Beauty Reals

THEY CALL HER 'MARY'

I once read that in every encounter, Mary surrendered to love and was changed. Between conceiving my first child and being pregnant with my youngest daughter I too, surrendered to the singular beauty of something/someone as formidable as love and was changed. 

For fear of exposing "the hard to explain" side of myself I tend to keep close to the vest, I hesitate to share this story. But when her name rolls from my children's lips like that of a best friend's, I can no longer conceal her presence in my life. 

On an early morning in the fall of 2000, I woke to an intense pressure only a full bladder can incite. It was 3AM. I know this because the cherry-colored light illuminating from my husband's  ancient alarm clock, flashing 3AM, repeatedly, is what I'd used to navigate my way in the dark. And though we'd been keeping it a secret, we were pregnant with our first child, approaching the end of our first trimester. As this had quickly become a regular occurrence: I stepped out of bed into complete darkness, and tip-toed toward the bathroom while my husband slept. Except this time, that small beam of light I used as my guide would suddenly take a back seat to what waited for me in the dark.  

To the left of a pair of large, wooden sliding doors that lead to the bathroom appeared a person in a dark cloak with hands in prayer and head bowed. Calm and steady, illuminated against the night. And while my heart beat out of my chest, I in no way felt threatened. Still, too startled to speak or move I backed away, jumped in bed and buried myself under the covers, working desperately to forget what I thought I saw.

Hours later, awake and riding the subway to work, I could not shake what had just occurred. At lunch, though skeptical and somewhat hesitant to speak on what I thought I saw, I described the encounter to my co-workers. Denise, a devout Catholic, lit up at the mention of the person in a cloak with hands in prayer. She told me that while it’s rare, what I described could only be the Virgin Mary. Adding that the 'Holy Mother' visits in light of an immaculate occurrence. While Denise had no clue I was pregnant, I couldn’t help but think if the Virgin Mary had visited me it must have something to do with my unborn child. 

Two years later, while walking my daughter to school she says, 

“Mommy, Jesus brings the sun and Mary brings the rain.” 

Though baffled by her spontaneous statement on religious figures, I ask, “Why do you say that?” 

With no less than utter confidence she replies, “Because when Mary cries it rains.”

I was dumbstruck. A two-year old expressing insight on Jesus and Mary. The whole experience seemed apocalyptic. Like one of those horror movies when right before aliens tear through the atmosphere, a child looks up at an adult and utters something spooky and unusual. This was one of those moments. Except that the atmosphere remained intact, and the world continued on as usual. But from that point forward, I no longer regarded my daughter's words as infantile chatter.

Another two years went by and we'd just brought our second daughter home from the hospital. The baby was crying, which made my oldest daughter worry.  So she reaches her little hand inside the bassinet to calm her sister and declares, 

“I’m a better mother than you are!”

Despite my shock, I appreciated her defiance and marveled at her urgency to protect her little sister, a fierce quality she maintains. But it was during our third pregnancy that Mary's presence rang the loudest. 

Upon my second trimester, my oldest passes me in the hallway, places her hand upon my belly and says, 

“Mary says she will give me a letter for the baby’s name each night I dream.” 

It had been a while since she’d spoken of Mary so I ask, “Mary who?” 

All of four years old, she replies with a duh-like expression, “Jesus’ mother.” 

Once again, I was dumbstruck. And over the course of my pregnancy, my oldest delivers each divine letter like sacred gifts. Until one day she declaims, 

“Mary said that’s all the letters.” 

Although she hasn't spoken Mary's name since, Mary has become a main topic for my youngest daughter, Bailey. 

Once, days after a thunderous, lightning storm, Bailey walks into my bedroom and says, 

“I didn’t come into your bed the other night because she said 'I am here and you are safe.' Her voice sounds just like yours, Mommy.” 

“Whose voice sounds like mine?” A quizzical look forming on my face.

“Mary’s,” she smiles.

Once again, Mary's presence is confirmed. But this time, I do not question the mention of her name nor do I ponder the reason for her being here. Instead, her benevolence comforts me.

At only ten years of age, Bailey is a prolific writer. And while she's a private person, her writing acts as a window into her thoughts. Her stories often include an angel (of sorts) who looms and roams and hovers, offering security and comfort in times of great fear and anxiety. I love that she's mastering the art of creative fiction, but I’m convinced she too, has knowledge of something/someone waiting to guide her through life. It makes me wonder if as a baby, those distinct coos of comfort I'd hear in small batches, were responses to that someone/something she describes in her writings. 

The other day, Bailey enters my bedroom to share her favorite song in the world, Mary, Did you know? by Pentatonix. And instead of singing along, her usual response, she lays her head on my lap and relaxes. And when the song ends, I ask, “Do you know the story of who named you?”

Before she replies, Bailey smiles and looks me in the eye,  

"Yes, Mary." 

WIFE OF BROOKLYN

My English class had just completed Chaucer’s Wife of Bath Prologue when my college professor exclaimed, “Marriage is the stickpin in the balloon of pomposity.” 

Translation: to have a successful marriage you must abandon individuality and conform. I for one disagreed with her far-flung synopsis. It appeared a blatant disregard for individualism, not to mention, an attack on femininity. I contested her declaration saying, “Conforming to an ego-less persona is ridiculous.  The mere thought contradicts what feminists have worked decades to dispel!”

I beat that dead horse to the ground and declared Chaucer’s Wife of Bath a fictional pioneer redefining an antiquated definition of marriage.  I concluded my argument by saying, “At least she had the wherewithal to enter marriage demanding her due.”

And with the slightest adjustment to her plastic frames my professor dismissed me as if to say, ‘you just wait.’

To say I had it coming is an understatement. That same year, on a college campus overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, I met the man who’d become my husband. He was from a traditional West Indian home in Brooklyn, New York. Whereas I hailed from a suburb of New York City, reared by a single mother whose I could do bad all by myself temperament shaped my adolescence. It was plain we had vastly different beginnings, but it was impossible to predict challenges that lay ahead. 

Student elections were happening, and I was running for Ms. Freshman. The equivalent of class president, which I assumed would be a natural progression given my student leadership history. I had just returned from a short weekend off campus and utilized a ten-minute taxi ride from the train station to craft the speech I would recite in front of the entire freshman class that night. I chose to write a poem describing life as a strong African American woman. Something to the effect:

…I am her internally and externally for she is the quintessential link to my ancestry. I derive my strengths and accountability from the sparks of her experiences instilled within me…

Granted, it was not your typical speech, but then again, I was not your typical candidate. I arrived at the auditorium and rushed to take my seat on stage when Monica, an ornery, student advisor scolded me in front of the entire freshman class,

“You’re late! That’s grounds for disqualification. I shouldn’t let you present!”

Suffice it to say, I was last to present while Carol; a rather uninteresting opponent, went first. She recited an original, Acrostic poem entitled CAROL.

“C is for Confidant, A is for Able, R is for Righteous…”

Snoopy-like boos reverberated the building while a multitude of Carolesque copycats followed.

But there was one opponent whose shrewd platform had me doubting my taxicab draft: Laurie. Imagine Olympian Gabby Douglass battling it out for the Gold but instead of remaining silent through her floor show, delivers screaming chants of self promotion after sticking every landing. Laurie sported a two-piece beige pantsuit and back flipped, toe-touched, double jumped and split her way to victory while belting out her lengthy attributes in alphabetical order. By the time I presented, Laurie had already reduced my self-prophesying prose into a eulogy. Anyway, I lost.

As I stood outside the auditorium nursing my wounds, I relished my future husband walking toward me. I delighted in all six feet, one inch of his chiseled frame as time brushed past me disabling my ability to think and move. So that time and I stood still. I was in a daze when he asked,

“Do you mind reading your speech?” 

I replied, “Where were you the first time I read it?”

He told me he’d slipped out for pizza and missed my speech.  Right then I knew he was greedy or impatient. Either way, I didn’t mind. Enchanted by his model good looks I read my manifesto aloud. After which I waited for a comment or a clap to suggest he was listening. Instead, he commented about the strange cartwheels and annoying chants he saw earlier and added,

“I worry about the political future of our freshman class now in the hands of a corporate gymnast.”

We laughed so hard. I mean sidesplitting laughter. And though he didn’t share his thoughts on my poem until months later, his sarcasm was refreshing. Those first moments laughing in open air respecting each other’s politics was a thing of unspeakable beauty.  In the hours that followed, we discussed my unfulfilled presidency, my childhood in suburbia, and his undying devotion to Brooklyn. Yet unbeknownst to both of us we’d unearthed the recipe to falling in love: Cozy up in a dimly lit hallway. Spew humdrum stories from childhood that no one else cares to hear. Share unsavory secrets you’ve locked away until now. Stir the pot. Let time pass: seconds, minutes, hours (weeks, months, years, if necessary) before gazing into the eyes of the only person that matters beyond this point. Put the lid on. You're done. 

To be clear, I was young and free and had no interest in love or recipes.  Meanwhile, I shared a dorm with commitment-obsessed coeds vetting potential husbands and earmarking wedding editorials. Girls who after a first date rushed back to the dorm to regurgitate fantasies of becoming some unknown's wife. And again, I had no interest in becoming anyone’s wife.

The next four years sauntered by in a quasi-monogamous bubble. Desperate attempts to preserve the relationship collided with the many desirable dating options college life had to offer. Yet somehow amidst relationship mass destruction, the wish to be each other’s only developed. And upon his graduation, I made the uncharacteristic decision to move to his beloved Brooklyn and begin our young adult lives together.

New York was a fresh-start for us. I started work as a model, and he began his career in education. We were gaining ground as a ‘real’ couple when given our living arrangement with his parents, questions surfaced of our intentions for one another. Notwithstanding my expressed commitment, I could choose to move out and avoid a barrage of further questions or face the inevitable conversation: marriage. Still, my English professor’s words reverberated in my head making the idea of marriage feel more like an end to something natural than a natural next step. Yet and still, the purgatorial position of boyfriend and girlfriend had grown stale. It was time to move on or move forward.

At the time, he owned a townhouse in Virginia and asked if I'd go with him to check on it. I agreed. When we arrived, he took a detour to our college campus and after getting out of the car took my hand. His palm was moist and warm, which only occurs when he's nervous. For the first time, I couldn’t tell where he began, and I ended. It felt incredible. Soon, we were standing on the exact spot we’d met eight years prior. And suddenly, he went down on one knee and pulled a ring from his pocket. He said,

“I love you.  Will you spend the rest of your life with me?”  

His tear-filled eyes and nervous hands excited the deepest part of me, and I said, “Yes!”

And just like that, wedding plans encroached on our carefree weekends. We’d spend the next year sorting out details of a three hundred person wedding when we should have been sorting out details of a building a life together. We married on an unusually warm Saturday in November 1999.

After returning from an interesting honeymoon in Jamaica, we converged on our plush, new sofa: a wedding gift to ourselves, when my husband said,

“I plan to watch football on Sundays. Every Sunday. And I expect you to leave me alone like my mother does for my father.”

Fear and regret flooded by body.  His chauvinistic utterance exposed my deepest fears of marriage: submission and loss of identity. His words opened the door to years of contentious debates, which had me wondering where it all went wrong.  At our lowest point, we were at odds on everything from gender roles to how to discipline our children. And as he sunk deeper into the sofa every Sunday, I fled our home for yoga, flea markets and time alone. Our inability to agree on anything was affecting everything. Until one night, my husband proposed a weekly date where we’d sit and talk like that first night in my dorm. 

Our weekly dates started off rough and abrasive. Sometimes resulting in not speaking for days or weeks. We had so much uneasy history to contend with and opposing upbringings to decipher, the road to 'happily ever after' was daunting. That said, we relished the memory of falling in love: the first time we kissed, the first time we made love, the first time we hated being away from one another, and that special day we promised to shut the rest of the world out and become one. Problem was, we had no idea what we were doing. So instead we had to learn by doing. And soon, conversations felt natural and fluid. In time, I recognized the guy who'd stolen my heart; the only person I ever cared to share my entire self. Except now, he's the husband with whom I share an entire life.

This many years later, neither one of us has forged the perfect road to 'happily ever after', and perhaps we never will. But when our dispositions work to divide us love always draws us closer.

So as much as it pains me to say this, my English professor was right: marriage will take that stubborn ego you claim as individuality, and rip it to shreds. But if you’re lucky, you’ll emerge a better you with the bonus of someone who loves you by your side. That said after rereading the Wife of Bath prologue as a wife, I'm baffled by Chaucer’s decision to write 'the wife' as such an uncompromising, contradictory figure. Perhaps his goal was to demonize women and show how a ‘proper wife’ should behave by establishing nonconformity and promiscuity as sins. Whatever the case, the presence of her unapologetic voice in proto-feminist literature defines feminism in my book. And while I no longer share the same intense passion for every little thing ‘the wife’ does and says, I can definitely relate to most of it.

PARIS METRO

Essay 

Crystal Granderson-Reid

In fall of '98, I set my sights on Paris. At twenty-five years old, engaged to my college sweetheart, working as a model/receptionist a very enthusiastic casting director said, “Black women are exotic in Europe. Paris is where your career begins.”

Her words though encouraging made me realize how marginal the life of a model is. Still, her words gave me the gumption to realize a dream; experience a lifestyle befitting the stylish and well read; become the woman I wished to be. So I boarded a plane to Paris carrying a list, a wish and a dream. The plan was to arrive in Paris and settle into my tiny hotel room in 4^th Arrondissement. I was going visit as many modeling agencies as I could, get signed to the agency offering the largest contract and rent a pied a tier (because that’s what you do in Paris). But despite dreams of grandeur, my fiancé (now husband) was far more pragmatic. He advised not to set my hopes so high and wished me the best.

Patricia, a fellow model and face of several national hair campaigns with agents in NY and LA traveled with me. And though she did not wish to stay in Europe, she lost an unnecessary fifteen pounds before we left drinking only strained cabbage (she was the epitome of waif-thin). For Patricia and her agents, Paris served as the next frontier. For me, it's where my life began. 

The morning we arrived, we set out on a full day of go-sees. Later, we went out for dinner at a local cafe. Patricia ordered the chicken, which she refused to order in French. We'd purchased the same English to French translation books, so she knew the proper terms. Still, she insisted on speaking English. After an uncomfortable exchange with our waiter, her chicken arrived whole, boiled and pale. She yelled at the top her lungs, “I did not order this. Take it back!” The waiter promptly instructed us to leave. Again, Patricia refused. Three French police stormed the cafe with guns strapped to their bodies and escorted us to the street. It was mortifying. 


Outside, Patricia continued to scream obscenities. Though embarrassed, I wanted to stay; respect the culture; apologize for Patricia’s rudeness. I wanted to be embraced by Parisian locales,  its locals, itself. Yet I'd fallen into an unavoidable category: Bitchy American model. For the rest of my time in Paris, I traveled the city alone. 

I roamed around Paris as lost in its streets as I was in life. My high-heeled wheels spinning on cobblestone streets covered in crimson and gold foliage, fallen from resting Horse Chestnut trees. I dreaded the hunt. A pit stop at the world famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore awakened my spirit. I climbed the rickety back stair to experience its glorious second floor study. Where wishes and quotes of famed writers and poets and laureates litter peeling plastered walls. Random pieces of wisdom to inspire. Arbitrary initials carved into small wooden chairs. Reminders of who was there. I placed a wish just above a small writing desk at the top of the steps, over to the left. My note was brief: I wish to be here forever. I meant every word. Still, I was lucky to be in this dank, books abound dwelling that smelled of old ink and cedar and sweet cigars. To inhale the same dusty air Baldwin and Wright once did along with others wishing the same. 

On the way to yet another modeling agency sure to repeat "you're a beautiful girl but not right for us" I walked along the Seine river. And like many first timers I purchased a ubiquitous tiny Renoir landscape, which I treasured. But distraction after beautiful distraction I was mindful of my mission.




I'd fallen into modeling the same way I’d fallen in love, by accident. Not to belittle an entire industry, but somewhere between high school and the real world I drifted. I began shifting my priorities just to survive each day. Until one day, on a Paris metro, a stranger appeared before me. A woman. Worn, tired, broken. Her left eye covered with purple bruises, sealed shut. Overall, her face curved in on one side as if dented in an accident or by something or someone far more deliberate. She gripped a small bag containing God-knows-what as if it was all she had in the world. Hunched over in dark, tattered clothing wearing a a short cropped Afro, she kept her gaze low and heavy. The woman reminded me of images of my enslaved ancestors. Carrying on but with the weight of the world on her shoulders. I stared at her with an intensity rivaling awe as my heart grew swollen with compassion. Overcome with emotion, I experienced a twinge of guilt having rushed to and fro swanky modeling agencies promoting flawless images of fresh, new faces. When suddenly, my pursuit seemed empty and confused. Confronted with her image, I recounted the hardships of women who'd come before me as I contemplated my future. It is because they struggled that I dare pursue my dreams. I realized her face may never grace the cover of a magazine; may never find the light during a photo shoot. And while the same may have been true for me, we both appeared to have lost hope. I stared at the woman until my heart opened and tears dropped. Until I realized I'd missed my stop. 

When I arrived at the final agency on my list they said,  "You are not right for us.” And the message was clear. 

I met Patricia back at the hotel. Wrapped in a pink silk robe, drinking a glass of red wine she said, “I have to choose between three agencies by tomorrow. Then my agent is sending me to Italy for the shows. I hate Europe.” I congratulated Patricia. Meanwhile, dreams of my Parisian crumbled. As I sat across from Patricia, I realized something: we're not always in control of this life. I'd been naive for so long. I called my fiancé and cried. Hard. Though while my tears expressed defeat, I cried for every woman who never realized a dream and for the woman unknowingly shaped my life. 

Prior to arriving in Paris, I was directionless and awkward. I forgot what it meant to be happy. To smile for no reason; rejoice in a moment; live. Pictures taken by professional photographers reflected a joyless, sad girl. There were days I couldn't stand to look at my reflection. I'd lost control of who I'd become. So judgmental of myself I fell apart doing so. Yet I'd been unaware that pursuit without purpose resulted in desolation. And I'd been carrying the weight of emptiness for years. 

On the long flight home, it occurred that while Paris is not the place I'd begin my life it is where I found myself. Although that woman on the metro will never know it, she saved me. Opened my heart to a world beyond self-worthlessness. So that the next time I stepped on a subway in New York City, a stranger approached me and shared a personal story of survival. And I sensed she too, saw beyond the external. I will forever be amazed at what the human spirit can detect on public transit. 

WOMAN IN THE ROOM

an essay

Crystal Granderson-Reid

A person dear to my heart confessed to feeling some-kind-of-way toward me for the past sixteen years. (Note: my husband and I recently celebrated our sixteenth Wedding Anniversary.) She feared that what she had to say could cause me to lose love for her, but insisted it needed to be said. She told me I have a tendency to be flirtatious, which shows lack of concern for others, women especially. A behavior she deems vagrant and disrespectful. And that each time I show this side of my personality, grievances are being shared amongst the women affected and those claiming to have always suspected my supposed impropriety. She concluded imploring me to change, tone it down; be less of who I am in the room.

"I've seen you flirting with other men. Many times inside your own home." She persisted.

Not wanting to appear defensive out the gate, even though the statement was accusatory, I asked, "Can you be more specific?"  

She replied, "I won’t name names. But you need to understand that women disapprove of women who act the way you do. I mean, look at your mother. She acts the same way: ignoring women and flirting with their men. Which is the reason that woman was so angry with you.” Adding, “You should be considerate of other women's feelings." I couldn't believe she'd gone there. At no point did she ask if I'd intentionally been disrespectful; insist that despite everything, she knew better; suggest others get to know me before judging my every move and gesture. At no point did she offer consolation. I never expected to have this conversation with this person. Not in a million years.

I replied, "Let’s discuss the real reason the women you speak of have such a problem with me. Aside from the fact they're constantly negotiating insecurities that precede me, they were never going to like me.” At which point, I openly declared never having dated any boys my friends liked. And to never having dated any ex-boyfriends or husbands of any woman I’d known. I tried desperately to make her see me. 

I continued by adding, “Why should I allow another woman's insecurity with herself or an insecurity begotten from a significant other fall on my shoulders? I always consider other people’s feelings, often to a fault.”

The mention was not to toot my own horn but to stake my claim as a decent human being. The conversation ended on a definitive note when I said, “So, I refuse to be beholden to the insecurity of another. All I ask is for benefit of the doubt. Something I always give."

In the fourth grade, two girlfriends approached me one day after school. I was wearing a pair of Kelley green trousers and a white t-shirt that hit right above my waist. Unlike most girls my age, I had a definite shape. In fact, my first memories of how others perceived my outward appearance was in pre-school. When an older gentleman, I assume an uncle of sorts, commented on the way my bottom half moved. The comment was completely inappropriate. I felt exposed. A feeling that would follow me for years to come. 

Anyway, the two girls said, "You better not wear those pants to school again. Boys are looking at your butt!"

Surprised by their anger, I grabbed my backpack and left. After talking with my mother about mean girls and jealousy, she insisted I continue to wear the pants to show I wasn’t afraid. And so I did, but the problem persisted. That Thursday, the girls threatened to beat me up on Friday after school. My mother encouraged me to take them up on their offer.

I didn't want to fight, but it was important I stand up for myself. That Friday, I showed up at school wearing the pants. The girls approached me at my locker and did their best to scare me into submission. Until I looked them in the eyes and said, "Meet me in the playground after school." 

But as is often the case, they never showed. Years later, they apologized for having been jealous of the attention I received. A word I've come to detest. And though we never reconciled the friendship (for good reason) the experience taught me never to compare myself to others, women especially. 

These types of scenarios continue showing up in my life and I find myself asking, do I value the woman I am in the room? The answer is an irrevocably, unapologetically YES. 

ICICLES IN AMSTERDAM

(THE COMPLETE ESSAY) 

CRYSTAL GRANDERSON-REID

Broken glass hung from my face like icicles off a frozen façade. Years of envy had created an acrimonious stranger hell-bent on destroying me. The world, as I knew it, fell to pieces. But moments before shards of glass exploded in my face, that stranger was a friend. Absorbed in Amsterdam’s dazzling architecture, I faced a dilemma: how to escape whole when pieces of me hang in the balance. 

I'd gone on vacation with friends of twenty years.  We’d met while childless, broke and carefree. Celebrations were key to sustaining our connection but life was happening. With eleven children between us, respective nights and weekends stocked with ballet, basketball and baby babble, we'd been missing each other. So we decided to embark on a two-week excursion to commemorate our entry into middle-age and honor the friendship. And though planning proved a prodigal undertaking that took the better part of a year, Paris promised to be the cake and well, Amsterdam...the icing on top. 

Amsterdam is a city brimming with European charm. The historic town encapsulates sixteenth-century perfection. Moisture-worn town homes pressed alongside thick canals, inhabited by demure liberals, is visual candy for global pragmatists and miscreant out-of-towners.  Hole-in-the-wall cafés are main attractions for hash enthusiasts and thrill seeking day-trippers alike. Bikers rip through narrow pathways that define Amsterdam’s slight cityscape. Curious pedestrians gawk at ancient facades while shopping hobbit-sized storefronts. Yet in the high heat of summer, we were an obvious group: ten African-Americans of varying complexions, latitudes and dispositions. Comprising five couples whose marriages each had its own 'interesting' dynamic. Looks of wonderment and confusion ran rampant, but the discriminating stares paled against Amsterdam’s spectacular backdrop.

In the midday sun, we surveyed Amsterdam’s foreign surroundings inching through town like worms after a heavy rainfall; a sign of things to come. French fries drenched in unusual mayonnaise satisfied a hunger begotten from dipping in and out of aromatic cafes. As day turned to evening, a navy blue sky gave way to a million twinkling stars. A pinkish halo engulfed a tiny cluster and had a most bewitching effect on me. So much so, my curious steps paused for moments at a time.

Our daylong journey led us to an understated part of the city that was neither red-lit nor ostentatious. And as late evening approached, we stumbled upon an outdoor restaurant resembling a stolen cavity. That nestled between two buildings and flooded with candlelight belonged inside a fairytale. Lingerie dripped from tiny balconies, which lent itself to the ease of the night. We sat at a large farm table that surrounded by smaller tables for two, shown like the main event.  A generous spread of olives, flat breads and sliced steak decorated our table as well as our palates. Wine and champagne complemented the meal as conversation mounted.

Barry and Sheila, the very tall couple, positioned themselves at the head of the table. A posturing tactic that over the years, became an often and likely occurrence. And while their couple dynamic is unsettling, it like their individual personalities, overtime, ventured from unbearable to tolerable. After sitting for a short while, Sheila burst into a hysterical fit. Hard to tell whether she was laughing or crying. Yet and still, the volume at which she laughed or cried disturbed everyone around us. Carlton and Jennifer, the short vibrant couple, sat closest to Sheila. That is, until Jennifer directed a comment at Sheila that turned her hysterical fit into a definitive cry.  

At my end of the table, we figured Sheila must have been experiencing a delayed reaction from the brownie she ingested earlier.  She ate the entire thing in one sitting. Who does that? Needless to say, I was happy not to be sitting next to Barry or Sheila. From the moment we landed in France, they were like angry toddlers in a candy-filled playpen, selfish and whiny. And while we'd established closeness over the years, my relationship with Barry and Sheila existed at arm's length. And as far as the wives went, my closest friendships laid with Jennifer and Nina. But on a whole, my strongest bonds existed with Jackson and my husband Brock, of course.

Nina and Jackson were the short, tense couple whose relationship had been treading water. As the evening progressed Jennifer and Nina kept retreating to the ladies room.  And after each visit, they brought with them an air of indifference that would soon envelop the entire evening like a tornado.

For years, Brock and I had been referred to as the pretty couple. To be clear, pretty wasn't always meant as a compliment. Jackson, who’d been our mutual best friend since college, sat on the opposite side of Brock. Ronald and Marsha sat to my left and are defined more by their staunch neutrality than their average statures. 

Nina and Jennifer remained detached for most of the night. Though when compared to Barry and Sheila who’d been distant and negative the entire trip, Jennifer and Nina's apathy mattered less. On the other hand, I along with Brock and Jackson, and Ronald and Marsha, had been reveling the evening. Although having decided to end our friendship with Barry and Sheila once our European vacation ended, we may have appeared wistful. But with a night planned of unadulterated foolery in Amsterdam's red light district, it was subdued moment that passed quickly.

Conversation ebbed and flowed. After more of Sheila's crying/laughing fits, excitement ensued over a trip to wine country taking place later that week. At which point, it occurred to me: that despite our differences I loved these people. And for a few seconds, we sat smiling under our very own milky way. As the moment reached its end, I prepared to toast our friendship and grabbed hold of my drink. But before a word could roll over my tongue, a wine glass crashed into my face. Its sharp, tiny particles pierced my skin as the broken stem stabbed into my leg, and the bitter liquid coated my chin. Besides the heavy thump of my heart the world went mute. What followed was as startling and unfamiliar as Amsterdam.  

I released a breath and grazed my left cheek. Blood hadn’t yet run when I glanced up toward the tiny balconies.  But as I waited, an unrecognizable insecurity rose inside of me. No one appeared. I looked to my left and noticed that Ronald had gotten wet but not cut. My hands fell upon my chest where the warmth of my blood mixed with the chill of the wine. I caught a glimpse of myself in a small mirror behind a portable dessert cart. Icy particles reflected off of my skin the way moonlight does when it kisses water. Waiters backed away with hands hovered over their open mouths. Fellow patrons peered as if witnessing a fatal car crash. I imagined they too, swooned over this magical summer’s night, which by chance had  culminated into a violent storm.

Shock and amusement spread across the faces of those I thought to be friends. Not the kind of shock wishing to stop the flood, but instead the kind waiting for someone to drown.  Sheila’s cry had once again reverted to laughter. I turned towards Brock and Jackson whose blank stares told another story. As other noises began to filter in and my breathing returned to normal, I shifted my body toward Nina and Jennifer.  It was then I realized I was under attack.

Nina stood dead set on my every move holding a second wine glass at the ready. Her demon-like countenance replete with flared nostrils and swollen, black pupils. Jennifer sat staring at me with a quizzical smirk. I gathered she, like the others, knew the reason for Nina's tirade and had consented to the attack. Everyone saw what Nina saw, no one seeing me.

Several thoughts flooded my mind: you’re alone, go home to your daughters and find a ‘real’ job. But before making sense of the random statements reverberating inside my head, Brock yells,

“Something must be wrong with Nina. She would never do this!”

His words cutting deeper than all the tiny stabs. Brock had empathized with Nina. His unwillingness to defend me exposed a complacency within our marriage.

Days before boarding the train to Amsterdam, we'd visited Notre Dame. I discovered that the actual reason for gargoyles atop the cathedral was to lessen the impact of damaging rainstorms. Reasons I found admirable. But days later, I was the victim of a rainstorm. And unlike the gargoyles, Brock did nothing to protect me. He stood still while my dignity eroded and Jackson and Nina disappeared into the night. 

After causing a scene inside the restaurant, the other couples scattered with an immense effort, which further exposed their disdain for my well-being. Still unable to fully grasp what had just occurred, I found myself walking furiously through Amsterdam’s crowded streets. Passing canal after canal and stopping once to gather pieces of myself that had begun to unravel with Brock trudging slowly behind me. I closed my eyes and tried desperately to soothe myself with thoughts of home. As a consummate dreamer, it's easy for me to jump in and out of reality. This time was different. Mine was a reality too stark to ignore.

I listened while a few young men on the adjacent bench swapped stories of women they’d met in Brussels and ones they hoped to meet in Amsterdam. Amid my emotional breakdown, their stories offered a welcome distraction. While at the same time, mocked my loss of youth and friendship. Out-of-nowhere, the harsh realities of middle-age begged reassurance that Nina’s issues were not my own. And with three daughters at home, clinging to a modicum of self-regard mattered greatly. I could not lose myself in this mess.

Soon, I would come to identify with a city celebrated for its allure. Both of us perceived beauties in constant danger of being overcome by that that surrounds us: Amsterdam by the very water running through it, me by the enemies posing as friends. And as the dark of midnight caused shadows over the stars, I cried a river into a canal.  

Salty tears stung like acid inside my wounds as the urgency to confront Nina and Jackson emerged.  I raced back to the hotel and demanded Brock find their room number. At first, he refused. But after shouting my frustrations he complied. When we arrived at their hotel room it appeared they'd been expecting us. Once inside, I gritted my teeth and asked what the hell happened? Except hell wasn’t the word I used. Profanity was the only thing keeping me from destroying her. Nina's response exposed a deep insecurity she'd always had for my friendship with Jackson. She considered bond 'too close for comfort'. And though she never expressed her concerns directly, Jackson had mentioned Nina's objection with me from the outset their relationship. At which point, I decided his friendship was worth my jumping through hoops to make Nina feel comfortable. But once the conversation took an unexpected turn and Jackson dispelled Nina's suspicions of our having an affair, I realized my efforts were all in vain. Moreover, woven into Nina's rationale was a confidence she’d walk away unscathed. I knew then that my friendship with Nina never truly existed. By the time dawn crept in, four people had suffered vicious attacks: Me due to a jealous tirade, Nina and Jackson by virtue of a broken marriage, and Brock of his own doing.

The next morning, everyone gathered for breakfast except Jackson and Nina. The other couples voiced concern for their well-being. Not one expressed concern for me. Most disturbing: Brock discussing the aftermath as if he'd contributed in any way. My turmoil became his breakfast banter, yet my pain he was unwilling to touch. Daylight argued an ugliness in them that was at once glaring and disgusting.  I boarded a train back to Paris knowing what it feels like to come undone.

Back in our Parisian duplex, Nina and Jackson called a meeting inside its plastered walls. Meetings had become a running joke on this trip due to Sheila and Barry's childish ways. Brock entered our bedroom and asked that I join the meeting. Once again, and for no concrete reason, I agreed. And while I took my time walking down the spiral stairs leading to a palatial living room, at mid stair, I realized everyone gathered to support Nina.

She sat on a blue sofa in the center of the room with most of the group comforting her. When I reached the living room, I sat on a yellow sofa next to a fifteen-foot window with sweeping views of the city. Brock sat at the other end of the yellow sofa while Monica sat between us. To tolerate the misery swallowing the room, I focused on noise of club goers outside the window. Like ghosts from a past life, they reminded me why I'd traveled to Europe in the first place. I realized I'm the kind of person who never wants to be defined by age, circumstance or anything limiting, which now, included this group. And as I daydreamed of joining the club goers, I let go of pretense and accepted an end to twenty years of connections. Yet before the conversation began, I silently forgave each one of them for things they'd done and things they should have done. Thus choosing happiness over misguided loyalty.

When Nina finally spoke, she recalled hearing Jackson and I say "I love you" to one another.  Jackson interjected saying,

“Not in that way!”

The conversation imploded as the emotional exchange between Jackson and Nina showed the long road ahead of them. The other couples chimed in with advice, which had no chance of resonating with Nina or Jackson. Nina continued to express her reasons for suspecting me though Jackson confirmed otherwise.  And amid Nina's rant, Jackson looked at me with an expression at once distant and warm. Warm from having always considered one another, distant because it had to be. In retrospect, somewhere inside both of us must have been the feeling that no one would ever grasp our connection. I'm not sure we ever did. Still, after listening to Nina's desperate plea, I felt a responsibility to let go of my bond with Jackson. So I did. And while Nina’s tearful outpouring brought her farther from the truth, she was correct about one thing: I loved Jackson. He was my friend.

For the rest of the trip, Brock fastened himself to rest of the group like a loose button or a hanging thread, neither secured nor completely detached. I suppose his way of saying a final goodbye to friends from his youth. Though during those days of forced alone time I asked myself what kept me in these relationships for so long? But alas, there was no good reason. And though Brock begged my forgiveness before leaving Paris, his sorrowful plea did nothing to mitigate the work ahead of us. Still, somewhere deep inside my love for Brock, is the awareness he stands with me even when he lacks the confidence to do so. In the end, I boarded a plane back to New York with hundreds of strangers and eight people I used to know.

At home, I rushed to embrace my daughters as they lamented the scabs on my face. My wounds eventually healed but the emotional scars took longer. And Brock and I gradually attended to our own issues. But I credit Amsterdam for being the intervening agent inside one of the most transformative experiences of my life. Because in a city known for staving off floods and recovering from a Nazi invasion, I acquired a thicker skin. A skin that protected me like a personal gargoyle and gave new meaning to icing on top. 

What's bunny got to do with it?

Essay 

by Crystal Granderson-Reid

My grandmother was a devout Christian. Okay, devout is strong. She went to church most Sundays and guaranteed her litany of children and grandchildren filled two church pews on Easter Sunday. On non-church days, she cleaned houses, smoked cigarettes, played the lottery and fried up enough pork to disable an artery.

On Easter, there I would be in a starched, pastel, polyester dress replete with a stiff petticoat, white gloves and ruffled socks. The arch nemesis of my cut-off shorts, Bugs Bunny T-shirt and hush puppies. And like my dress, my hair would be straightened to death; burnt to crispy strips by a cast iron comb that had been heated to high hell on a gas stove top.  And during a painfully long Baptist service, I'd break out into nasty sweats and develop tiny red rashes around my belly. Back then, my family never considered allergic reactions. Instead, they used petroleum jelly as a cure-all for everything and left rashes alone.

In the midst of listening to church ladies scream hallelujah, catch the Holy Ghost and suffer fainting spells, my pin straight hair reverted to puffy, cotton-like balls framed by curly, pea-sized edges. The tightest and most disrespectful curls appearing at the nape of my neck. After service, we'd head back to my grandmother's house to change out of our Easter clothes. Because God forbid you get your Easter clothes dirty, they might be forced to live an eternity inside a mothball-scented closet next to other never-to-be-worn-again, petroleum-stained dresses from Alexander’s.

Once grease-free and comfortably situated back in my cut-off shorts, it was time for the annual Easter egg hunt in my grandmother’s garden. Small, brightly colored eggs had been boiled, dyed and hidden by our doting mothers and aunts. And for most of that Sunday afternoon, we'd scour the garden like miniature truffle hunters until we uncovered every last egg. When the hunt ended, we sat sticky-faced in the grass with crushed eggs shells decorating our limbs. The hunt wasn't complete until my grandmother gloated in her slight southern twang,

"The Easter egg bunny left those for ya'll. Eat up, babies." 

I loved the sound of my grandmother's voice, but I’d think to myself, “Who is this bunny that delivers candy-filled baskets complete with a chocolate mold of himself?” Perhaps he was someone special like Santa Claus or that devious-looking leprechaun on Saint Patrick’s Day who’d leave chocolate-filled, gold coins in random hiding spots. Fact, I swear I saw a leprechaun under the front stairway of my elementary school, but I did not, could not, believe in the Easter bunny.

Before I knew what it was, my confusion with the Easter bunny mattered more than a resurrection. That is, until I met an actual bunny. Only to discover bunnies are not gifters and never has one laid an egg. And unless you consider excremental deposits gifts, rabbits are not generous.

In the second grade, my friend had a pet rabbit. And though I said nothing, I waited for her bunny to lay an egg, supply us with chocolate, and at the very least scrounge up some jellybeans.  Instead, he twitched constantly, ate everything, pooped uncontrollably and smelled horrible. Frustrated to no end, I took it upon myself to research rabbits using my Child Craft Encyclopedia. Nowhere had they mentioned eggs. My grandmother lied. 

And why? What did bunnies have to with Easter? Besides accompanying a Saint or two on or close to Jesus’ resurrection, bunnies are inconsequential to the holiday. That said, I’m not one for indulging in any mythical being surrounding religious holidays or otherwise. Though interestingly enough, the tooth fairy is high on my list of 'lies' with my own children.  My rationale being: the concept of the tooth fairy is quite simply, awesome. A fairy swoops in after you lose a tooth and replaces it with dollars. It doesn't get any better. Besides, it makes me happy to say I’m no better than my grandmother.

I never mentioned my bunny awareness to my grandmother. And anyway, when she died our annual egg hunt died with her. So while I don’t uphold her stories of the Easter bunny, once a year, I’m reminded of how telling the story of this mythical creature provided my grandmother with such joy. And in that way, bunny has everything to do with it. 

-WAR AT FORTY-

a coming of middle-age story

Essay 

By Crystal Granderson-Reid

Unwanted pounds showed up at my back door. Damn things didn't even knock. But as I stood on the front line in the Battle of the Bulge, just as my jeans busted open in unmentionable places, I was approaching forty and less than prepared for war. 

I whined to my husband, "I’m fat! My ass is huge!"

He flatly replied, "If you’re unhappy, work out."

And while his monotone response infuriated me, I listened to his advice.

Pounds fled like unwelcome house guests. Add a gluten and dairy allergy to the equation, and worry of ever having an outlandish backside diminished. 

By forty, I'd trimmed my body, chopped off the ponytail I’d worn since preschool and embraced a new chapter. 

Then the page turned.

I woke to a pimply, puss-filled T-Zone. My once luminous complexion had joined forces with the temperamental complexion of a thirteen year-old. 

In Junior High, while many of my peers trekked across the bridge of breakouts, I was on a journey less traveled. But like the saying goes: you can run but you can’t hide.

So I ran to Michael Jackson, my dermatologist. Jackson prescribed a boatload of ointments, a horrid oral medication and worse, waiting. The antitheses of my usual wash, moisturize and go routine, the new regimen horrified me. Though looking at the woman in the mirror, I had no choice but to heed his advice.

While in product hell, instinct led me to Doctor Bush, my gynecologist. I needed to know whether my lady parts were rotting. Due to my juvenile reliance on fashion magazines, I believe that soon my body will-for lack of better terms-loosen. Everywhere. The implied Decade of Decline is underscored by foreboding articles dissecting the harrowing effects of growing older. Women my age styled in multi-printed slip dresses adorned with chunky jewelry. One blind step away from Mrs. Roper’s infamous muu-muus. While I suppose the loud clothing is meant to divert attention away from wrinkles and age spots, the mere act of dressing any women in an oversized house coat is wrong. And likely the brain-child of a twenty year-old editor hell-bent on ending my sartorial splendor. But I digress. I left Bush’s office with my lady parts alive and well. 

Still, my complexion was on a steady decline. I called Jackson's office for a follow-up visit. The appointment did not come quick. Until then, I hid underneath a brown leather hat, dashed in and out of my daughters’ school in a blur while avoiding interaction with everyone in my path. I figured the quicker I move the less opportunity for anyone to focus on my skin. Though adding to the spectacle of myself, I employed flesh colored band-aids to mask my blistery eruptions, abandoned my favorite grocery store in Red Hook and began a Shades of Grey relationship with a grocer in Cobble Hill. He'd only speak to me after I'd spoken to him first. 

At home, I flopped into dark corners and isolated myself from my entire family. My husband consoled me as I lamented my facial issues like a sullen teenager might her spoiled life. Incorrigible behavior worthy of the isolation I forced on myself. But with each passing day I grew more despondent.

Back at Michael Jackson’s, I learned that I'd developed cystic acne and that stress plays a crucial role in its onset. And if the delayed threats of adolescence weren’t enough, Jackson emphasized my getting older stating,

“It’s natural to experience creature discomforts at your age. You’re forty.”

"I’m well aware that I’m forty!" is what I wanted to say.  Instead, I sat slumped and defeated. 

Throughout the years, I'd heard that turning forty would be an uphill battle. I didn't understand it to mean full-on war. Jackson armed me with an arsenal of pimple-busting defenses as well as the understanding that this new chapter would require willpower. Plenty of it.

So, I'm dealing.

And as I await the next page, I imagine the headlight nipples from my 20s patiently waiting to replace the directionless nipples of my 40s. That after nursing three children, appear at odds on whether to be optimists or pessimists.

Truth is: turning forty isn’t SO awful. I’ve ditched my leather cap and resumed a respectful relationship with my Red Hook grocer. My cystic acne has subsided and I have no real need for band-aids. Things are looking up, but I wish I could say the same for my nipples. 

Two things I know for sure:

1.  Turning forty can turn anyone into an elusive maniac.
2. War is imminent.

Real Simple/Beauty Issue-Face of 40s

Grateful for the opportunity to work with famed photographer Paul Westlake, and the magazine that provides a framework for my organized home, REAL SIMPLE magazine. 

March 2015-Beauty Issue

Icicles in Amsterdam

(excerpt)

By Crystal Granderson-Reid

Amsterdam rooftops-view from hotel room

Broken glass hung from my face like icicles off a frozen facade. Years of envy created an acrimonious stranger hell-bent on destroying my face, destroying me. The world, as I knew it, fell to pieces. But moments before shattered crystal crashed into my face, that stranger was my friend. Absorbed in Amsterdam’s bucolic framework, I encountered a dilemma: how to escape whole when pieces of me hang in the balance. 

I went on vacation with friends of twenty years.  We’d met while childless, broke and carefree. Celebrations were key to sustaining our connection yet life was happening. With eleven children between us, our respective nights and weekends stocked with ballet, basketball and baby babble we were missing each other. So we decided to celebrate our entry into middle-age with two weeks in Europe.  And while planning proved a prodigal undertaking that took the better part of a year, Paris promised to be the cake and well, Amsterdam...the icing on top.