Windows of Life

SYRACUSE -Brilliance, really. Captured by the contrast of primary colors against a tattered abandoned historic home, I was reeled in. Stepping closer with complete curiosity to make sense of the rich colored Picasso shaped art I then realized these elementary compositions were creative expressions of a community’s voice. This home was clearly desolate, peculiar and boarded up to stray all organic matter from entering, but not from looking. Rather large, the home was center stage on a corner lot near a hip college district in Syracuse. Beyond the whitewashed paneling and stripped pillars, the vibrant wooden windows were the masterpieces that caught the eye. Double glance and a moment later, all I could do was stare at the colorful statement of community art and social education. Through art murals, this once thriving home turned abandoned corner lot, renewed its thriving energy. What a genius concept. Why leave an old home to rot in the cycles of the seasons and become a landmark worth ignoring when you could transform the process of weathering to impact a community with the addition of art. Taking a closer look, the anonymous artist is onto something real:

ART: controversial, profane, ornate, wonderful, inspiring, funny, beautiful, exciting, pretty, confusing, sacred, savage, majestic, inviting.

This home exemplifies what can happen when art is a key player in the game of daily living. I just wish I knew the owners, I’d like to see the inside! (SH)

Ode to Peanut Butter

SYRACUSE -- Holy smokes, I won!
On Saturday, I received in the mail a very thrilling prize from The Post Standard: a peanut butter cookbook.
The newspaper often gives away cookbooks (check out the weekly food section), but when I sent in my entry – a little card with my name and address -- I didn’t think I’d actually win. I never win anything.
And what a prize! I really dig peanut butter. If stranded on a desert island with only a lunchbox, the two things I’d like to have are orange Gatorade and peanut butter granola bars.
I dig PB in any form. Crunchy, creamy, natural, uber-processed... My favorite ensemble is a slice of wheat toast spread with PB, drizzled with honey and sprinkled with walnuts. Yum!
There have been several periods in my life where my diet consisted primarily of PB&J sandwiches (and yes, I’m down with Smucker’s Goober Grape). And funny enough, the night before I received the cookbook, I had baked one of my all-time faves: peanut butter kisses (PB cookies topped with a Hershey kiss). My mom used to make heaps of them at Christmastime.
So here’s a little PB trivia for you (courtesy of the cookbook, “Peanut Butter Planet” by Robin Robertson):
* The world’s largest PB&J sandwich weighed about 900 pounds.
* Each American eats nearly 4 pounds of peanut butter per year, for a nationwide total of about 8 million pounds.
* November is “Peanut Butter Lovers’ Month.”
* Peanuts are not nuts – they are legumes, like beans and peas.
* People on the East Coast prefer creamy PB; West Coast folks like it crunchy.
Stay tuned for tasty PB recipes. Double-peanut burgers, crudités with spicy peanut dip, coconut-peanut butter wonton cups with fresh mango… oh, what to whip up first?! (JM)

Summer of the Braids

SYRACUSE -- Today, I was standing in the grocery store aisle, examining my brown sugar options, when a man in a green T-shirt standing to my left suddenly announced: “Okay, it looks good. I have to admit.”
Huh?
“I don’t know how long it took,” he continued, slightly nodding his head, “but it looks really cool.”
Ohhhh, I thought. The braids. While I was busy studying baking ingredients, this middle-aged, partially bald white man was studying my hair.
I’ve been sporting this ’do for nearly a month now, and for me, the novelty has mostly worn off. I often forget that I have 124 skinny braids – I counted them one night – jutting from my scalp and dangling halfway down my back. But while I might be used to my hair, the rest of the world is not. Every day, people stare and comment. Like the man in the supermarket.
“Hay, thanks,” I told him. “It took a long time.”
I didn’t want to go into it. I’d tell him it took 15 hours, spread over four sessions, and then he’d say, “Wow, how much did that cost?” It was a question I’d grown uncomfortable answering because I didn’t want people passing judgment on how I spend my money. Case in point: When I told my upstairs neighbor my braids cost more than $100, she answered, “Woah. That would buy, like, 180 packages of ramen noodles.”
There have been other odd questions and comments since I had my thick mane braided by Fan-Fan Sadou, a glowing woman from the Ivory Coast who has a braiding shop two doors down from my apartment.
Last weekend, I was in my car, turning left at a busy intersection, when a random guy standing on the corner shouted “I like your hair!” as I drove away. The dean of my school said, while we were standing in line at a breakfast buffet, that my hair looked stunning. He then inquired if one of my parents is African-American. At the opera, a stranger examined me like she would a sculpture or painting, and then exclaimed: “Your braids are exquisite, just exquisite.” Her husband walked up. “Honey, look at her hair,” which he did and, after a moment of perplexion (I know, not a word), said, “Oh yes, it looks terrific!”
Most comments are positive. There was, though, that one encounter when the African-American woman working at a gas station pointed to my head and laughed. But her co-worker, a black man, quickly piped in: “I like it,” he said. “God bless you and come back to visit us.”
I didn’t get my hair braided to make any sort of cultural statement. I did it because I’ve always thought that braids look neat and now -- being a student and all – seemed like the perfect time to go for it. I definitely expected loads of gawks and queries, and for the most part, it doesn’t bother me. Because I’m a white girl with braids, I think other white folks feel comfortable inquiring about things they’ve always wondered about but would never ask a black person. Some of the questions I’ve fielded:
• “Do you wash your hair?” Answer: yes, once a week, and it takes about four hours to dry.
• “Does it itch?” Answer: Occasionally, and when it does, I spray my scalp with this Jamaican oil blend.
• “Will you have to shave your head?” Answer: Nope. Come mid-September, I’ll just undo the braids and give my hair a good wash and trim.
• “How did your hair get so long?” Answer: Extensions. You can buy fake hair for about $2 a pack at select beauty stores. Fan-Fan just braided it in with my real hair. She singed the end of each braid using a lighter. The melted hair quickly hardens and keeps the braid from unraveling.
• “Did it give you a headache?” Answer: I had a tolerable headache for the first three days. That’s normal.
• “Is it uncomfortable when you sleep?” Answer: Yes, but I’ve gotten used to it.
I was expecting to field questions from the man in the grocery store, but he seemed content to just look at my braids. While he searched for Italian spices and I searched for the perfect brown sugar, he kept glancing at me.
“Hay, see you later,” I said, when I finally walked away. He gave me a solid, parting look. “Yeah,” he answered, smiling and nodding his head. “You have a great day.”
How could I not with this wondrous hair? (JM)

Boom Baby

SYRACUSE – Sarah and I had just left a taqueria when we spotted the pop art mural on the corner on Westcott Street and Harvard Place.
It’s a groovy piece of work, for sure, with its bespeckling of stars and colorful mess of shapes: an old bomber plane, a flamenco dancer with giant gold hoops, a sea-green vulture (or egret?). The whole ensemble is just so peppy.
But what really made my spirit boogie was the name of the women’s clothing store, Boom Babies, scrawled across the lower half of the painting.
“I want to be a boom baby!” I cried out.
I googled the word. I can’t find an official definition, so I’ll make one up.
But first, here’s what a boom baby is not:
1. A boom baby certainly can be, but often is not, a person born during the Baby Boom.
2. A boom baby does not need to possess the power to throw “sonic booms” like the characters in the Street Fighter video game.
3. Although it can’t hurt, a boom baby does not have to enjoy listening to Crystal Method’s album, “Legion of Boom,” or, for that matter, cars that go boom.
My definition of a boom baby: A person who is spunky and sexy. Other traits might include flair, panache, soul, rhythm, verve.
So get your groove on, folks. Be a boom baby. (JM)

Booga Booga

SYRACUSE – It was late afternoon when I knocked on the locked door of the spooky building. “By appointment only,” the little sign read.
I could see a woman pecking away at a computer inside the cluttered front office. She got up and opened the door. Grinning, she agreed to take me on a tour of the International Mask and Puppet Museum, housed in a red-brick Victorian built in 1890.
The eager hostess showed me the lone exhibition room, where dozens of African masks decorated the walls, and a tribal warrior sculpture stood clutching a 10-foot stick. We then headed down to the basement, where two men – one a master puppeteer from Russia – were shaping a giant shoe out of papier-mâché for an upcoming performance. The messy workshop was strewn with oddities – dusty marionettes, a whimsical ostrich costume, a mannequin that resembled an elf.
Next stop: the small, decaying house next door, where piles of puppets filled each musky room. A goat, an evil witch, a praying mantis. And over there, a mound of priests (their faces were made of medical plastic).
Fascinating, but eerie. This is no place I’d want to be on a dark and stormy night. (JM)

Arresting Silhouette

The image was striking: a woman in uniform standing against panes of frosted glass, her gun resting in its holster. She raised her arms, palms outstretched, and paused. Was she giving thanks – or giving up?

Welcome to Project Culture, a production by two kindred spirits who aim to illuminate life’s simple moments.

It’s a brilliant world out there. Explore, embrace, experience.