, her tail wagging expectantly.
Her chaperone asks if we like dogs. I stretched out my arms and gave her a hug and pat. Gracie is a walkabout professional--like Queen Elizabeth she graciously kept it moving, bestowing just enough uplift with a polite grazing.
Gran has stopped eating; she says nothing; her eyes become eyes from an oil painting: she stares intently without staring at all. The chaperone notices, too, and continues smiling warmly, tautly holding the leash. She and Gracie have already spoken.
Meanwhile Mags tickles me for the second time today. When I was growing up she never showed outright acceptance of animals in the yard so the house was beyond off limits. Having grown up in the country in the fifties, animals served a purpose, and being petted and housebroken wasn't one of them. So I was tickled today when she picked out pajamas speckled with a red, bow-tied Scottie. I was then flat-out amused when she extended both hands and gave Gracie's face a warm nuzzle.
Mags's poker face is broken and I already knew she'd caught more than a whiff of the smell-like-dog odor. But she was cordial. May Frances (her Southern moniker) gleefully cuddled Gracie, but Sandra.
Like an overly sensitized parrot, Sandra mimicks our enthusiasm, but the words coming out of her mouth are out of order. And she talks fast. Always has. Fast like Vanessa's friend on The Cosby Show fast. "Dog is Gracie named who what name is the dog?" she says to no one while patting Gracie's head like it consists of glue. Mags snuffle-snorts and I begin the silent seismic shake of giggles. Gracie senses that she is in extremely close proximity to the fastest tongue that's ever cussed and nudges nicely before ambling on to other adoring patrons.
Mags and I are now shaking and seething with laughter. Our visitors leave wishing us good cheer, and Gran eyes her food like Gracie sprinkled dander all over it.
Disregarding the confines of earshot, Sandra commences with, "What the? They let dogs in the hospital? What kind of mess is that, in here when somebody's eating. Didn't she see Mama was eating? That's some nasty sh--mess y'all. I don't like that. What kind of place is this? Who's payin' for that? I know I ain't. That's nasty y'all."
May Frances, the youngest but also the voice of reason, side-eyes Sandra and calls her a hypocrite outright. Sandra cares not for logic; she cares for loud, which is precisely how she got. Gracie and the lovely lady are next door as Sandra's slur meter whirls, "This some crazy white people shit. You know it. I mean listen. MarretAnn. Danita? Now May Frances you know if a, let a black woman walk up in heah with a, with a damn Collie."
We die. She's resurgent.
"I ain't lying. How you gonna bring a dog in a hospital? People eat in here, they come here to get well, people sick and she trotting a damn Gracie dog around here. Shit. Dogs have fleas. What kind of dog was that again? I better not come up itching I'm 'on tell you that, I'll sue they ass. Mama you okay? That dog didn't get in your food did it? Shit."
No effort to educate her on the benefits that dogs provide patients or the fact that Gracie had sense enough not to touch Gran shut her up. Asking her why she reached out to pet the dog if she was so sure it was nasty only led her to repeat her same re-enactment louder of course and with more, um "emphasis."
We must've laughed for ten minutes straight. Enough to have my Gran offer us use of her oxygen. Enough to assure chaperone lady that one of us was crazy. Enough to make me marvel at the spectrum of similarly rounded faces; the carefully, brilliantly arched brows; the easy rocking motion brought about by laughter and the magnificently synchronized sigh that left us all smiling ... together.
May your hearts be light, friends.