Playing Nice
A food & fiction vignette: a story about being faced with one's own assumptions and discomfort.
I originally posted this series on Instagram last year, but inevitably it has become buried, and I want to edit it, 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 good friend, photographer Alejandra Hauser. From 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 1960s, 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 daily 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!
The tension in this photograph captured my attention. The juxtaposition of the visibly uncomfortable older white couple next to a Black man trying very hard to suppress his smirk was too good not to dig into.
Playing Nice
The stately yet restrained design of Harold (Hal) and Marjorie Reynolds’ colonial-style home perfectly mirrored their personalities: elegant, dignified, and deeply committed to service, with hospitality as a virtue they took especially seriously.
From his chestnut brown LA-Z Boy chair Hal looked up from the newspaper, “I gotta remember to ask Alphonse about how they deal with colored people over in Europe.”
“Do they even have colored folk over there?”, he wondered out loud.
Marjorie’s exasperated voice drifted in from the kitchen, “Please Hal, now promise me you won’t bore our dinner guest with politics talk all night.”
“It’s civil rights this, civil rights that! We done got rid of the plantations. What more do they want?!” His voice rose in pitch and with increased irritation.
“Hal! Your blood pressure! Come get some sweet tea.” She set a glass on the counter, watching him lumber over before giving him a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Extra sugar to calm you down,” she whispered with a playful smile.
If there was anything Hal hated more than sweet tea that wasn’t sweet enough, it was an uppity Negro. He preferred when things were in order. A time when people knew their places and stayed there.
Lucky for him, he had no idea that Alphonse was both uppity and a Negro.
Marjorie fidgeted around the kitchen with nervous energy. She had been planning this dinner for weeks, and her excitement extended beyond their home. The Bridge Club, the cashier at Medlen’s grocery store, the hairdresser, and even the mailman knew about her grand European guest and the song she’d been practicing on the piano.
“Do you have everything you need for tomorrow night?”, Hal asked, snapping her out of a trance. His lingering longer than usual, pot-lifting, stew-tasting, floor-sweeping, and asinine question asking raised her suspicions.
“Why are you still in my kitchen, Hal?”, she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Alphonse called to say he’d freshen up at the hotel after this flight before coming over.”
Marjorie tapped her foot on the linoleum floor, her intuition heightened. After forty-five years of marriage, she knew when Hal was holding something back.
“Ok…and?”
“I canceled his hotel reservation,” Hal confessed.
Marjorie’s jaw dropped. “You did what?!”
“I figured he’d be better off here with us. After such a long journey you need a real home. Why sleep in some impersonal hotel when he could be with friends?”
“And it didn’t occur to you to mention this before, Harold Reynolds? He arrives tomorrow!”
The following evening, as she fluffed the throw pillows, the piercing doorbell startled her. The usual aggressive shrill took on a blood-curdling and ominous tone.
“He’s here!” she mouthed to Harlod before running to the door to greet their guest. She opened it to find a tall, lean Black man in a tailored suit. His hand was extended, inviting a handshake, but Marjorie’s eyes scanned the horizon behind him, waiting for a dashing, exotic white European to appear from the distance.
“He didn’t mention anything about having a driver”, she thought to herself. He glanced back, puzzled, before addressing her in flawless English with an obvious French lilt.
“Are we expecting more guests for dinner, Mrs. Reynolds?” His meticulously articulated words hung in the air, as he extended his hand again.
Marjorie’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “Hal….”
Hal arrived with a stern look. “Young man, how can I help you?”
Alphonse chuckled. “Ah, Harold! I didn’t realize we were starting our dinner with such flattery.
Hal and Marjorie exchanged a wide-eyed look.
Thrown completely off guard, Hal stuttered, “You…you…you’re Alphonse?” As if he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.
“Yes, delighted to finally meet you both and to have dinner with you and your lovely wife. I don’t think I caught your first name, madame.”
Alphonse broke the shell-shocked silence that descended on the threshold as he opened his briefcase. “I wasn’t sure what’s on the menu, but I brought a beautiful red wine to share.”
Wanting to avoid any unnecessary comments or probing questions from their neighbors, Hal cleared his throat, put on a brave face, and invited Alphonse inside.
“Come on in, Alphonse. Marjorie made some deviled eggs as an appetizer. You have those over where you’re from? Do you think that’ll go with your wine?”
Alphonse gently stepped past Majorie into the foyer, giving her a wink and a smile.
“Yes, I think they’ll do just fine.”
Marjorie stood frozen in the doorway dazed still processing the reality of their guest, watching in slow-motion as he comfortably settled into her living room.
“I tried to check into the hotel, but they said you called earlier and canceled my reservation because you insisted that I stay with you. Thank you for your thoughtful hospitality.” Alphonse’s voice was warm, though his eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he watched their reactions.
Hal, desperate to shift the focus, snapped at Marjorie, “Stop standing there like you’ve seen a ghost. Come in here and play us something nice!”
Marjorie slowly closed the door, her fingers trembling as she walked over to the piano. With a deep breath, she began to play the song she’d been practicing for weeks. The chords hung heavily in the air.
A melody of long-held beliefs unraveling one note at a time.
