The Blessing of Betrayal

A food and fiction vignette: a story about a small act of rebellion that leads to a bigger life lesson

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! 

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In this vignette, the character portrayed by Omar Victor Diop takes on a supporting role. The main focus shifts to Linda (far right on the photo, blue and white top, cute bob), who finds herself in a little pickle after breaking a promise she made to her mother. Naughty, naughty Linda :)

Also, it’s been a while since I was around 8/9 years old, so forgive me there are moments when Linda’s vocabulary and tone seem a bit, ummm, mature. :)

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The Blessing of Betrayal

“Don’t forget our promise,” Mama whispers in my ear as she smoothes out my scalloped-edged blue and yellow shirt. I nod, trying not to wiggle too much, even though I’m very excited. It’s the first day of school. Me and Sandra are taking the school bus all by ourselves! 

“You’re growing into such a beautiful young lady, Linda,” she says, beaming like a sunflower. Then she runs off to chase Betty and Sandra, who are already making a fuss as usual. 

“There’s a bowl of cornflakes on the table for you”, she sings out as she dashes down the hallway. Since we got back from California, Mama’s been all sparkles and giggles, like a fairy. I think it’s ‘cause of her secret friend Dean. She laughed a lot with him.  

Last night, after tucking in my sisters, Mama slipped into my bed for a snuggle. I used to need her to read me a bedtime story, but since learning to read in Mrs. Hopper's class last year, I don’t need her for that anymore. I like reading myself to sleep, or I make up stories in my head to tell my best friend Belinda. Our names rhyme, which is why we’ve been best friends since forever, like five whole years.

Belinda can’t read too good, but I’m helping her.  Mrs Hopper always says reading and writing are like magic powers. “You can travel the world from wherever you are, and no one can take that away from you,” she tells us. I think it’s true ‘cause my stories take me everywhere.

Mama ran her fingers through my hair. “We had a good vacation, didn’t we, baby girl?”

“We did.”

“And we’re not gonna show off at school about it, right?”

I pouted. “But why can’t I tell Belinda?”

“I love Belinda, but you know she’s gonna tell her mama and then her mama is gonna come back to me with a whole bunch of questions. Questions I don’t wanna answer. Like when me and your Daddy split up.”

“Is it because of Dean?”

Mama’s smile vanished and I felt bad.  “I’m sorry mama, I talked out of turn”, I said. 

She hugged me tightly and looked into my eyes like I was her lifeline. 

“Yes baby, it’s because of Dean”, she sighed into my shoulder. 

“Look at me”, she said. 

“You know how where we live there aren’t many people who look like Dean, but where Dean lives there are so many different people but everyone is happy and it’s all okay”, she said like she was sharing a big secret.

I nodded. “Yeah, mama.” 

“Some people don’t understand that.  But that’s their problem, not ours. “They just don’t know no better”, she whispered, squeezing me tighter.

I smiled, trying to cheer her up. “Yeah, and most of ‘em can’t even read right”. 

She flung her head back and laughed. Big and loud. ‘You know, you got a point there Linda! 

She got serious again though.  “But just to be safe, let’s keep our California adventure between us, okay?”

I nodded. 

“Good. If anyone asks just say we visited family in California. No details.” 

“California. Family. No details”. I said over and over again until I fell asleep. 

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This morning I’m still thinking about the promise while slurping up the last bits of my cornflakes.

‘Hurry up, girls!’ Mama calls, while snatching the strawberry jam from Sandra who is piling it onto her toast. 

‘BUS, BUS!’, Betty s points out the window from her highchair. 

Mama shuttles us out the door, planting quick kisses on our foreheads. “Have a good first day of school, my loves!” 

As soon as I spot Belinda on the bus, I can’t keep it in. I sit beside her and hold her hand.  

“Guess what?” I say, bursting with excitement before telling her everything about California, Dean, and our vacation.

Belind squints at me, skeptical, “Nuh-uh, you lie!” she snaps. 

“I’m not lying”, I say, my heart pounding as I carefully pull out a photo Mama took from my backpack. 

Her eyes go wide when she sees the picture. Suddenly, she grabs the photo and bolts to the front of the bus. “Linda’s mama got a colored boyfriend”, she yells, waving the picture for everyone to see. 

I freeze, my stomach twisting in knots. Please don’t tear it, I silently pray. Everyone crowds around her, pushing and shouting, with the bus driver’s voice piercing through the noise, demanding they sit down.

No one listens. 

The bus screeches to a halt at school. Mrs. Hopper, looking furious, climbs abroad before anyone can run off. 

“What is going on here?”, she demands answers. She swiftly plucks the picture from Belinda’s hand and inspects it. 

‘Belinda, off the bus. NOW!’ Her voice is sharp and direct. Belinda’s face is beet red as she slinks away.

The rest of the kids and the bus driver scatter like ants too, leaving just me and Mrs. Hopper alone on the bus. She clears her throat, her stern expression softening, before letting out a deep sigh as she sits beside me.  I think I wet myself and I want to disappear into the seat.

Running her fingers through my hair, like Mama does, she asks gently, “Linda, honey, does your mother know that you brought this picture to school? 

“No, ma’am”, I whisper, with my head in my palms 

“I don’t think she’d be happy about this, do you?”, her voice is kind and it feels like a weight is pressing down on my throat. 

I shake my head, barely able to get the words out. “No ma’am.” 

She looks at the picture again, this time examining it. “This is a very beautiful picture, Linda”.

But I’m distracted by the kids outside pointing and whispering. I can see Ted, the biggest bully, sticking his tongue out at me, when hot tears start to blur my vision.  

“Ignore them” Mrs. Hopper says softly 

“I can’t”, I choke out, my voice shaking. “They’re my friends”. 

Mrs. Hopper’s face loosens but her voice remains steady.  “Oh Linda, honey, look at how happy you and your sisters are in this picture.” 

I stay quiet. Once I get off the bus and away from the safety of Mrs. Hopper it’s going to be awful, I just know it.  

As if reading my mind, she takes a deep breath,  “Real friends don’t hurt you like this, Linda. Tell me about the picture. Who is the man? What happened?” 

I tell her everything. About Dean, about California, about how free and happy Mama seemed, and how I didn’t want to leave.  

California was like a dream. I can still feel the sun on my skin, the scratchy sand between my toes, and the breeze that made everything light and fun. Mama took the picture that day. We spent the day at the beach and Dean surprised us with ice cream sandwiches. I can still taste the cold, sweet vanilla ice cream between two chewy chocolate chip cookies. It felt perfect, like everything was just right.

Mama floated like a fairy, laughing so much. Everyone was happy. No one whispered or stared at Dean. His friends talked about their travels to places like Europe and Asia. Some of them even spoke different languages! All the things I’d only ever heard about. They treated me like I mattered. It was so different from here. So easy. So fun.

When I’m done telling her, Mrs. Hopper pulls me into a warm hug. “It sounds like you had a beautiful experience, Linda. A life-changing experience that many people will never get to have.” 

I look up at her, confused. 

“Some people don’t understand that things are different from what they’re used to, Linda,” she says. “We’re all human beings, regardless of skin color, religion, or any other arbitrary dividers that society has led us to believe matter. They don’t. While we’re here on this earth, we must treat each other with love and respect. And that’s a courageous thing to do when we’re encouraged to do the opposite.” 

I’m not sure what she means, but I nod anyway.

She lets out another deep sigh, then looks me square in the eyes, “You’ve received a precious gift, Linda. A ticket out of small-town mentality.  You must not waste this chance. Experience the world. Embrace all of its wonders and differences. Run and don’t look back.” 

Her words hit me like a clap of thunder. I finally get it. Belinda isn’t really my friend, and I don’t need to hold onto people who are mean and make fun of me. I can be like the caterpillar we learned about, it transformed into a butterfly. And butterflies don’t stay in one place. They fly wherever they want. 

Mrs. Hopper hands the picture back to me.  I gently slip it into my backpack. I step off the bus with my head held high, ignoring the whispers and giggles as they fade into the background. 

Today isn’t just the first day of school. It’s the first day of a new me. 

An ice cream sandwich that was more than a simple sweet treat.