I’ve been walking to the same Foodtown for 16 years, but yesterday was the first time I counted: 7 blocks, 21 minutes.

The walk, as always, was punctuated with tree-lined streets, beautiful front gardens, the brownstones in Brooklyn you hope to live in one day, and restaurants of all kinds that could satisfy the pickiest of eaters. Signs pledging “Black Lives Matter,” “I Voted For Her,” and “Freeze the Rent” hung outside unconsciously expensive apartment windows. The neighborhood that had been my neighborhood made me feel more like a tourist and less like a native these days.

When I arrived here in 2010, from another largely Black and Caribbean community called Canarsie, the shift was in its prepubescent stage. The gentrification shift didn’t happen overnight. The Bajan mechanic shop was always busy with cars double-parked throughout the day. The beef patty shop played the best nostalgic records loud enough so you could hear it before opening the shop’s door. What used to be a walk full of diverse and colorful faces now feels like a march through 50 shades of beige.

On top of seeing my neighborhood disappear in the last decade and a half, the last year has been a punch to the gut to an already emaciated stomach. In May of 2025, I tore my meniscus; a month after that, I had knee surgery; the next month, a two-year romantic relationship had come to an end; three months after that, I turned a year older; a few months after that, my apartment flooded; and last month, my mom had a heart attack. But the sun was out yesterday, so I tried not to think about how hard it’s been recently.

I drifted by, along my walk, almost like a ghost, invisible to the new natives. It didn’t bother me. II’d rather be ignored than noticed. I’d rather be ignored than attract the kind of attention that gets you followed. Or worse.

The objective, the mission, the goal, was to pick up a card for a best friend. To write him a letter, letting him know, in my own words, how much he means to me and how much I cherish our friendship. A friendship that was well overdue to tell the person that you love them. A friendship dating back to 1990, when I had a full head of hair, my mother’s health was top-notch, and Brooklyn was most beloved by its natives and least desired by outsiders!

But then I got caught up and distracted in the milk and eggs aisle because I heard a woman shout, “FOUR!”

“Four, slow down… you’re getting overstimulated,” she continued.

I was confused.

“Four!”? Was she daydreaming about golf or having a Tourette’s outburst? Nonetheless, I was intrigued (and nosy) to find out what was happening.

She was tall. Perhaps 5’8” or 5’9” with short platinum blond hair hovering over a medium chestnut-skinned build. She had on a fitted white shirt, heather gray athleisure tights, and white and tan Birkenstocks, keeping her feet cool from the hot sun. She was a mother. She was a Black mother. A Black mother of two.

Her son “Four” sprinted back to her, decreasing his speed before his mother could mouth the words “slow down.” He was attuned with her. They were in sync with each other.

The other child, small enough to sit in the shopping cart’s seat, maybe four or five, started ripping off the cover of one of the yogurts.

“No, no, we can’t have that now.” The boy looked up for further direction. She continued, “You see, we haven’t paid for this yet, and until we do, it isn’t ours. If we open it now, without paying, we will be stealing. And we don’t steal,” she said as she passed her hands through his hair. The boy put the yogurt back down in the cart.

I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell this mother she was phenomenal. She didn’t need my praise, I know now and I knew then, but I also know that acknowledging the good makes the world more receptive to goodness too. I wanted to hand her flowers and tell her she was doing an incredible job. But this is New York. You mind your business, you don’t get in anyone’s way, and you hope to just make it back home. So I said nothing.

Four, instead, spoke this time. “Mommy, Mom, can I have the Jell-O?” as he pointed firmly at it. She smiled and began to slowly nod her head. Four smiled back at mom.

As he grabbed the cold Jell-O six-pack from the open refrigerator, mom asked him, “Now, how do you say Jell-O in sign language?” Confident to perform or to make mom proud, Four placed the Jell-O six-pack between his knees and signed “Jell-O” for his mother. Immediately after, she asked, “Now, show me how you say, ‘Mom, can I have some Jell-O?’ in sign language.” And Four did. Delighted as ever, he removed the Jell-O from his knees and added it to the cart.

I had forgotten what had brought me there. That wasn’t even the aisle I was looking for, as there were no cards in there. And yet somehow the aisle found me. Or called to me. Or drew me in.

I needed that to happen. The days, weeks, and months had all been heavy, but witnessing that made things a bit lighter.

Care was practiced in every step of the way by the mother and her boys. She spoke softly yet sternly, but only to get her point across and not as a means of intimidation.

They say our first oppressors are our parents. My mother was harsh on my sister and me. Fewer hugs and more commands. She garnered our respect through the pathway of fear. I’ve chalked it up today, through the help of therapy, that my mother was raised absent of the TLC we craved and deficient in breaking that cycle. This mother, to me, however, personified a caregiver.

She was sweet and tender and communicated often and effectively that she adored them. To teach is to love, and teaching isn’t only confined to a classroom or in the house. Lessons and practices that would prepare them for life ahead are happening constantly, every day and everywhere. Black boys often don’t just get to be Black boys. They’re aged by society and the state prematurely, so being self-aware and instinctual is more out of survival than development.

I would walk through Foodtown some more and eventually find the card that I would gift my friend. I already knew what I would write in the card. A note that would express how much I appreciated his generosity from the day I met him, when he shared his favorite Batmobile toy, up to just last night, when he offered me a room in his home because mine went underwater. My gratitude was a gesture of generosity toward immense generosity. And so it would also be in that other gesture that would occur, the outlook on life that a mother gave me as a gift, the lifting of weight, the lightness, the good, and the beautiful.

If I had a magic ball, I would predict this woman’s kids will grow up remembering how well their mother talked to them. They will recall times when she was calm even when fires were spreading. They’ll think back of when she was soft to them even though the world was hard on her. And being grateful is something that passes along. It doesn’t perish, it doesn’t rot. It marks everything it touches: friendship, love, relationships, work, rest. They’ll be grateful, instinctively, because it’s been embedded. Some of us, myself included, have to mimic positive behavior because we never experienced it ourselves even though we desperately craved it. I am grateful that these kids won’t be forced to do that.

I ended up in checkout lane two, and the mother, Four, and the little one were in lane three. I tried not to stare, but I was marveled by her. Again, I wanted to say something, give her a round of applause, or shake her hand. But this is New York. You don’t do that.

“Paper or reusable bag… sir!” The woman at the register repeated. I ignored her the first time, to which I apologized. “I’m sorry, umm, yea, I’ll take the reusable bag.”

“Distracted?” My cashier asked.

Before I could answer, it sounded like a misunderstanding over in lane three. I looked over to see the mother, with her babes, was going back and forth with the store manager on a particular cereal. It seemed like she was getting clarity on the product.

65.06 was read from the register’s touch screen.

“Excuse me,” as I tapped the cashier over at lane three. “Has this woman paid for groceries yet?” She didn’t hear or understand me, so I repeated it again. Still nothing.

I took a deep breath and politely interrupted, “Excuse me, I am sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to know if you paid for your groceries as yet because I would like to purchase them.”

Four and the smaller one looked up at their mom. “Who was this stranger, and why is he talking to us, Mom?,” I imagine they were thinking.

“Oh, baby,” she said with the same smile she shared with her pickaninnies, “you don’t have to pay for this. But thank you.”

“No, I really would love to… I was in the milk aisle earlier, and I saw you with your kids. You are wonderful! The way you spoke to them, the way you looked at them. You’re an incredible mom! And I would just like to pay if–” she cut me short.

“No…it’s really okay. You are so sweet for this, but don’t worry, because it’s all paid for.” She reached in her pocket. “WIC pays for all this,” as she waived her WIC card, “so we are fine. We are fine. But thank you.”

I nodded and shirked at the kind things she said back to me, feeling undeserving.

“But there’s something you can do.” My excitement rose, waiting to hear of another window of how I can help her. “You can give that money to someone else that needs it. That, truly, would be a gift for me.” Her sons locked eyes with their mother, seeing her in practice and taking notes on how to be a kind person to and for others. Generosity is something that passes along. It doesn’t perish, it doesn’t rot. It marks everything it touches.

I told her that I would and wished her and the boys a good day.

The walk home was lighter. The sun was still out, and I had a card to write for my best friend.

As promised, I would like to honor my word and lighten someone else’s load. So if you or anyone you know is going through a tough time or can use some relief, we at AHUS would like to forward you $65. That’s it. The first person to respond with their payment info will get it.

Thank you for reading and thank you, as always, for your support.

Yesterday I Walked to Foodtown