While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

When I said yes.

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Joe’s dad gave us his camera card last weekend so we could import some of his wedding photos. While we were browsing through pictures we found a VIDEO of Joe’s proposal at our housewarming party a year ago. Baffled, we watched the video and squealed with nervous delight as I stood – at the urging of Joe – in the middle of our living room and obliviously thanked everyone for attending our party. Of course almost everyone in that room knew what was coming except me. How they all managed to keep their mouths shut I’ll never know. How I, a journalist with extraordinarily perceptive spidey senses, managed to not figure out it I’ll never know.

It was without a doubt, the greatest surprise of my life.

Have you ever been so surprised your heart falls out out of your chest and flops like a fish on the floor? Have you ever been so shocked you lose all ability to express yourself? The muscles in your face and the chemicals in your brain fail to communicate, or they simply communicate too much, causing what country folks refer to as a deer-in-headlights reaction? If you’ve ever been there, you know what I mean.

I witnessed this first hand when my mother threw my father a surprise 50th birthday party last December in North Collins. My sisters and I were all there, hiding in the shadows of a banquet hall, waiting for our father to walk unknowingly into his own belated birthday party, a party he thought was for my mother’s 2nd cousin. PK and I of course flew from Florida to be there and I swear when we ran out screaming “SURPRISE,” my father looked like he was going to faint. 

Joe and I rarely talked about marriage during our courtship. We started dating in March. Got an apartment together in November and bought a house one year later. We weren’t the kind of couple that fantasized about our wedding. We never tossed around dates or looked at engagement rings. I never told him whether I preferred one cut of diamond over another and he never asked. There were other less serious things to do and talk about, so instead we did and talked about those things.

Until Nov. 22, 2008, when Joe pulled out his great-grandmother’s wedding ring and asked me to marry him in front of everyone we knew. It was better this way. I trust my gut better than I trust any other part my body, so when I said yes I meant it. 

His parents were in the living room too that night and apparently someone recorded the whole thing. We had no clue the video existed until three nights ago. I hope you find it as suspenseful as we do!

—

In other news …

  • Remember Ricci and Mbaye? They’re getting married Dec. 12, 2009 in Dakar, Senegal. Way to go, R&M!
  • Tomorrow Joe’s brother Phil, Terrence Duncan and Alex Pickett will embark on a one-month, cross-country documentary filmmaking project. For all the wildly creative and inspiring details, visit routesmusic.com. Way to go, PTA!

A post for Ricci’s 26th birthday

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This is Ricci and Mbaye.

If you’ve met them, you know they’re a pretty dynamic couple.
Ricci moved to Senegal a year ago.
To say she moved there “to find herself,” would totally undersell her career ambitions and gut instincts.
She’s a remarkable photographer with an adventurous soul. And like all of us, she settles into comfort zones and second guesses her impulses, of which she has many.
When we were both journalists living in downtown Sarasota, Ricci would frolic around my shanty cottage in her bathing suit, reminiscing about the beach picnic we had just had as if it had happened 30 years ago. I suppose it’s because she knows a good thing when she’s got it. That, and she’s grateful for moments. Not stuff.
But Ricci utterly thrives when she’s plucked herself out of a comfort zone. Some flowers live OK in the shade but blossom in the sun. Such is the case with the Ricci species.
Last January, the night before her flight to Dakar, Ricci called me to debate her decision to move to West Africa.
“Buck up,” I said. “Board the GD plane. Africa was all you could talk about for months. If you turn around now, you’ll have shackled your brilliant whims and awesome plans to fear and anxiety.”
In truth, I wasn’t that eloquent and Ricci called several friends that day who were all likely to say jump, so of course she boarded the plane. Had she dialed my German grandmother I’m afraid she’d have accepted a full-time job as a staff writer for a magazine in Chicago with medical, dental and a 401K.
So Ricci moved to Dakar and worked as a correspondent/photographer for Voice of America, a radio and television broadcasting service governed by the United States and stationed in countries around the word.
And so it was, that as my life became increasingly domestic hers became fiercely independent. At night I’d browse her blog, blown away by the pictures – Bill Clinton on an AIDS mission, the president of Iran at an Islamic Summit, men in wheelchairs playing basketball, big-bellied women stirring vats of cous-cous, children sliding off the backs of beached whales, goats getting slaughtered in the street …
I was so proud of her – mostly for politely stomaching goat intestine soup – that tears wet my laptop. Every now and then she’d post a picture of herself, and even in a headscarf and dusty pants I could tell she was euphoric.
Then she met Mbaye, a soccer player with a come-what-may attitude and contagious smile. They dated for nine months in Dakar and then Ricci moved back to Chicago.

A month later she flew back to Dakar. By Thanksgiving she and Mbaye were back in the states – Mbaye for the first time in his life.

Rather than explain any of this I’ll dig up an old e-mail written by Ricci in bullet-point fashion, as I’m sure she was writing it while filing a story about Senegalese scrabble champions, while photographing a sword-juggling monkey, while carrying on a conversation (in French) with a soothsayer, while daydreaming of malted milkshakes.

Heids,
Filed the story and now ready to file my story with you.
  • have bought plane ticket back to states for sept. 17. this freaks me out, because i do not want to truly leave to dakar.
  • also have plane ticket back to dakar, where i will stay from oct. 20 — nov. 22 (i have some work to do here at that time)
  • my boy and i are going to the us embassy next wed. to apply for a visitor visa so he can come here and meet the fam. we’re SO nervous. i’m scared of the us government. if they say no, i guess we’ll just have to get married so he can come visit. (do NOT get me started on the ridiculousness of this process. i’m actually documenting it (via words).. it’s SO convoluted and feels like some ridiculous Willy Wonka-type, bureaucratic scavenger hunt. Just so he can come VISIT!!) our country blows sometimes.
Not one to stop at a visitors visa, Ricci contacted a sports agent in the U.S., who arranged for Mbaye to try out for several soccer teams on the East Coast. In between tryouts they stayed with me for a weekend in St. Pete.

I interviewed the couple earlier this month on a sun-drenched stretch of interstate on route to Sarasota. Since Mbaye speaks only French and Wolof – his native Senegalese language – and since the only French sentence I know goes something like, “Ohh la la j’ai une rendevous avec David dans 20 minutes …” I asked Ricci to translate.

Note: Unless Mbaye gets signed to an American soccer team he will have to return to Dakar in May.

—

Mbaye, are you nervous about your soccer tryout next week?
(Ricci translates)
“He says he’s a little nervous because he doesn’t know who he’s going to meet and if they’ll be as nice as they were last time.”

Ricci, are you nervous?
“I’m nervous about him flying by himself, about him getting lost at the airport or something.”

You don’t feel the fate of your relationship hangs on whether or not he makes the team?
“I just have to think we’re going to work it out no matter what happens. If he makes the team, great. If he doesn’t we’ll figure something out.”

Have your communication skills improved, dating someone who doesn’t speak English?
“If we have a fight — and it’s usually me who gets mad because he rarely gets mad — I want to make sure I say how I feel correctly in French. And after I go through it in my head I realize if I can’t explain it simply in terms he can understand, then it’s probably not worth getting mad over because it’s convoluted and more my problem than his.”

You’ve learned to not overreact.
“There’s a level of communication that has to be there because sometimes when you speak the same language, you just assume what somebody means when they say something. For us, when I say something, it’s like this is what I’m saying, but this is what I mean.”

What do you guys fight about?
(Translates into French for Mbaye)
Ricci: “I don’t think we’ve had a big blow-out fight.”
(Mbaye interrupts in French.)
Ricci: “Oh yeah. We had one in Senegal.”
(Mbaye again.)
Ricci: “It was over money.”
(Mbaye again.)
Ricci: “And we got in one once when we got in a car and I didn’t know where I was going. I was freaking out and he was l like, ‘Don’t freak out you’re going to get in an accident.’”

Is that his role? To calm you down?
“Oh yeah.”

(Ricci laughs. Translates into French.)

Mbaye (in broken English): “She is never calm.”

Ricci: “One time I was calm and peaceful and he was like, ‘What’s wrong?’ and I said, ‘Nothing, why?’ And he said, ‘When the volcano is quiet one must question why.’”

Did Mbaye have anxiety about coming to the United States?
“He worried that my friends were going to think he was different or maybe not a good guy. He wasn’t afraid that they would be mean. He just figured they’d act weird around him.”

Did we act weird?
(Translates)
“He says no. He says all my friends were so nice and took such good care of him.”

Does he have a favorite American food?
(Translates)
“He says he has a stomach he doesn’t understand. It accepts everything that goes into it.”

How has your relationship changed in the United States?
“In Africa he knew how to get around and he knew the language and I was the person who didn’t know what was going on. If we’d have to get something done, he would know exactly what to do and I wouldn’t even ask questions. In Africa we never spent the night together. There were days we wouldn’t see each other. And here, I don’t think we’ve been apart more than an hour — once when he flew to Charleston for a tryout. I was worried at first that we would get sick of each other, but we’ve gotten along better the more we’re together.”

(Translates into French for Mbaye.)

“He says the relationship is better here. When we were apart I’d call him 20 times a day.”

Because your insecurities are magnified when you’re apart. That’s pretty normal, I think.
“Yeah. We fought more in Senegal than we do here.”

Were you worried Mbaye wouldn’t adapt to American shizzle?
“I was worried he might get homesick, but I wasn’t worried about him adapting at all.”

(In lousy French) Le Ikea pullout couch etait-il comfortable la nuit?
Mbaye: “Tres comfortable.”

Ricci, how would you describe your relationship with Mbaye?
“It’s easy. It’s almost like … I don’t know … I’m happy. Girls always say, ‘I want to find The One. I want to find The One,’ and when you think about it, it’s like, oh this is it. Anticlimactic is the wrong word because it has a negative connotation, but I don’t know … it just feels good.”

Finding The One was less dramatic than you thought.
“Yes, I guess.”

The people in your life better be comfortable around cameras. Does Mbaye ever tire of being your model?
“He loves it. He always jokes he’s the poorest model in the world.”

Is it frustrating for him to not be able to communicate with your friends?
(Translates)
“He says he’s not frustrated. He’s sorry he can’t speak English but the fact that people try to talk to him is the most important thing. He says there’s a lot a smile and hand gestures can communicate.”

In what ways is this relationship different than others you’ve had?
“Well, we don’t speak English and we’re biracial. Those are the obvious ways it’s different. He makes me a better person. I feel like I have to be a better person because he raises the bar for me. Sometimes I’m like, but what do I do for you?”

How has the biracial thing played out?
“I have a lot of friends who date Senegalese men, but it’s also like ‘he’s with her because she has money and connections. Or, ‘he’s using her to get further or whatever.’ Someone said to me once when we were applying for a visa – ‘how do you know he’s not just using you for the visa?”

That’s a rotten thing to say.
“First of all I said, ‘He wouldn’t do that because he’s a good guy and an honest person.’ Second of all, there’s a level of trust in every relationship. How do you know your girlfriend is not cheating on you? You have to trust people are who they say they are in any relationship.”

But generally you haven’t felt discriminated against?
“Most of my friends are super liberal and accepting. I’m sure there are some people who have problems with it but then it’s like, it’s not your relationship. I’d rather be with him and have these kinds of problems than be with somebody who doesn’t make me happy and have people look at us like we are – quote – normal.”

True dat.
“I feel like most of our problems are the world’s problems, not our problems.”

And what does Mbaye think?
(Translates)
“He says people look at us strangely because we’re beautiful.”
—

PS. The picture above was taken during a turkey sammie picnic on St. Pete Beach. For a glorious list of sammie recipes click here.

Meet Ricci.

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My friend Ricci is a bit of an inspiration. She’s reading this so I’ll refrain from using clichés. When we first started at the same newspaper in Sarasota we were instructed by the editor to avoid clichés like the plague.

Like the plague.

The first time I set out to write a novel I started a chapter about Ricci that went something like …

“She was frazzled. Maybe she was nervous, or the opposite of nervous. Now that I know her, I know she’s what my father would call a sparkplug, but like the blue scooter she bought one month earlier from a man in North Sarasota, sometimes Ricci’s would misfire. When that happened if we were there for her, she’d be OK. On her first day of work she took out a watermelon, sliced it in half, pulled out a shaker of salt and doused it right there at her desk.”

We became fast friends. We signed up for salsa-dancing classes. We swam opposite laps in the same lane at the YMCA pool. At Halloween we carved disturbing faces into pumpkins. We took photographs of each other jumping in the air for no reason other than the pictures looked cool. We drank two-for-one vodka cranberry tumblers at the same bar downtown. When I started riding a bike, Ricci got one too. We shared clothes. We fought. The worst fight we ever had was on top of the Ringling Bridge and I swear on my father’s temper, I never fought with anyone like I did with Ricci that day. We yelled at a decibel so fierce passing coots on Bird Key shot us the stink eye. Then we moved on.

We canoed. We kayaked. I dragged her to cheesy films. She dragged me to dark arty films. We sat for hours on Shell Beach reading magazines and gossiping. We dissected each other like 8th graders skinning bullfrogs. I was 23 and she was 22.

When Ricci announced last year she was moving to Africa I never doubted it. Senegal, she said. Dakar, to be exact. She had a plan, but it was a Ricci plan. She’d photograph Senegalese women and freelance for any outfit that would pay while living with an African family in the city. She’d live there for three months, return to the states, move to Chicago and start working for American newspapers again. Two months in she called me using another American journalist’s international cell phone.

“Any word on when you’re come back?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m going to extend my stay.”

It’s been six months. She’s back in town for just a week to shoot a wedding in Jacksonville. My grill master friend Roger threw her a BBQ Wednesday night and because Ricci’s a tough one to tie down for more than 15 minutes I managed a partial interview. 

—
Distracted by a pan of fudge brownies being passed around, she snatches one and says, “They don’t have brownies in Africa. Do you know how special this is? Wait. Are you writing this? Don’t write this. They probably have brownies in Africa.”

What American thing do you miss the most?
R: Diet Mountain Dew.
(Roger butts in and says, “That’s a direct affront to me because I forgot to buy you Diet Mountain Dew for the party.”)

R: Yes. 

What was your biggest worry on the flight back to Sarasota?
R: That I’d be that girl. The ‘This one time in Africa’ girl.’

Yeah, because you know in a room full of journalists we’ve got no tolerance for self promoters.
R: It’s a lot easier though. I don’t talk as much as I used to. In Africa I don’t speak the language fluently so I guess it’s easier for me to stay quiet now.

Has anything changed here in the six months you’ve been gone? (Roger butts in again and says, “Yeah, I got better looking.”)
R: Yes. Roger got better looking.

How do you describe Sarasota to your peeps in Senegal?
R: There’s a lot of money and a lot of white people in Sarasota who don’t dance well. I have a proven theory – the more oppressed you are the better you dance. Dancing and money are inversely related.

What’s it like buying the necessities in Senegal. Like tampons?
R: There are too many choices here. I don’t deal well with decisions, you know that. In Senegal it’s like you have one brand. One choice. I prefer that.

What’s the most annoying response you’ve gotten from people in the states?
R: The jokes about Islam.

Do you rock that yellow dress in Senegal?
R: The lady I buy vegetables from gives me a hard time if I show my knees.

Is it weird as a journalist to come home to journalists?
R: Being around journalists … you guys listen better. Not to sound like a jerk or anything, but journalists are better listeners. I think there is a greater appreciation here for stories. Nobody’s eyes are glazing over when they see me.

Do the Senegalese have dogs?
R: No. There are no cute dogs over there. Mangy, mangy dogs. Nobody really has pets. Some foreigners have dogs. My friend has a dog but he keeps him on the roof. They’re not as nice to their dogs as we are over here. They kind of have a lot more shit to deal with, you know? Dogs aren’t extensions of their lives.

That’s a direct affront to me. And the pug.
R: Sorry it’s true.

What’s the nastiest thing you ate?
R: The goat intestine. That process … it was … well, to see the goat alive, being killed, dead and then eaten. I don’t know. It was weird because the night before the goat was killed I had a dream that I died.

Did you use a fork to stab the goat innards?
R: Everyone eats with their hands. But it’s like whenever they pray their hands must be clean and since they’re Muslims they pray fives times a day. The cab drivers keep sanitizer in their cars. And with eating you usually end up eating with everyone out of one giant bowl. At first it bothered me but it doesn’t anymore. Not after I realized how clean everyones hands are.

What’s the crapper like?
I peed in a hole in the ground when I was staying with Mama’s family. There was no shower curtain. The bathroom was all tiled. It’s like a self-cleaning vehicle. The water and soap from the shower washes everything in the room. I hate shower curtains now.
You’re mostly the same Ricci. But you’ve changed somehow …
R: I’m more calm now. I’ve got more faith not just in God, but in myself.

Epilogue: Ricci takes spectacular pictures. Some photographers get lucky. Not Ricci. She’s a wrangler. She stands on chairs. She climbs trees. She lies on streets. She zooms in on faces. She zooms out on action. Expressions are the hardest thing to capture and Ricci does it consistently. When pictures aren’t contrived, imagine for a second what the person taking them looks like. When Ricci takes pictures she looks like a chipmunk hunting for nuts, then storing them in her cheeks before winter.
The photo above is by Ricci. For more like it visit Ricci Media.