Gaines and Graces
A food and fiction vignette: A story of change and defiance.
I originally posted this series on Instagram last year, but inevitably it has become buried, and I want to breathe new life into it and get more eyes on it. It’s a bit of a change from the usual writing I share, but it’s good to switch things up sometimes, no?
In November 2023, I spent an afternoon at the Paris Photo Fair with my very good friend, photographer Alejandra Hauser. The moment we arrived at the temporary Grand Palais space, she couldn’t stop talking about a photo series she was sure I’d love.
And she was right. To say that I was blown away by this collaboration and the work that came from it is an understatement.
In the photo series “Being There”, photographer Omar Victor Diop worked with visual artist Lee Schulman to insert himself into the white, privileged, American world of birthdays, graduations, vacations, dinners, and various other celebrations during the 1950s and 60s; a time fraught with segregation.
As a Black person who often navigates white spaces, I couldn’t help but wonder: what if these photographs were real? Under what context could a Black man be a part of this world back then? WHAT’S THE STORY BE HERE? OMAR ARE YOU OKAY???? 🗣️🗣️🎙️🎙️
Inspired by these questions, I decided to create the stories. I chose a few photos from the collection and wrote little vignettes for each. I also prepared the dishes featured in each vignette. Why? Well, because I’m me and it wouldn’t be a Sutanya production if food wasn’t involved someway, somehow.
Over the next four days, I’ll publish a new vignette each day to get into the rhythm of using this Substack and staying consistent. I originally wrote five, but depending on your response, I may write more. :)
I hope you enjoy reading the vignettes as much as I enjoyed writing them!
GAINES AND GRACES
“Mary Lou, you know I don't have a problem with different people as long as they’re God-fearing and honest”, my mother said to me as I added 1-inch squares of softened butter to chunky mashed potatoes one by one.
“What makes Richard different, mother?”, I responded without looking at her, my gaze firmly focused on the crispy bacon I was now chopping into bite-sized pieces. “He has a family, like me; a college education, like me; ambitions, like me; he goes to church, more than me, actually.”
Ignoring me and making the sign of the cross, she continued, “And your poor father, how do you think he’s handling all of this?”.
Coincidence or divine intervention answered when the kitchen door swung open and in walked my beaming father addressing his audience in the living room, “I’ll get us some cold ones while the women finish up in the kitchen!”
“That Richard sure does know his football”, he said to my mother before kissing my forehead, the way he always did when I was a little girl. When my chest would tighten and my breathing became labored right before a talent show, a science fair, or any situation where I was forced to assert myself.
As my father exited with his beers in sauntered Aunt Shirley, my mother’s younger sister and staunch family agitator. Leaning against the sink, martini glass in hand she announced, “My glass is empty”.
“Can’t you wait until dessert to get drunk?”, my mother snapped.
Without missing a beat, Aunt Shirley continued, “ And to think, earlier today I was dreading coming to one of your wretched dinners. What a night this has turned out to be!” She let out a delighted squeal before sashaying out of the kitchen with her still-empty martini glass.
I was washing the soapy dishwater off my hands when Richard’s honey-baritone voice bounced off the walls, “Excuse me, Mrs. Gaines, do you and Mary Lou need help?”
A shiver raced down my spine, jolting me upright and sending a pulse of electricity through my chest. His voice, smooth yet commanding, seemed to curl around the room, wrapping itself in the space. I turned slowly, my hands still wet.
My mother, surprisingly flustered, cleared her throat, “I think we’re fine, but it seems I’ve made a mess of my skirt. Let me go make myself presentable before we sit at the table” she responded before scurrying away.
Taking Aunt Shirley’s place against the sink, he traced my hand with his fingers before leaning in and whispering, “Should we be scared of how well this is going?”
“I think so”, I whispered, a slight smile spreading across my face.
He grinned, leaning closer, “What if your mother’s upstairs reporting a house full of crazy people to the police?”
“Stop it, silly!”
His voice softened and dropped an octave, “You’re real pretty in that blue dress,” he purred softly against my ear, pulling me gently toward him.
Just as the air thickened around us, my father’s voice boomed from the living room, “Richard, you’re missing the game!”.
The prelude to a stolen kiss interrupted.
At the table, I sat nestled between Richard and my father, with my mother directly across from me and Aunt Shirley in front of Richard. After we said grace, much to my mother’s chagrin, Aunt Shirley dramatically cleared her throat, “We must commemorate this historical moment!”, she declared.
Turning to her long-suffering husband, Uncle Paul, she insisted, “Use your fancy camera to take a picture. We have to send this to LIFE magazine!”
A wave of relief washed over me, quickly followed by a spark of hope when Uncle Paul didn’t question or try to dissuade her. I knew that with the flash of his camera, he would capture the evening the Gaines family redeemed themselves and changed their legacy forever.
The night we transformed.
With a gentle motion, he removed his camera from its shiny black leather case, bent down, and positioned himself with a practiced ease.
“Alright now, big smiles all around! No sourpusses allowed.”
There should be a “love” button to hit for this. I love the improved photo by these artists and the additions you made to create a bigger picture. It even made me cry. I can’t wait to see more.