Cream or Sugar?
Would You Like A Refill?
It is amazing how the smell of coffee and a quiet atmosphere can make one assume that they are alone in their own home, sipping Folgers’s Best, when in fact they are eating dinner with the family at the IHOP.
I chased the last piece of scrambled egg around the outer edge of my plate, tapping the back of my flip-flop against my heel impatiently. I stared at the clock, the edges of my mouth dipping down in a discontented, anxious frown. It was nearly eight o’ clock, and the waitress still hadn’t brought us our check. My parents were swirling spoons around in their coffee mugs, and my grandparents were mimicking the act. My father was reclined against the wall behind the bench, chatting aimlessly with my grandfather, who was trying to find a comfortable position in the creaky wooden chair. Mother was leaning forward, coffee vapors swirling up toward her face as my grandmother uncomfortably brought her coffee mug to her lips with a weakened, formerly cancerous arm. The topic of the women’s conversation was politics, and I was stuck listening to their slanted chatter.
“Our new president is such a rat,” my grandmother muttered loudly, blissfully ignorant of the families eating around us. I shrunk against the corner I was nestled in, trying to return all angry glances with an apologetic stare. “How can people seriously think that he’s doing good for all of us?”
“Because, momma,” my mother replied, pausing a moment to blow a cooling breath on her coffee. She took a sip and replied, “They think that he’ll give them what they want!”
My grandmother tskedher disapproval. “I don’t understand all the whites who trust in his judgment. He’s not doing anything for them.”
My mother grunted in agreement. “Nobody researched what they were putting into office.”
Grandmother said, “He’s not fair. He’ll always be giving these people what they want.” At “these”, she tapped viciously upon the black top of a syrup bottle.
Sighing, my mother nodded. “And like it or not, those people-” she, too, tapped on the top, “-are taking over other offices too. God knows what will happen.”
“Heaven help us,” Grandmother replied, scrunching up the lines on her face in a grimace. Then, as if struck by a lightening bolt, she suddenly exclaimed, “So how is the Daughtery house going? Are they about ready to move in?”
As the conversation drifted on to other topics, I continued to stare at the dark cap of the warm maple syrup bottle. A mild expression of frustration cast a shadow over my features as I considered my mother and grandmother’s words. I thought about history. I considered the prejudice against those with different features and colors, and how some conceitedly passed on the assumption of their supposed superiority to their children. After what seemed like eons of time, people still childishly mocked and condescended those with a different shade of life. I mulled over the effect it had on the world, and how countries developed. I thought about how our new president’s uniqueness could cause riots and jihads amongst fellow citizens. And I wondered if all of that might have been avoided if people had simply stopped judging their maple syrup based on the cap it had no choice but to be formed with.
As the waitress strolled by, my father waved her over and asked her for the check, much to my family’s relief. She handed the slip of paper to him and filled up my empty coffee cup, which I had forgotten as it sat in negligence on the table. I took notice of her plump lips; her pretty, black cornrows; and the happy crow’s feet that creased the dark skin around her eyes as she politely asked, “Cream or sugar?”
Rubbing my thumb thoughtfully against the edge of the mug, I gave her a soft smile and replied, “No thanks. I’ll take mine black.”
I chased the last piece of scrambled egg around the outer edge of my plate, tapping the back of my flip-flop against my heel impatiently. I stared at the clock, the edges of my mouth dipping down in a discontented, anxious frown. It was nearly eight o’ clock, and the waitress still hadn’t brought us our check. My parents were swirling spoons around in their coffee mugs, and my grandparents were mimicking the act. My father was reclined against the wall behind the bench, chatting aimlessly with my grandfather, who was trying to find a comfortable position in the creaky wooden chair. Mother was leaning forward, coffee vapors swirling up toward her face as my grandmother uncomfortably brought her coffee mug to her lips with a weakened, formerly cancerous arm. The topic of the women’s conversation was politics, and I was stuck listening to their slanted chatter.
“Our new president is such a rat,” my grandmother muttered loudly, blissfully ignorant of the families eating around us. I shrunk against the corner I was nestled in, trying to return all angry glances with an apologetic stare. “How can people seriously think that he’s doing good for all of us?”
“Because, momma,” my mother replied, pausing a moment to blow a cooling breath on her coffee. She took a sip and replied, “They think that he’ll give them what they want!”
My grandmother tskedher disapproval. “I don’t understand all the whites who trust in his judgment. He’s not doing anything for them.”
My mother grunted in agreement. “Nobody researched what they were putting into office.”
Grandmother said, “He’s not fair. He’ll always be giving these people what they want.” At “these”, she tapped viciously upon the black top of a syrup bottle.
Sighing, my mother nodded. “And like it or not, those people-” she, too, tapped on the top, “-are taking over other offices too. God knows what will happen.”
“Heaven help us,” Grandmother replied, scrunching up the lines on her face in a grimace. Then, as if struck by a lightening bolt, she suddenly exclaimed, “So how is the Daughtery house going? Are they about ready to move in?”
As the conversation drifted on to other topics, I continued to stare at the dark cap of the warm maple syrup bottle. A mild expression of frustration cast a shadow over my features as I considered my mother and grandmother’s words. I thought about history. I considered the prejudice against those with different features and colors, and how some conceitedly passed on the assumption of their supposed superiority to their children. After what seemed like eons of time, people still childishly mocked and condescended those with a different shade of life. I mulled over the effect it had on the world, and how countries developed. I thought about how our new president’s uniqueness could cause riots and jihads amongst fellow citizens. And I wondered if all of that might have been avoided if people had simply stopped judging their maple syrup based on the cap it had no choice but to be formed with.
As the waitress strolled by, my father waved her over and asked her for the check, much to my family’s relief. She handed the slip of paper to him and filled up my empty coffee cup, which I had forgotten as it sat in negligence on the table. I took notice of her plump lips; her pretty, black cornrows; and the happy crow’s feet that creased the dark skin around her eyes as she politely asked, “Cream or sugar?”
Rubbing my thumb thoughtfully against the edge of the mug, I gave her a soft smile and replied, “No thanks. I’ll take mine black.”