Riotous Silence & The Sips That Bear Witness
I almost didn’t share this story, but some brave artists showed me that silence stings the soul. Mine was screaming.
I was determined to make November’s Sipping Lovely light and flowy–a kind of eat, pray, love vibe. “Give the people something new,” I told myself. “Give them a new song.” The American government has designated a single day of gratitude where people break bread and laugh and sip and give thanks for all the blessings of the year. Why not participate.
Then I heard Amanda Seales–a comedienne and, what I’d like to call an Instagram Social Justice Professor, address the followers who were encouraging her to step away from the Hamas-Israel war and tend to herself. For weeks, Seales has been posting non-stop content related to the war. When human rights issues come up, she’s usually on the social media frontlines sharing her insight.
Her reaction to what I’m sure was genuine concern for her wellbeing was to remind people that there are no pauses in seasons of crisis. The path towards social change is never convenient or comfortable. It is bloody and unmerciful and almost always built on bodies–the dead and the living.
I recently saw a post actress Susan Sarandon reposted that featured New York Times magazine writers who resigned to protest Gaza coverage. What stood out to me about Jazmine Hughes and Jamie Lauren Keiles in this interview had nothing to do with the Gaza war.
This was the first time I heard the term “contingent labor” as it relates to freelance contributors in journalism.
“Jazmine’s a staffer, but I’m a contributing writer for the magazine which means I don’t have benefits,” said Keiles. “I don’t have any kind of protections, so that’s how most of the journalism is being produced by contingent laborers, and I think there’s this bigger question about if an institution is not willing to give you a job, what do you owe them?”
The question replayed over and over again as I contemplated the 15 years I devoted to freelance writing and contributing compelling content specifically to The Miami Herald with no invitation to be a staff member. Ever. And yes, I asked. Repeatedly. I wasn’t just a food and wine columnist. I contributed to their fashion and lifestyle sections. I was a wine blogger and hotels editor for their miami.com website. I wrote Op-Eds, including the one about the Charleston Church massacre’s youngest survivor–Tywanza Sanders who tried to talk Dylann Roof out of shooting the parishioners before laying his own body across his great Aunt Susie’s, just before Roof released the remaining bullets into his 26 year old body. A part of the massacre that isn’t widely known, a story I was determined to tell no matter what.
On and on and on. I wrote, I created. Unprotected. These brave artists and writers reminded me that this theme of bodies, belonging, and holding space that reoccurs in most of my work including “Sipping Lovely” is a constant conversation.
Many in my generation, particularly first-generation Americans specifically with roots in the Caribbean, believed you owed these institutions everything. I mean, everything. There was no question about what you owed yourself or what they owed you.
What I’ve come to know is that if you’re an artist, meaning if you don’t participate in creating work that speaks of the time, your soul will scream non-stop until you let “it” out. Saying nothing, writing nothing, painting nothing, carving nothing, posting nothing does not stop the work itself from manifesting. It drums loudly in your heart, stalking your mind until the story is released.
So here I am.
A week ago, a somm-friend invited me to pour wine at a tasting featuring winemakers from the Gigondas region as he was working at a different event. I was pouring wines for a French winemaker who was unable to attend the tasting.
It was a riotously rainy season in Miami, like the meteorologists had missed a hurricane that slipped into South Florida, unannounced and ready for war. The rain didn’t fall. It charged hard and heavy and nonstop, flooding streets instantly, destroying traffic lights, knocking down STOP signs, rising waters, almost knee-high, cars thrashing through continents of water that knocked bodies down.
It wasn’t the ideal time to be navigating these Miami streets, but I arrived at Ampersand Studios near downtown Miami at the designated time. When I arrived at the back door, the woman who was standing there, who was just talking me through how to get to the parking lot over the phone, was gone, so I wasn’t sure where to go.
Ampersand Studios reminded me of those large, industrial art spaces I saw in Brooklyn Heights before I moved back to Miami in 2005. I saw that guests were arriving for the Gigondas Masterclass, and so I followed the slowly building crowd until I saw the PR contact who I was meeting in person for the first time. The tasting tables still weren’t set up yet, so I asked her where I should wait. She pointed to a couple single couches close to the parking entrance. At some point, a young woman who I assumed worked at Ampersand asked me if she could help me, and I told her that I was one of the pourers.
When I arrived at the seating area, I said good morning to the woman sitting on the other single couch, sat down, and got on my phone. A few seconds later, the woman who asked if she could help me earlier, walked right up to me, and said, “My boss asked me to tell you to move. This section is for members only, and you need to migrate…” I’m using quotes here, but honestly, after she used the word, “migrate,” I stopped hearing her.
Was she serious? Was this happening? Racism affects your body. It can affects your senses. The trauma is both immediate and stalled. I do remember laughing awkwardly at some point as she spoke. It had been years since I had gone through a thoroughly racist moment like this one in the wine space.
The room blurred. “Leave.” That was my instinct. “Get the fuck out.” Prior to this moment, I had an intuitive sense that this wasn’t a welcoming space for folks like me. The white guests were greeted with at least, prerequisite politeness, doted on.
But I also was thinking about my friend who referred me to the job. I didn’t want to just walk out and compromise his relationship. This inner-dialogue about what to do continued as I walked towards the front door, the space around me still blurred. What do I do? What do I do?
Then I saw a woman setting up glasses near the entrance and shared my experience with Migrate-Molly. It turned out that she worked with the PR company that hired me. She apologized for the incident and offered to get me some refreshments. I declined her offer but made the decision to stay and pour. We agreed that I would send a detailed account of the incident in an email and take it from there.
With that decision to stay came the shape-shifting that I describe in a piece I wrote for Vinguard Media–”Silence, Shape-Shifting, and The Sips We Dare Not Taste.” When a racist moment happens and enters the body, to survive, to cope, something inside you has to shift. It has to.
I can see it not in the moment but definitely during reflection and meditation. I entered Ampersand Studios the way I enter most spaces–wings spread wide, full of Caribbean color, dance in my hips, always. What Migrate-Molly did was awaken the darkness, rattle the bones inside “Whites-Only” history. I was now a creature of witness. All writers are. As my wings folded behind me, a kind of tiger emerged to keep me safe.
As I poured wine, I saw many people I hadn’t seen in years in Miami’s mainstream wine scene. In between pours, I thought about what I would write in the Migrate-Molly email. What was the outcome I was looking for? Migrate-Molly had already done damage. Was it an apology? An acknowledgement?
For the most part, I was functionally okay though I had no interest in trying any of the wines. My friend Amanda was sending me pictures from Viniesta–another wine event that was happening at the same time. There was music and dancing and Spanish wine pouring. Joy and tumultuous rain. I wanted to be there.
But I smiled and poured and shared an easy vibe with folks who were open to it. The proud father of a young winemaker at the neighboring table, insisted that I taste his wine. He kept repeating that it was 100% grenache. I recall the cashmere texture of the wine but more so the father’s warm smile and his sweet, sweet pride.
As the wine tasting came to a close, the hangers-on stalking remaining bottles, circled in.
“Can I have this?” a man asked about an unopened bottle.
“Oh, It’s not my wine,” I said, directing him to the person who made those decisions.
“Can I just have it?” he asked.
“It’s not mine. I don’t belong here.”
Early the next morning (last Thursday), I sent the email to the PR representatives who said they would share it with Ampersand Studios. I still haven’t gotten a response.
Oh, Dinkinish. You are far too kind in naming that woman migrate- Molly- -- I would probably have doused her in curse words ( on the page) that would be wasted on a person who throws verbal violence to other those she thinks she has the right to treat as less than human. What I love about all your pieces is that you bring us onto the battlefield to sweat and run beside you. But as a white woman, I will never have to fight as hard as you do. I have the choice to look away, to put my hands over my ears. I don’t know what to make of this choice--the best I think I can do is to choose to see and hear you and all other black folk. Then the choice will be clear.