The Password

Fading Pink Roses

When I came into work this morning I found Brian still half-asleep, wiping and drying the clean silverware much slower than he normally does before he places it into the drawer. I said the first part of our conversation in Spanish, switching back to English after he answered, “I’m good, thank you.” But he looked the opposite, so I turned his shoulders towards me and looked into his puffy face. Brian once came into work so hung-over that I had to send him home early, so he quickly laughed and shook his head no. He explained that he was up late watching the Ortiz-Mayweather boxing match. I missed the fight so Brian re-enacted the knock out punch for me, and told me that by choosing his fellow Mexican to win he now owed one of the kitchen guys fifty dollars.

“You bet on Ortiz because he’s Mexican? I bet on Mayweather…because he’s…ok, because he’s Black but I was right, RIGHT?”
I forget that not everybody is like me and has blinders on when it comes to race, forgetting how to be politically correct at times. I forget that not everybody has eclectic taste in music and likes Coldplay, as much as they like Fred Hammond, as much as they like Cee-Lo, as much as they like Buena Vista Social Club, as much as they like Swedish House Mafia. And Whitney Houston is up in there too.
And I thought everybody used a strong mix of numbers and letters for their passwords. “3H7472JH823,” I repeated.
That is actually one of my passwords, but good luck guessing where to use it. Whether its Amazon.com or my email account, it’s got a password like that one. And I don’t mean to make it complicated on purpose, it just so happens that each letter and number is significant and easy for me to remember. Brandon can’t believe that I go through the hassle to enter all of that every time I log in to a website, but I enjoy it. I makes me feel like an adult the same way that paying my student loan bill does every month, but I’m not left feeling like I should have never gone to stupid college. It is the little discoveries like this one that make me realize there is so much I still don’t know about Brandon, and vice versa. I’ve known him since college and seriously dated him for almost three years, but he’s still learning who I am. “Weirdo, ” he says before shutting the computer down for the night. I laughed it off, distracted by the dying pink roses that belong in the garbage at this point.
Although my air conditioner is still sitting in the window, there is no doubt that the season has officially changed. It’s been great to sleep without cold air blowing on me, but I think the noise of the machine was insulating me from sounds that are organic to Brooklyn when children have gone back to school. There are no longer backyard parties and cookouts, so lonely dogs get more air time with their incessant barking; motorcycles can be heard at hours when people should be sleeping. And still, after everything I had to do this week, home is the place where I want to be.
It was a busy, but enjoyable weekend. I learned that I will most likely have the opportunity to travel to Atlanta this winter, and work on a film project being produced by our Church. Not in front of the camera, but behind it. There was a slight wave of sadness that rode over my heart as our group leader outlined her vision for each of us in terms of involvement. Hoping against hope that she would also want me to audition, I made a point to freeze my face and not react either way. The desire to be an actress hasn’t left me completely, but the desire to be what God wants me to be is so much greater that it outweighs anything else I might feel from time to time. I listened as she firmly and lovingly explained that I would need to assist her, be organized and efficient, and be prepared for anything. The sadness subsided, and excitement took over. I, the former black sheep, will have the opportunity to grow and learn and mature under the leaders of the Church that has re-shaped my life. And on a film project of all things. God is so generous to allow me to work on a labor of love, and develop my identity as an evangelist at the same time. Why should I feel discouraged when I know He watches over me?
He sits high and looks low, noting every detail of our lives. The little things that no one else knows, He knows. And my password to enter His presence will forever and always be “Thank You.”
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