Breakfast With Cindy Dinks. That's what the term is, D-I-N-K, like yuppie, or redneck....... Dink, "double income, no kids"...... And as much as I have this idea of how I think kids should be raised, I really have little experience with the subject. A point that is sometimes raised up by my siblings, who all have children, and are so much more intelligent on the subject than I. And who trade knowing glances between themselves, with raised eyebrows, or perhaps rolling their eyes, when I toss out my own less than knowledgable ideas on just how a kid should be raised. So, I'm babysitting this morning.......the wife is away at work, and I am 'stuck' here with Cindy, the five year old daughter of one of our long-time friends. Challenging concept. Cindy is from a one-parent home, and is really not too fond of men. I can't blame her, given her history and experience with men. Like I said, challenging. So, after fielding the umpteenth query of "Where's Mockingbird?", and her disappointed looks and resignation of having to spend an entire morning with a "man", I set about trying to make the most of the situation. "Are you hungry?" I ask, to which I actually get an answer, an almost enthusiastic nodding of the head. We pile into the car, I put her in the back seat with some kind of gesture of being a responsible babysitter, buckle her in, and locking the door. Then it begins. See, Cindy is very, very wise. She has so much experience with emotionial espionage and character defamation that she is a master manipulator and has this incredibly impenetrable force field around her, protecting her from any kind of verbal affront or worse, insinuated threat of abuse. She is years beyond me in this kind of tete'a'tete, this kind of detente, and she knows it. She starts with an old trick, repeating everything I say, mocking me, which just grates me, and she smiles in the rear view mirror in undiguised glee, knowing that she has touched the nerve that will catapult her into the dominant position in this cat and mouse game of "who's going to break first"........"who's going to sink down to a level of primitive behavior".....oh, she's good, a worthy adversary. I'm whipped before we get started. She knows it too. Her little black eyes look like the buttons used for a manequins eyes, no emotion, no feeling......cold. Meanwhile, mine are flashing like emergency flashers, "DANGER"! Deep breath. Thirty-four pounds of man-hating, grudge-holding, woman packed into a 4T sized package of psychological whup-ass. I'm doomed. "Where we going to eat?" I ask. "Sonic!" she yells. "Not at 9 in the morning," I respond, thinking she should have something more......traditional.....for breakfast. Now, the smart thing to do, was to simply pull into Mickey D's and grab a breakfast burrito, or a happy meal. br> But, I decide in my own selfish way, to culture this little ragamuffin, show her around, let her see something new.....something different, something........more. I pull into a new trendy restaurant, park the car, walk around to her door, and after battling with her to unlock the door (stupid move on my part), finally remove her from the car to walk across the lot to the restaurant. She refuses my hand to help across the way. Fearing that she will be run over by one of the Lexuses barrelling through the lot, I pick her up and carry her. "No, NO, NO!!!" she yells, and after grabbing a fist full of my hair, I 'gently' put her down on the sidewalk, feeling like someone is going to turn me in for a kidnapper, and escort her to the door. "Table for two?" the college boy asks. "Twenty minute wait." Cindy stands by the counter, alone in a crowd, her forefinger to her lips in bewilderment. Middle-aged women in tight-fitting black spandex and fake breasts flit by her, almost stepping on the nearly invisible and silent five year old, I want to rescue her but know she would not appreciate the effort. College kids with their daddy's credit card walk over her to pay for extravagant breakfasts, more money than I spent in two weeks during my days of post high school education. I feel my blood beginning to boil. Finally, a table. Pancakes, no eggs, take those ugly little green things off of them (kiwi) and, yuk, are those RAISINS!?.......no way! I don't like butter, and put the syrup all over the pancakes, ALLL over them (don't be so chintzy), can't you cut the pancakes up for me, and no, I can't use a fork....are you stupid or what? Oooh, yuk, what are you eating? An AAhm-ah-lett? what's that?.....that's nasty. Waitress? More coffee please, and do you have any aspirin? Children with perfectly coiffed hair and designer label clothes walk by, GapKids, I notice Cindy's hand-me-down jacket has come off, and I notice the large stain across the front of it. So does she........and her eyes lower. She starts eating the pancakes, real slow, deliberate bites........quiet.....contemplating. She doesn't belong here, she doesn't know why, but I can see she is feeling it.......she's out of place. A woman walks by, looks down at Cindy, and then at me, measuring up the length of my hair.........she visibly snorts, yeah, VISIBLY snorts to herself. I'm starting to feel out place myself. Cindy, who is gifted with being able to pick up on the most indiscernable of stimulus, is looking down at her syrup laden plate and states, "She doesn't like you". "What? Who?" I reply. "You know," she says. "I don't know what you're talking about, eat your pancakes." She devours them. Cindy is the 8th granddaughter of Benge, a notable Cherokee of the 18th and 19th century. Her ancestor and my ancestors certainly knew each other, and I am quite certain, fought a battle together at Boyd's Creek and at Etowah in the late 1700's against John Sevier. Her ancestor, Benge, or The Bench, is either hero or villain, depending on what side of the fence you're sitting on. She shares a heritage with me, one that no one else in this trendy upscale restaurant could fathom. I begin to get real defensive of Cindy and of whoever might look down their nose at her. I flash back to the late '70's. I'm away at school, and have been invited to a party. I have to dress up, so I put on my best clothes and go, trying to cover up my lack of social grace and etiquette, oh, I was faking it real good. And then, they noticed my shoes. This was when I realized that rich folks have their ways of recognizing other rich folks, and one way, was by the price of your shoes. Oh, I could dress up real good, but I didn't have the money for shoes......... I still remember the hurt of learning that lesson. Or, when I was a new graduate, working my way up to a real apartment in the city, and becoming acquainted with my older, more sophisticated neighbors. I was having a beer at the newest happy-hour bar, the kind of place where a repetoire of pick-up lines is considered haute-couture.........I saw one of my new neighbors. I ventured over to order a beer, "Hey, Jerry! How are you? Let me introduce you to Joe, 'Joe, this is my friend, Jerry". To which Jerry saw fit to school me in more of what I called "white-man's ways", "We're not friends, Wauhilau, we're Aquaintances". "Ooooooooh".........O-kay." Having been brought up with the idea that people were either your friends or your enemies, I had no concept of acquaintances. I never forgot that lesson either. And back to the shoe thingie.........I remember the other Indian kids coming to school with new clothes. From their 'sponsor". Their 'sponsor' was from CCF, the Christian Children's Fund, who sent these poor Indian kids money to buy new clothes, but more importantly, to ease their sense of social responsibility. Mom would never allow us to sign up for CCF, she had a thing about that, she could do it on her own......even though I brought home an application for CCF.....she tore it up and said to never bring that back in her house. So, I never got a sponsor, never learned the thing about "shoes making the man". I flash back on these things, and suddenly, Cindy is no longer the five year old brat, she's a kinsman, a comrade in arms, a........sister. And, By God, ain't no one gonna look down their nose at her, not while she's with me. We begin to have a real conversation. "You have stuff on your mouth" she says. "What?" I ask. She points to her lips and makes a sweeping motion with her hand. Wipe your mouth, I think to myself. "Thank You," I say. "You're welcome," she replies. I get up to pay the bill, the kid's plate is wiped clean, she was hungry, poor thing. The kids' plates on the next table are left half-full, and they are in sullen boredom as their parents in their high-dollar warm-up suits are discussing tomorrow's golf tee-time. I pay the bill. Cindy holds my hand back to the car. I buckle her in, lock her door, precious cargo she is, start the car, and lower the rear view mirror. She smiles at me in the reflection. Now, call it guilt, call it self-serving, call it egotistical, but I drove her straight to a store where they sell designer kid's clothes and hooked her up with some 4T 'label' clothes. By God. Took her home and showed off her new clothes to Mockingbird when she got home from work. "How was your morning," she asked with a palpable hope that we hadn't come to blows ........... "Great", I said. Cindy walks over and plops herself in my lap, wow,........my little sister, master manipulator. I look down at her feet. Damn. I should've bought her some shoes. Stupid Dink. |
"Breakfast With Cindy" © Wauhilau as posted in
alt.discuss.clubs.public.culture.native-american.benable
on Sat, Feb 4, 2006, 1:29pm (EST-3)
"Old Shoes 2" by Astrid Rieger
"Teach Your Children" by CSNY
bead bar courtesy of Greasy Grass