Last Week, I posted a letter that I sent to the Cheesecake Factory
that basically blasted them for a awful, yet pricey experience that I had there over the weekend.
Well, I'm not feeling completely satisfied, but I am glad to report that someone from the Cheesecake Factory's guest relations contacted me to discuss what I detailed in the letter. Well, the young woman was quite apologetic. And I have to admit that she sounded quite sincere. Her employer should be quite proud of her. This young lady spoke to me in the most sincere, humble, gracious voice a person can use. AndI'm not going to say it worked, but I certainly felt compelled to decrease my angst for the restaurant.
Plus, she said she was going to send me some gift cards. And you know that certainly helps the heart, pocketbook, and the tummy feel more gracious and inclined to forgive.
She said I should be receiving a letter and gift cards in the mail. Let's see how they try to fix this one up. I'll be sure to keep you guys updated, especially you, Renea.
Peace out,
Angie
*****
New Update: I got my $100 giftcard in the mail. Maybe the Cheesecake Factory ain't so bad after all. LOL
BTW: I mentioned within the comment section on another post about the flying cockroach that visited us when I was eating lunch at the Red Lobster. Well, the Red Lobster guest relations sent me a $15 gift card to cover the lunch that I didn't get a chance to eat because of my lost appetite, thanks to the humongous roach.
I've learned from being apart of the Afrosphere that writing a nice little letter really does produce results from time to time.
Peace
Friday, September 28, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Blind For Real
Last week, I was standing in front of the entrance of the mall, waiting for my sister, who had walked away to give someone directions to the nearest hospital. As I was waiting, this clueless woman walked up to me and asked me if I could please help her read a telephone number off a sheet of paper she had in her hand. She said, and I quote. “Ma’am, can you please read this number for me. I can’t see if this is a 5 or what. I might as well be blind.”
Well, I knew that my response to the lady was going to embarrass her. But I had to go ahead and break the truth off to her,but in a polite manner, of course.
I tilted my head to the side, smiled, and said, “I’m sorry; I can’t read that for you. I’m blind for real.”
The lady nearly fainted. She was all embarrassed and everything. The next thing you know she started apologizing over and over. “I am so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
While she was apologizing over and over, I was laughing over and over.
I don’t know why I was laughing at the woman in her face. I already knew she was going to be embarrassed once I informed her that she was asking a blind woman to see something for her sighted behind. But I couldn’t help it. It was just funny to me. So, I laughed.
Thankfully, my sister walked up and saved the woman from her failing eyes and my shameless giggling.
My life is so not boring. The unique experiences never stop coming.
Well, I knew that my response to the lady was going to embarrass her. But I had to go ahead and break the truth off to her,but in a polite manner, of course.
I tilted my head to the side, smiled, and said, “I’m sorry; I can’t read that for you. I’m blind for real.”
The lady nearly fainted. She was all embarrassed and everything. The next thing you know she started apologizing over and over. “I am so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
While she was apologizing over and over, I was laughing over and over.
I don’t know why I was laughing at the woman in her face. I already knew she was going to be embarrassed once I informed her that she was asking a blind woman to see something for her sighted behind. But I couldn’t help it. It was just funny to me. So, I laughed.
Thankfully, my sister walked up and saved the woman from her failing eyes and my shameless giggling.
My life is so not boring. The unique experiences never stop coming.
A Letter I sent to the Cheesecake Factory
This afternoon, I thought it would be a good idea to take my mother, who has been recovering from a stroke to dinner and to visit with family, who she hasn’t seen since her disabling stroke. We decided to go to dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, which is about 25 miles from my home. She has never gone. But it's one of my favorite restaurants. I was confident that my mother would enjoy the food, the service, and the atmosphere of your fine establishment, the same as I have for many years. Sadly, shortly after arriving at the Cheesecake, not only were my mother's expectations shattered, I, along with my father and sister, were highly disappointed as well.
For starters, we were seated by a very nice, yet interesting young man. After he sat us, he offered each of us menus. Being that I am totally blind, and I frequent your restaurant often, I asked the host to bring me a Braille menu, a service that I know you guys have available for your blind customers. Well, he said, "A Braille menu?" I replied, "Yes, a Braille menu?" Strangely enough, he repeated his initial question about two more times. He said, “What is Braille?”
Finally, my dad informed him that Braille is for the blind. My dad further explained that Braille is what the blind read instead of print. Boom, the host got it. His response to the lesson he had got from my father was an apology and an admission of his ignorance. And I mean that literally. The host actually smiled and chuckled and said, "I'm sorry... I'm quite ignorant." I’m glad that he understood that his lack of knowledge is indeed ignorance in its finest display.
Well, the young man brought the Braille menu out. And I decided to look over the fact that we had to spend a couple of minutes educating the host regarding blind people and Braille. Plus, I wanted to get to the food. I figured I would let that entire interaction slide for the moment. However, I was making a mental note to contact your corporate office and suggest that you offer diversity and disability awareness to your staff. (Contract me… I’ll be glad to do it.)
The second thing that happened in your fine establishment was what sent me over the edge. The waiter came out and asked our drink orders. Then this young man, that you guys have hired to do a competent job, brought the drinks back to the table, but failed to place them on the table. He dropped a glass of tea on my mother's shoulder, causing the heavy glass to strike her and then the tea wasted all over her shoulder, chest, stomach and lap. That accident was out of line. My mother's outfit was ruined and also her experience.
However, I can deal with accidents. Although we don't expect waiters to do such a thing as he did, I understand that we, humans, are not perfect. But what drove me to utter anger was his response. He tried to play it down and act like it was nothing. He kept saying, "Oh, the drink wasted. It's okay... I'll get another one." It's okay? You'll get another one? I would think that he would be profusely apologizing for the fact that my mother was sitting in a nice restaurant soaked by a glass of tea, long before her food order was even taken.
Then what put the whip cream on the cheesecake, this waiter that was hired by you to do a professional wait job, said and I quote. "Do you feel refreshed now?"
I was outraged. Here was my mother, a newly disabled woman due to a massive stroke, being taunted by a waiter that had wasted a glass of tea on her. Did she feel refreshed? What?! Refreshed?! I found that so called joke to be rude, insensitive, and utterly disrespectful.
I immediately asked for the manager. Well, the manager came out; I explained what had just transpired. Well, the manager only apologized to us for the waiter’s “little booboo. After the manager seemed to offer us nothing other than an apology, I told the manager that my mother’s dinner should be on the house. I explained that she doesn’t get out often due to illness and extensive disability, and that she was soaked in sticky tea, which was making her cold. Well, the manager agreed to discount our ticket by not charging us for my mother’s meal.
Well, it took forever for the waiter to come back and take our dinner orders. And then after he finally took the order, it took even longer for the entrees to come to the table.
My mother was freezing at this point. And I was fuming for a few reasons.
A. I was mad that it was taking so long for the food to come.
B. I was mad that my mother was cold and wet while she was waiting for the food.
C. I was mad that we had to either go back home for her to change clothes, or I had to go inside the mall to buy her an outfit in order to continue with our plans to go and see my mother’s sister after dinner.
D. I was mad that I was mad. FYI, my experience at the Cheesecake Factory is expected to be pleasant and enjoyable. I didn’t plan to spend my evening angry. I left my house, planning to spend money, not unhappy emotions.
E. I was mad that my father and sister, who were also first time customers in your restaurant, were annoyed by the level of service. I had hoped that they would also enjoy the dinner and experience.
Finally, our dinners were brought to the table. As I expected, the food was great. I’m so glad that I was not disappointed with the food. Likewise, my family also enjoyed the food. My mother continued to complain about being cold. But she also mentioned a few times how great her dinner tasted.
After finishing our meals, we hoped to enjoy a slice of cheesecake at the table. But because my mother was still wet and cold, she wanted to go and sit outside in the warm air to try to dry and increase her body temperature. So, we had to further alter our dinner experience by ordering our cheesecake to go.
My mother and father went outside, and my sister and I stayed behind to order the slices of cheesecake.
I clearly told the waiter to please hold the whip cream on my cheesecake. What did he do? He brought out my cheesecake with whip cream all over it. When I pointed out his little mistake, he stated and I quote. “Oh, it automatically comes with whip cream. I can take it back and have them to scrape it off. But otherwise, that’s how it comes.” Well, I’ve been coming to the Cheesecake Factory long enough to know that the whip cream is added on the cheesecake before they bring it out. But I didn’t bother to tell him that. I just agreed to allow them to take the whip cream off for me.
The waiter took a long time to bring the scraped cheesecake with the whip cream residue on it back out to the table. And he took even longer to bring out the check. Once he brought out the check, I saw that my mother’s ice tea that was wasted on her was still on the ticket, as well as my mother’s cheesecake. I was fuming. I felt that the waiter should have made sure that the ticket was correct before bringing it to us.
Well, I had to ask for the manager again, who agreed to make the adjustments. At this point, I felt that all of our dinners or at least our desserts should be free. All of us were completely inconvenienced by this experience. All of us were going to have to either go back home or go to the mall or get my mother something to wear. And yes, I told the manager that. But he just said that he would go ahead and take off my mother’s tea and cheesecake.
I gave him my credit card with the ticket, so that he can take care of the purchase. When he brought back the receipt, my mother’s wasted tea was still on the receipt. Because I was fed up, I frowned, signed the receipt, grabbed our to go bags, got up from the table, and nearly fell as I was taking a step from the table. I almost slipped on some of the tea that I suppose didn’t all waste on my mother. I was livid at this point.
After the valet brought us our car, each of us decided to just go home. Our evening was ruined. We were minus $100. But we had a bad experience at the Cheesecake Factory added to our psyche.
The reason why I’m writing is because I am gravely disappointed in your management and staff at the Cheesecake Factory in The Woodlands, Texas.
Disappointed to the degree that I would actually sit down and write a letter… Something that I never do…
When a family decides to dine at the Cheesecake Factory, they are fully aware that they are getting ready to spend some money. But you decide that the experience, the food, and the service is worth the money that you’re going to spend. When you know that each person’s dinner, drinks, and dessert will be no less than $25 to
$40, you expect a great time. Well, at least I do, and I’m sure you too.
Honestly, I don’t feel like my $100 bought me a good time. It bought me good food. But my experience and service sucked. And what I do know is that the prices on the menu at the Cheesecake Factory not only includes the cost of the food, but also the cost of the service at the Cheesecake Factory, which I found to be appalling.
I think that the manager should have at least offered each of us desserts on the house. Each of us was inconvenienced by what the waiter did. Obviously, your management and staff felt like our satisfaction was not important. I presume that they don’t care if we never patronize your restaurant again. So sad…
FYI, I do expect to get a response from this letter. If I don’t, trust me, I’ll never eat at the Cheesecake Factory again. Plus, I will inform all of my friends, who come to the Cheesecake Factory and liberally spend their hard earned money, to not come to your restaurant. It will be clear to me if I don’t hear from someone in your guest relations how you truly feel about your customers, especially your disabled ones.
I thank you in advance for dealing with this matter in a reasonable fashion. I also thank you for considering diversity/disability awareness/sensitivity training for your staff. Trust me, they need it. I hope to hear from you soon.
Respectfully,
Angela L. Braden
For starters, we were seated by a very nice, yet interesting young man. After he sat us, he offered each of us menus. Being that I am totally blind, and I frequent your restaurant often, I asked the host to bring me a Braille menu, a service that I know you guys have available for your blind customers. Well, he said, "A Braille menu?" I replied, "Yes, a Braille menu?" Strangely enough, he repeated his initial question about two more times. He said, “What is Braille?”
Finally, my dad informed him that Braille is for the blind. My dad further explained that Braille is what the blind read instead of print. Boom, the host got it. His response to the lesson he had got from my father was an apology and an admission of his ignorance. And I mean that literally. The host actually smiled and chuckled and said, "I'm sorry... I'm quite ignorant." I’m glad that he understood that his lack of knowledge is indeed ignorance in its finest display.
Well, the young man brought the Braille menu out. And I decided to look over the fact that we had to spend a couple of minutes educating the host regarding blind people and Braille. Plus, I wanted to get to the food. I figured I would let that entire interaction slide for the moment. However, I was making a mental note to contact your corporate office and suggest that you offer diversity and disability awareness to your staff. (Contract me… I’ll be glad to do it.)
The second thing that happened in your fine establishment was what sent me over the edge. The waiter came out and asked our drink orders. Then this young man, that you guys have hired to do a competent job, brought the drinks back to the table, but failed to place them on the table. He dropped a glass of tea on my mother's shoulder, causing the heavy glass to strike her and then the tea wasted all over her shoulder, chest, stomach and lap. That accident was out of line. My mother's outfit was ruined and also her experience.
However, I can deal with accidents. Although we don't expect waiters to do such a thing as he did, I understand that we, humans, are not perfect. But what drove me to utter anger was his response. He tried to play it down and act like it was nothing. He kept saying, "Oh, the drink wasted. It's okay... I'll get another one." It's okay? You'll get another one? I would think that he would be profusely apologizing for the fact that my mother was sitting in a nice restaurant soaked by a glass of tea, long before her food order was even taken.
Then what put the whip cream on the cheesecake, this waiter that was hired by you to do a professional wait job, said and I quote. "Do you feel refreshed now?"
I was outraged. Here was my mother, a newly disabled woman due to a massive stroke, being taunted by a waiter that had wasted a glass of tea on her. Did she feel refreshed? What?! Refreshed?! I found that so called joke to be rude, insensitive, and utterly disrespectful.
I immediately asked for the manager. Well, the manager came out; I explained what had just transpired. Well, the manager only apologized to us for the waiter’s “little booboo. After the manager seemed to offer us nothing other than an apology, I told the manager that my mother’s dinner should be on the house. I explained that she doesn’t get out often due to illness and extensive disability, and that she was soaked in sticky tea, which was making her cold. Well, the manager agreed to discount our ticket by not charging us for my mother’s meal.
Well, it took forever for the waiter to come back and take our dinner orders. And then after he finally took the order, it took even longer for the entrees to come to the table.
My mother was freezing at this point. And I was fuming for a few reasons.
A. I was mad that it was taking so long for the food to come.
B. I was mad that my mother was cold and wet while she was waiting for the food.
C. I was mad that we had to either go back home for her to change clothes, or I had to go inside the mall to buy her an outfit in order to continue with our plans to go and see my mother’s sister after dinner.
D. I was mad that I was mad. FYI, my experience at the Cheesecake Factory is expected to be pleasant and enjoyable. I didn’t plan to spend my evening angry. I left my house, planning to spend money, not unhappy emotions.
E. I was mad that my father and sister, who were also first time customers in your restaurant, were annoyed by the level of service. I had hoped that they would also enjoy the dinner and experience.
Finally, our dinners were brought to the table. As I expected, the food was great. I’m so glad that I was not disappointed with the food. Likewise, my family also enjoyed the food. My mother continued to complain about being cold. But she also mentioned a few times how great her dinner tasted.
After finishing our meals, we hoped to enjoy a slice of cheesecake at the table. But because my mother was still wet and cold, she wanted to go and sit outside in the warm air to try to dry and increase her body temperature. So, we had to further alter our dinner experience by ordering our cheesecake to go.
My mother and father went outside, and my sister and I stayed behind to order the slices of cheesecake.
I clearly told the waiter to please hold the whip cream on my cheesecake. What did he do? He brought out my cheesecake with whip cream all over it. When I pointed out his little mistake, he stated and I quote. “Oh, it automatically comes with whip cream. I can take it back and have them to scrape it off. But otherwise, that’s how it comes.” Well, I’ve been coming to the Cheesecake Factory long enough to know that the whip cream is added on the cheesecake before they bring it out. But I didn’t bother to tell him that. I just agreed to allow them to take the whip cream off for me.
The waiter took a long time to bring the scraped cheesecake with the whip cream residue on it back out to the table. And he took even longer to bring out the check. Once he brought out the check, I saw that my mother’s ice tea that was wasted on her was still on the ticket, as well as my mother’s cheesecake. I was fuming. I felt that the waiter should have made sure that the ticket was correct before bringing it to us.
Well, I had to ask for the manager again, who agreed to make the adjustments. At this point, I felt that all of our dinners or at least our desserts should be free. All of us were completely inconvenienced by this experience. All of us were going to have to either go back home or go to the mall or get my mother something to wear. And yes, I told the manager that. But he just said that he would go ahead and take off my mother’s tea and cheesecake.
I gave him my credit card with the ticket, so that he can take care of the purchase. When he brought back the receipt, my mother’s wasted tea was still on the receipt. Because I was fed up, I frowned, signed the receipt, grabbed our to go bags, got up from the table, and nearly fell as I was taking a step from the table. I almost slipped on some of the tea that I suppose didn’t all waste on my mother. I was livid at this point.
After the valet brought us our car, each of us decided to just go home. Our evening was ruined. We were minus $100. But we had a bad experience at the Cheesecake Factory added to our psyche.
The reason why I’m writing is because I am gravely disappointed in your management and staff at the Cheesecake Factory in The Woodlands, Texas.
Disappointed to the degree that I would actually sit down and write a letter… Something that I never do…
When a family decides to dine at the Cheesecake Factory, they are fully aware that they are getting ready to spend some money. But you decide that the experience, the food, and the service is worth the money that you’re going to spend. When you know that each person’s dinner, drinks, and dessert will be no less than $25 to
$40, you expect a great time. Well, at least I do, and I’m sure you too.
Honestly, I don’t feel like my $100 bought me a good time. It bought me good food. But my experience and service sucked. And what I do know is that the prices on the menu at the Cheesecake Factory not only includes the cost of the food, but also the cost of the service at the Cheesecake Factory, which I found to be appalling.
I think that the manager should have at least offered each of us desserts on the house. Each of us was inconvenienced by what the waiter did. Obviously, your management and staff felt like our satisfaction was not important. I presume that they don’t care if we never patronize your restaurant again. So sad…
FYI, I do expect to get a response from this letter. If I don’t, trust me, I’ll never eat at the Cheesecake Factory again. Plus, I will inform all of my friends, who come to the Cheesecake Factory and liberally spend their hard earned money, to not come to your restaurant. It will be clear to me if I don’t hear from someone in your guest relations how you truly feel about your customers, especially your disabled ones.
I thank you in advance for dealing with this matter in a reasonable fashion. I also thank you for considering diversity/disability awareness/sensitivity training for your staff. Trust me, they need it. I hope to hear from you soon.
Respectfully,
Angela L. Braden
Monday, September 10, 2007
Recommended Blog of the Week: The Thinking Black Man
This week, I would like to encourage all those who stop by my spot to check out a blog that I find to be both refreshing and insightful.
I was first attracted to this blog by the very title of the blog. "The Thinking Black Man" What a thought! There's nothing I find more attractive than a thinking black man.
So, I was so inclined to take a look at the brother's blog. And what I found is that the brother really is a thinker. And he does a darn good job at articulating his thoughts. And better than that, he provokes us to think. All the criteria for a great blog...
So, check out . I don't think you'll be disappointed.
Angie
I was first attracted to this blog by the very title of the blog. "The Thinking Black Man" What a thought! There's nothing I find more attractive than a thinking black man.
So, I was so inclined to take a look at the brother's blog. And what I found is that the brother really is a thinker. And he does a darn good job at articulating his thoughts. And better than that, he provokes us to think. All the criteria for a great blog...
So, check out . I don't think you'll be disappointed.
Angie
Friday, September 07, 2007
What Goes Around Comes Around
When I was a young girl, around eight-years-old, I did some pretty ridiculous things. I’ll never forget going to my grandmother’s house everyday after school. My mama and I had to go pick up my little sister, Paula, before heading home. My mama would hop out the car and head to the front door of the house. She couldn’t wait to see her beautiful baby girl. But I, on the other hand, could wait. I had more pressing business than to see my little sister. I would jump out the dingy, gray, 1978 Thunderbird and run up the side of the Easter egg yellow, wood framed house until I found the sea of grass that extended behind the house. I could always find some kind of interesting insect to observe and then kill. I don’t know why I got a kick of watching them in their habitat, and then positioning my small, eight year old foot, that I’m sure was like the size of King Kong’s foot to the tiny insect, right over their frail bodies. Without any hesitation my foot came crashing down like the twin towers, taking the insect as my helpless victim.
In particular, Ant beds always intrigued me. When I was looking for an insect to experiment with, I would scan my grandmother’s huge, grassy backyard. I was always amazed when a mountain of dirt was methodically erected overnight by a colony of diligent ants. What would I do? Well, I hate to admit it. I would find the biggest stick that had torn away from one of the three towering, pecan trees, and then I would walk over to the hill of dirt, study the insects’ architectural perfection, and bury my stick right in the epicenter of the ant’s well-crafted high-rise. Then I would start stirring the molded dirt until it would loosen and fall apart. I would look down and see more red than I would brown. Millions of ants would come pouring out of the terrorized community. Those terrified, yet angry citizens of the now destroyed bed would start charging with their red uniforms on, ready to save their families and ready to annihilate whatever has disrupted their utopia. As soon as the ants had covered the lower half of the stick, I would drop the stick and run back up the side of the house until I made it to the front yard. I don’t know why I would run so fast and so far away. I guess I couldn’t watch the agony continue.
Every summer my father would load us into a rented Lincoln Towncar and make the journey from Texas to Louisiana. I couldn’t wait to get to my aunt’s house. She resided in a nice home in rural Louisiana. You could find all kinds of insects to bother in her yard. As soon as we pulled up to my aunt’s house, I popped open the door and jumped out of the blue, luxury car. Then suddenly, I realized that I didn’t leap into grass. I looked down and both of my feet were buried in the widest, tallest ant bed that I had ever seen. My toasted brown skin was being quickly painted with red, red ants that is. The ants were charging up my legs and approaching my knees. Then suddenly, my brain was alerted of the many bites I was receiving. Pain ripped through my small body. I screamed so loud, not only did my family jump out the car to see what was wrong, everyone in my aunt’s house ran out to see who was responsible for the high pitched, horror film screams.
My father swept me up under my arms and ran me over to the side of the house where the water hose was. He started spraying water on me to make the ants get off of me. My aunt ran out of the house with a towel. She started knocking the angry ants off of my body. By this time, ants were exploring and biting my entire body. The ants were biting my stomach, back, neck, ears, lips, and even my scalp. My mother and my aunt rushed me in the house and stripped the infested clothes off of me. My aunt ordered my cousin to fill the bathtub with water and a dash of alcohol. Once the tub was full of the water, my mother and aunt baptized me in the lukewarm water. The remainder of the ants that had been successfully holding on to my body were now floating and drowning in the tub of water. My aunt got a cup and started scooping them up and pouring them into the toilet.
The ants’ war against me had stopped, but the pain continued. My body felt like someone had poured gasoline on me and threw a match my way. I now understood why they called those little red ants, fire ants. My mother and aunt nursed me back to my normal self. They rubbed alcohol on my bumpy body four times a day for a few days.
After a few days, I was better. Evidence of the ants' victory was going away, but my respect for the ants and nature had expanded greatly. I thought about those ants that I tortured so often in my grandma’s backyard back in Texas. Amazingly enough, their distant relatives in Louisiana taught me a lesson about life, respect, and cohabitation.
I learned to respect everyone and everything that resided in our world’s community. I made a vow that I would never exert my power over anyone or anything that I thought was less powerful than me. I learned to never disrupt anyone or anything’s happiness. I also learned that what goes around comes around. The memory of the million of ants that were covering my body helped me remember those invaluable life lessons.
***
Note to my readers: This blog entry was not about my blindness inparticular. However, it is a snapshot of one of the lessons I was able to learn when I could see. (Boy, am I thankful that I got a chance to see when I was a kid.) Another reason why I wanted to post it is plain and simple... I like the above essay. And I wanted to share.
Well, you good people have a beautiful day. I hope and pray that you find satisfaction and peace in this troubling world.
Love and peace,
Angie Braden,
Former Ant Bully
In particular, Ant beds always intrigued me. When I was looking for an insect to experiment with, I would scan my grandmother’s huge, grassy backyard. I was always amazed when a mountain of dirt was methodically erected overnight by a colony of diligent ants. What would I do? Well, I hate to admit it. I would find the biggest stick that had torn away from one of the three towering, pecan trees, and then I would walk over to the hill of dirt, study the insects’ architectural perfection, and bury my stick right in the epicenter of the ant’s well-crafted high-rise. Then I would start stirring the molded dirt until it would loosen and fall apart. I would look down and see more red than I would brown. Millions of ants would come pouring out of the terrorized community. Those terrified, yet angry citizens of the now destroyed bed would start charging with their red uniforms on, ready to save their families and ready to annihilate whatever has disrupted their utopia. As soon as the ants had covered the lower half of the stick, I would drop the stick and run back up the side of the house until I made it to the front yard. I don’t know why I would run so fast and so far away. I guess I couldn’t watch the agony continue.
Every summer my father would load us into a rented Lincoln Towncar and make the journey from Texas to Louisiana. I couldn’t wait to get to my aunt’s house. She resided in a nice home in rural Louisiana. You could find all kinds of insects to bother in her yard. As soon as we pulled up to my aunt’s house, I popped open the door and jumped out of the blue, luxury car. Then suddenly, I realized that I didn’t leap into grass. I looked down and both of my feet were buried in the widest, tallest ant bed that I had ever seen. My toasted brown skin was being quickly painted with red, red ants that is. The ants were charging up my legs and approaching my knees. Then suddenly, my brain was alerted of the many bites I was receiving. Pain ripped through my small body. I screamed so loud, not only did my family jump out the car to see what was wrong, everyone in my aunt’s house ran out to see who was responsible for the high pitched, horror film screams.
My father swept me up under my arms and ran me over to the side of the house where the water hose was. He started spraying water on me to make the ants get off of me. My aunt ran out of the house with a towel. She started knocking the angry ants off of my body. By this time, ants were exploring and biting my entire body. The ants were biting my stomach, back, neck, ears, lips, and even my scalp. My mother and my aunt rushed me in the house and stripped the infested clothes off of me. My aunt ordered my cousin to fill the bathtub with water and a dash of alcohol. Once the tub was full of the water, my mother and aunt baptized me in the lukewarm water. The remainder of the ants that had been successfully holding on to my body were now floating and drowning in the tub of water. My aunt got a cup and started scooping them up and pouring them into the toilet.
The ants’ war against me had stopped, but the pain continued. My body felt like someone had poured gasoline on me and threw a match my way. I now understood why they called those little red ants, fire ants. My mother and aunt nursed me back to my normal self. They rubbed alcohol on my bumpy body four times a day for a few days.
After a few days, I was better. Evidence of the ants' victory was going away, but my respect for the ants and nature had expanded greatly. I thought about those ants that I tortured so often in my grandma’s backyard back in Texas. Amazingly enough, their distant relatives in Louisiana taught me a lesson about life, respect, and cohabitation.
I learned to respect everyone and everything that resided in our world’s community. I made a vow that I would never exert my power over anyone or anything that I thought was less powerful than me. I learned to never disrupt anyone or anything’s happiness. I also learned that what goes around comes around. The memory of the million of ants that were covering my body helped me remember those invaluable life lessons.
***
Note to my readers: This blog entry was not about my blindness inparticular. However, it is a snapshot of one of the lessons I was able to learn when I could see. (Boy, am I thankful that I got a chance to see when I was a kid.) Another reason why I wanted to post it is plain and simple... I like the above essay. And I wanted to share.
Well, you good people have a beautiful day. I hope and pray that you find satisfaction and peace in this troubling world.
Love and peace,
Angie Braden,
Former Ant Bully
Monday, August 27, 2007
Blog of the Week: New Feature for Nuvision for a Nuday
I've decided that every Monday, I will recommend to others blogs that I love to read and/or have interesting content available on them. While I might not agree with everything on these blogs, I find these blogs to be wonderful because they incite me to think, to explore, to discover new ideas.
A few months ago, this woman that I work with, asked me what was my greatest asset since I've lost my sight. Well, because I didn't feel like the truth to that answer was any of her business, I gave her the mechanical/expected answer to that particular question. I told her that my hearing is my greatest asset.
But that's not the truth. Yes, hearing is great. But I feel that my greatest asset is my ability to think, to choose, to analyze.
This is why I've always loved to read. Reading forces me to use that greatest asset. In the past (when I was able to see), I've always loved to read books. But now that I'm blind, books are not always available in a format that I can access. But most blogs are in an accessible format. And that's great for me. I'm able to hop all over the blogosphere and read up on some of any and everything until I just can't take no more.
Although I've been a regular reader at a number of blogs in the last year or so, this week, I'm going to recommend a blog that i just discovered in the last 48 hours. I think that this blog should be first in line, simply because the content of the blog is so incredibly needed and critical in its importance to all Americans. Plus, it is something that I've felt passionate about every since the Natalee Hollaway case.
The blog that I'm referring to and recommending to all those who hit up my spot is .
Take a few minutes of your time every day or every week to look over the content and images on this blog. You never know, you might have seen one of these missing persons.
Remember, when the news conveniently does not report about certain people missing, and when even we forget about people that have actually come up missing that we've heard about, the families never forget. So, let's try to transform the forgotton to the unforgotten
A few months ago, this woman that I work with, asked me what was my greatest asset since I've lost my sight. Well, because I didn't feel like the truth to that answer was any of her business, I gave her the mechanical/expected answer to that particular question. I told her that my hearing is my greatest asset.
But that's not the truth. Yes, hearing is great. But I feel that my greatest asset is my ability to think, to choose, to analyze.
This is why I've always loved to read. Reading forces me to use that greatest asset. In the past (when I was able to see), I've always loved to read books. But now that I'm blind, books are not always available in a format that I can access. But most blogs are in an accessible format. And that's great for me. I'm able to hop all over the blogosphere and read up on some of any and everything until I just can't take no more.
Although I've been a regular reader at a number of blogs in the last year or so, this week, I'm going to recommend a blog that i just discovered in the last 48 hours. I think that this blog should be first in line, simply because the content of the blog is so incredibly needed and critical in its importance to all Americans. Plus, it is something that I've felt passionate about every since the Natalee Hollaway case.
The blog that I'm referring to and recommending to all those who hit up my spot is .
Take a few minutes of your time every day or every week to look over the content and images on this blog. You never know, you might have seen one of these missing persons.
Remember, when the news conveniently does not report about certain people missing, and when even we forget about people that have actually come up missing that we've heard about, the families never forget. So, let's try to transform the forgotton to the unforgotten
Saturday, August 25, 2007
The Gift of Strength
During the entire month of August 2003, my little sister, Frances, was temporarily residing in the labor and delivery unit of one of our city’s finest hospitals. She had been in labor for nearly three weeks. The doctor’s were doing all they could to slow the contractions down, so that my niece could stay nestled in her mommy’s stomach as long as she could. Frances was only six months pregnant. The doctors urgently tried to reduce all possibilities of her tiny daughter arriving too soon.
I was worried about her, so I had a friend to drop me off at the hospital after a night of painting the town red. My foxy red suit helped me accomplish that task with great success. When I arrived to Frances room, I wished that I had something to change into, something a little less colorful and looser. But my sister’s discomfort helped me forget how I wished I was in a pair of sweats and tennis shoes, instead of a red pants suit and strappy, high-heel, black sandals. I tried to help the moaning mother to be relax. She was in so much pain.
The hours rolled by and the contractions stomped the wall of Frances’ abdomen. I decided to stay the night with her. The next morning, I was still in my red suit, feeling more uncomfortable than I did the night before. But again, Frances’ discomfort and pain caused me to experience temporary amnesia regarding my discomfort.
I tried to calm her down by helping her pick a name for the wiggling little girl that had been residing in her body. We decided to name the princess, Gabrielle. We had no idea that the name Gabrielle would come in use sooner than we thought.
The baby’s heart rate began to slow its rhythm. The nurses rushed in, checking on the mother and trying to check on the baby that hid behind the veil of Frances’ flesh. Next thing I know, the doctor rushed in and said that they were going to have to deliver the baby. They were scared that something was wrong with the little princess. Her heart rate continued to slow its pace.
As the nurses prepared the frightened mother-to-be for emergency surgery, one of the nurses comforted her by informing Frances that the baby was probably going to be alright. She told Frances that African American baby girls have a greater chance of surviving premature birth than any other race or gender baby. Frances was still afraid, but she was more at ease.
My eyes bucked when I heard the nurse convey that bit of information to my sister. I thought to myself, “God makes us strong soon as we get here.” I begin to think about all the strong black women that surrounded me, all the black women that I grazed by in this journey of life, and all the black women that I would meet. Our strength was so evident in most things that African American women do. Apparently, this strength that helped us endure the seemingly disastrous trails of life was present with us at birth. I thought to myself, “What a gift!”
I wasn’t worried about Frances and Gabrielle anymore. I knew that gift from God, strength to survive the most critical crises of life, would kick in and give them the resilience and fortitude to survive this traumatic birthing experience. And that’s exactly what happened. Frances was okay, and her 1 pound: 12 ounces of love was also okay. Although Gabrielle was extremely tiny, fragile, and very ill, I was certain that the strength that God had packaged deep on the inside of her would help her not only survive but thrive.
**
I wrote this essay back in 2004. I thought it was appropriate to post it here today, in honor of my darling, Gabby. Today is the little darling's birthday. She turned four-years-old today. I'm so blessed to have this little sistah in my life. She's a bad, bad chick.
Today, I attended Gabby's birthday party. Maybe tomorrow, I will blog about how her birthday party turned out. Yeah, I think that's what I'll do.
Until then, I pray the best for your life.
Much love,
Miss Angie
I was worried about her, so I had a friend to drop me off at the hospital after a night of painting the town red. My foxy red suit helped me accomplish that task with great success. When I arrived to Frances room, I wished that I had something to change into, something a little less colorful and looser. But my sister’s discomfort helped me forget how I wished I was in a pair of sweats and tennis shoes, instead of a red pants suit and strappy, high-heel, black sandals. I tried to help the moaning mother to be relax. She was in so much pain.
The hours rolled by and the contractions stomped the wall of Frances’ abdomen. I decided to stay the night with her. The next morning, I was still in my red suit, feeling more uncomfortable than I did the night before. But again, Frances’ discomfort and pain caused me to experience temporary amnesia regarding my discomfort.
I tried to calm her down by helping her pick a name for the wiggling little girl that had been residing in her body. We decided to name the princess, Gabrielle. We had no idea that the name Gabrielle would come in use sooner than we thought.
The baby’s heart rate began to slow its rhythm. The nurses rushed in, checking on the mother and trying to check on the baby that hid behind the veil of Frances’ flesh. Next thing I know, the doctor rushed in and said that they were going to have to deliver the baby. They were scared that something was wrong with the little princess. Her heart rate continued to slow its pace.
As the nurses prepared the frightened mother-to-be for emergency surgery, one of the nurses comforted her by informing Frances that the baby was probably going to be alright. She told Frances that African American baby girls have a greater chance of surviving premature birth than any other race or gender baby. Frances was still afraid, but she was more at ease.
My eyes bucked when I heard the nurse convey that bit of information to my sister. I thought to myself, “God makes us strong soon as we get here.” I begin to think about all the strong black women that surrounded me, all the black women that I grazed by in this journey of life, and all the black women that I would meet. Our strength was so evident in most things that African American women do. Apparently, this strength that helped us endure the seemingly disastrous trails of life was present with us at birth. I thought to myself, “What a gift!”
I wasn’t worried about Frances and Gabrielle anymore. I knew that gift from God, strength to survive the most critical crises of life, would kick in and give them the resilience and fortitude to survive this traumatic birthing experience. And that’s exactly what happened. Frances was okay, and her 1 pound: 12 ounces of love was also okay. Although Gabrielle was extremely tiny, fragile, and very ill, I was certain that the strength that God had packaged deep on the inside of her would help her not only survive but thrive.
**
I wrote this essay back in 2004. I thought it was appropriate to post it here today, in honor of my darling, Gabby. Today is the little darling's birthday. She turned four-years-old today. I'm so blessed to have this little sistah in my life. She's a bad, bad chick.
Today, I attended Gabby's birthday party. Maybe tomorrow, I will blog about how her birthday party turned out. Yeah, I think that's what I'll do.
Until then, I pray the best for your life.
Much love,
Miss Angie
Friday, August 24, 2007
Living on a Roller Coaster
When I was a kid, roller coasters were my thing. I loved the sudden jerks and turns. Wooh! I loved the speed. So fast, so high, so low, so shaky… It didn’t even matter how fast or high. The faster, the better… The more wild, the better... The most suspenseful, the best...
I really loved the roller coasters that twisted, turned, flipped, and dipped until you were finally suspended in the mid-air, upside down. I can feel it now, blood rushing straight to my brain.
What an exhilarating feeling.
But that was when I was a kid.
I hate roller coasters now,
Especially the ones that ride on the rails of my emotions.
I hate it when my emotions decide to go for a ride. Lately, it seems like I am always on an emotional roller coaster. Up and down. Climbing, climbing, climbing… I finally reached the climax of the incline. What a feeling! Boy, that feels great!
And then suddenly…
Dang it! I’m falling again!
Fast, swift, dangerously…
I can’t stop. I’m falling.
I get so tired of that damned ride.
I grew up hating the kiddy rides. Now I wish I can stand in line to get on an emotional ride that is easy, safe, friendly, unassuming, and protective. How I long to just ride, without protective straps-without worrying if the safety bar is securely locked. I just want to ride and be free. Is that too much to ask?
Mr. Roller Coaster Conductor, You think I’m too big for the kiddy ride? Will you please let me get on?
(Don’t worry… I don’t have Bipolar Disorder. LOL And I got that on good authority. The docs said that I’m just stressed.)
**Oh BTW: I wrote this a couple of years ago. But it closely describes how I feel today. Not exactly this severe… But close enough…**
I really loved the roller coasters that twisted, turned, flipped, and dipped until you were finally suspended in the mid-air, upside down. I can feel it now, blood rushing straight to my brain.
What an exhilarating feeling.
But that was when I was a kid.
I hate roller coasters now,
Especially the ones that ride on the rails of my emotions.
I hate it when my emotions decide to go for a ride. Lately, it seems like I am always on an emotional roller coaster. Up and down. Climbing, climbing, climbing… I finally reached the climax of the incline. What a feeling! Boy, that feels great!
And then suddenly…
Dang it! I’m falling again!
Fast, swift, dangerously…
I can’t stop. I’m falling.
I get so tired of that damned ride.
I grew up hating the kiddy rides. Now I wish I can stand in line to get on an emotional ride that is easy, safe, friendly, unassuming, and protective. How I long to just ride, without protective straps-without worrying if the safety bar is securely locked. I just want to ride and be free. Is that too much to ask?
Mr. Roller Coaster Conductor, You think I’m too big for the kiddy ride? Will you please let me get on?
(Don’t worry… I don’t have Bipolar Disorder. LOL And I got that on good authority. The docs said that I’m just stressed.)
**Oh BTW: I wrote this a couple of years ago. But it closely describes how I feel today. Not exactly this severe… But close enough…**
Monday, August 20, 2007
Questions & Reflections
How is it possible to crave something you've never had?
How is it possible to miss something you've really never experienced?
How is it possible to know something you've never been taught?
How do you love someone you've never met?
How do you trust someone that has given you no reason to trust them?
Is it possible to unlearn all that you've learned?
Should feelings ever be considered facts?
Is fear always our enemy?
Do we live to live or to love?
Do each of us really have a purpose?
What's the meaning of life?
What's the meaning of my life?
Why is faith so easy to acquire, but so hard to hold on to?
Is a missed opportunity truly a missed opportunity?
If something is meant to be, then will it get a chance to one day be?
Are there no accidents in life?
Is there really a difference in reality and fantasy?
What does God really think of me?
What do I really think of God?
If we can waste time, can we gain time?
Do all good things really come to those who wait?
Am I on or off course?
How can I be certain that I'm on course?
If there are lessons in all mistakes, are mistakes a necessary aspect of life?
Do I love myself as much as I say I do?
Do I love God as much as I say I do?
Do I believe that God loves me as much as I say He does?
Is fulfillment possible in this present world?
Is there a quota set on how much pain one can feel in one lifetime?
Does everyone have access to happiness and peace?
Will I get a chance to be truly happy, at peace, and fulfilled before I fly away from this life.
Will I ever find the answers to these questions? Maybe, maybe not... But I'll never stop reflecting on these questions and what I think the answers are.
Lord, help me find my way in this maze that you have designed to be my life. Help me understand how I can maximize my time here in this present world. Help me to understand you better. Help me to understand myself better. Help me to understand life and how I fit in it better. Lord, just help me. I really do need you.
Humbly submitted,
Angela L. Braden
How is it possible to miss something you've really never experienced?
How is it possible to know something you've never been taught?
How do you love someone you've never met?
How do you trust someone that has given you no reason to trust them?
Is it possible to unlearn all that you've learned?
Should feelings ever be considered facts?
Is fear always our enemy?
Do we live to live or to love?
Do each of us really have a purpose?
What's the meaning of life?
What's the meaning of my life?
Why is faith so easy to acquire, but so hard to hold on to?
Is a missed opportunity truly a missed opportunity?
If something is meant to be, then will it get a chance to one day be?
Are there no accidents in life?
Is there really a difference in reality and fantasy?
What does God really think of me?
What do I really think of God?
If we can waste time, can we gain time?
Do all good things really come to those who wait?
Am I on or off course?
How can I be certain that I'm on course?
If there are lessons in all mistakes, are mistakes a necessary aspect of life?
Do I love myself as much as I say I do?
Do I love God as much as I say I do?
Do I believe that God loves me as much as I say He does?
Is fulfillment possible in this present world?
Is there a quota set on how much pain one can feel in one lifetime?
Does everyone have access to happiness and peace?
Will I get a chance to be truly happy, at peace, and fulfilled before I fly away from this life.
Will I ever find the answers to these questions? Maybe, maybe not... But I'll never stop reflecting on these questions and what I think the answers are.
Lord, help me find my way in this maze that you have designed to be my life. Help me understand how I can maximize my time here in this present world. Help me to understand you better. Help me to understand myself better. Help me to understand life and how I fit in it better. Lord, just help me. I really do need you.
Humbly submitted,
Angela L. Braden
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
My Darling Visitors
It is so interesting to me that my family and friends very seldom visit my blog. I'm not sure why they don't. Maybe it's because some of the content here is old news for them. Well, actually that's only true for a small fraction of my friends and family. But most of the other folks that know me, need to be on this blog learning about me and my blindness. But anyway... I guess if they were interested in learning about me and what it's like to walk in my shoes, they would have sat down and asked me by now. Oh well...
I think it is quite amazing that the people who take the time to stop by here, read, and comment are individuals that have never met me, looked upon my face, heard my voice, or touched my skin. These people that don't know me have agreed to try a little of what I'm offering over here. And for that, I'm an appreciative host. So far, no one has thrown my offerings back at me. So, I think I'm doing pretty good.
Note to my darling readers: Thank you for taking time from your sighted lives to learn about what it is like to live life without sight. Thanks for learning, for growing, and for becoming more sensitive. Thank you for taking this journey to find love, acceptance, and peace along with me. I enjoy the company so much.
With love and appreciation,
Angela Braden
I think it is quite amazing that the people who take the time to stop by here, read, and comment are individuals that have never met me, looked upon my face, heard my voice, or touched my skin. These people that don't know me have agreed to try a little of what I'm offering over here. And for that, I'm an appreciative host. So far, no one has thrown my offerings back at me. So, I think I'm doing pretty good.
Note to my darling readers: Thank you for taking time from your sighted lives to learn about what it is like to live life without sight. Thanks for learning, for growing, and for becoming more sensitive. Thank you for taking this journey to find love, acceptance, and peace along with me. I enjoy the company so much.
With love and appreciation,
Angela Braden
Sunday, August 05, 2007
I'm so sorry that you're blind.
Sunday evening, I went to dinner with my family. I usually ask whoever I’m with to read the menu at whatever restaurant we’re at. But because I had already eaten at this restaurant and liked what I had, I decided to just have that again.
Well, the waitress came to take our order. When she got to me, I looked up at her (turned to face her) and placed my order. She asked me what side I would like with that. I hadn’t considered what side I wanted for my dinner. I asked her what sides they had. Well, she picked the menu up off the table, opened it up, and said, “Here’s a list of our sides.” I thought she was going to read them off. But I quickly realized that she wanted me to review the list and give her an answer. So, I said to the lady, “Oh, I’m blind. Can you please tell me what sides you have?”
Well, the lady acted like she had seen a ghost. I startled her with my news. She started stuttering, and then she started apologizing to me. She apologized over and over. I smiled and told her it was okay. She read the list. I told her which one I wanted, and I thought it was over.
Well, she apologized again. But this time, I could tell that she was not apologizing for not realizing I was blind. She was apologizing for me being blind. She had that sound of pity and compassion in her voice. I could tell that she felt like my pitiful excuse for an existence was so sad.
“You poor little blind lady… How do you live without sight? Life has to be terrible for you. That’s so nice for your family to take time out with you. I bet you like getting out of the house, don’t you? You have such a positive attitude to have such a sucky life.”
I’m so used to that kind of response. I wish that I could simply go out into the community and have a nice outing, without stares, comments, and assessments made by folks that lives our more wacked out than mine.
But I guess that’s just the way it is. No matter what I do, I can’t change what people think about me. But the one thing I can change is what I think about them and their assessment of me. It’s taking me a long time to get to this point. But I’m finally starting to shed off the sensitive skin that I’ve had so long. I’m starting to not give a care about what others think.
I have this little motto that I started living by. If your assessment of me does not translate into the gain or loss of money and influence, then your opinion of me is completely and utterly invalid.
I hate to sum it up to money and power. But it is what it is. Too often we give people that can’t change our lives in any way too much power. And trust me, it is power that they certainly don’t deserve.
Well, you folks have a terrific week. I’ll check back in here in a few days.
Peace and love,
Angela
Well, the waitress came to take our order. When she got to me, I looked up at her (turned to face her) and placed my order. She asked me what side I would like with that. I hadn’t considered what side I wanted for my dinner. I asked her what sides they had. Well, she picked the menu up off the table, opened it up, and said, “Here’s a list of our sides.” I thought she was going to read them off. But I quickly realized that she wanted me to review the list and give her an answer. So, I said to the lady, “Oh, I’m blind. Can you please tell me what sides you have?”
Well, the lady acted like she had seen a ghost. I startled her with my news. She started stuttering, and then she started apologizing to me. She apologized over and over. I smiled and told her it was okay. She read the list. I told her which one I wanted, and I thought it was over.
Well, she apologized again. But this time, I could tell that she was not apologizing for not realizing I was blind. She was apologizing for me being blind. She had that sound of pity and compassion in her voice. I could tell that she felt like my pitiful excuse for an existence was so sad.
“You poor little blind lady… How do you live without sight? Life has to be terrible for you. That’s so nice for your family to take time out with you. I bet you like getting out of the house, don’t you? You have such a positive attitude to have such a sucky life.”
I’m so used to that kind of response. I wish that I could simply go out into the community and have a nice outing, without stares, comments, and assessments made by folks that lives our more wacked out than mine.
But I guess that’s just the way it is. No matter what I do, I can’t change what people think about me. But the one thing I can change is what I think about them and their assessment of me. It’s taking me a long time to get to this point. But I’m finally starting to shed off the sensitive skin that I’ve had so long. I’m starting to not give a care about what others think.
I have this little motto that I started living by. If your assessment of me does not translate into the gain or loss of money and influence, then your opinion of me is completely and utterly invalid.
I hate to sum it up to money and power. But it is what it is. Too often we give people that can’t change our lives in any way too much power. And trust me, it is power that they certainly don’t deserve.
Well, you folks have a terrific week. I’ll check back in here in a few days.
Peace and love,
Angela
I love this!
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens
us most. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and famous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing
small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest
the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in all of us. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Written By: Marianne Williamson
**A friend read this to me the other night. Of course, I was already familiar with it. But no matter how many times I hear or read these words, I am blessed and motivated. My friend said that I need to hold on to the beauty and power of this quote and hold on tight. I think that's a good idea. Why don't all of us do that.
Have a blessed week. My heart and prayers are with you.
Sweet love,
Angie**
us most. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and famous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing
small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest
the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in all of us. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Written By: Marianne Williamson
**A friend read this to me the other night. Of course, I was already familiar with it. But no matter how many times I hear or read these words, I am blessed and motivated. My friend said that I need to hold on to the beauty and power of this quote and hold on tight. I think that's a good idea. Why don't all of us do that.
Have a blessed week. My heart and prayers are with you.
Sweet love,
Angie**
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