ArchivedLogs:Strange Times

Strange Times
Dramatis Personae Lyric, Scramble
In Absentia	2016-12-28 I can bring food too. Should I bring food too? I'm bringing it.
Location <NYC> East Harlem
With the highest violent crime rate in Manhattan and a failing educational system, it is easy to overlook the charms of El Barrio. Amidst its problems, East Harlem is a place thriving with culture. Salsa dancing has a rich history in the neighborhood, and in the open-air markets a wide assortment of goods can be bought from the West African community there. The sun has recently set; as dinnertime approaches the streets of el Barrio are pretty busy. A lot of traffic, a lot of chatter; a busker drumming exuberant intricate beat on inverted plastic pails, two dogs loudly yapping at each other from across the street, the voices of a choir in practice coming muted from behind church windows. There's plenty of voices coming from the Malcolm Shabazz market, bustling and noisy in the continued mild spell of weather. One young woman is heading down the sidewalk towards the market's entrance -- she's dressed in a long black and green dress over grey tights, chunky ankle boots, a dark coat over top; the layered headscarf neatly folded and tucked around her head is brighter, multicolored hues of green and silver. Scramble is just emerging from the market, a worn canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder. She's wearing a black bomber jacket over a bright red cropped top and black jeans with laces up the outseam. Her jewelry is simple today, a single pale jade bangle on her left wrist and a matching jade bi hung from a black cord around her neck. When she spots Lyric, she lifts her free hand to wave a greeting and veers toward her. 'I've seen you at a few poetry slams, I think.' Her ASL is casual and easy, still one-handed. 'How're you doing?' There's an initial reactive tension, straightening Lyric's posture, pulling her chin up a touch higher, when Scramble first steers toward her. It relaxes into a warm smile at the signing; she waves back brightly. 'Yes! I'm there a lot. I've ogled your hair at least a few times.' Her grin is bright, too. Though faintly dimmer at the question, a small frown tugging at the corner of her mouth, drawing her brows slightly together. At first she just offers a shrug, then: 'Strange times, you know? But I'm staying busy -- work is a good distraction! How about you, how have you been?' 'I'm Scramble.' She spells her name in a small, fluid loop. 'I go when I can, but -- also staying busy with work lately. You like your job?' She looks past Lyric at the busy street, shaking her head. 'Things been tough a long while now, but the ways it's been? Strange, for real.' Her mouth pulls sharply to one side, a crooked smile. 'Not that random white people didn't get in my face /before/, but there's more now and bolder, too.' Her shoulders shrug, shallow and a bit resigned. 'Gets old, after a while.' 'Scramble?' Lyric echoes swiftly, brows raising with a hint of question. 'Like eggs? I'm Lyric. It's good to /actually/ meet you. Next time I'll tell you directly how awesome your hair looks!' There's a little bounce in her posture. 'I like the work I do. I make clothes -- trying to turn it into a /real/ business. Mostly just work on some commissions for now. It's nice helping people look great. What about you? Something good?' Her face screws up after this -- kind of an exaggerated grimace. 'Something without many white people?' There's a teasing slant to her smile -- though the pull of her brows turns this into a genuine question regardless. Her shoulders slump a little -- maybe also a litttle resigned. 'It gets /really/ old. I used to get /some/ heckling but now?' Shudder. '-- You been staying safe?' Scramble nods. 'Like eggs, yeah. Lyric --' She repeats, too, her smile broader now. '-- like a song?' Her eyebrows raise up appreciatively at the description of Lyric's work. 'Nice! Do you design the clothes yourself? Or make them from existing patterns? I guess there's some room in between those, too -- I have some friends who do a bit of sewing, just for personal use, and pretty much have to modify patterns to fit their bodies.' She stops to consider her answer for a moment. 'I like my work, too, though it's a little more arcane. Green chemical process design -- mostly making sure buildings don't waste too much water, honestly. The business side, though, I don't enjoy so much -- and yeah, most of my clients are rich white guys in suits.' She rolls her eyes here, throws up her hands. 'I've gotten in some fights, but nothing too bad lately. You?' 'Like a song. I design clothes,' Lyric replies proudly, 'but I do a lot of work for people who can't find clothes in regular stores and sometimes they just want straightforward things that actually fit them.' Her head tilts, expression focused as Scramble explains her job. 'Well. The /work/ sounds cool! Obviously what you need is to rent a white person to deal with clients for you.' The mention of fights makes her nose wrinkle up. 'Someone tried to snatch off my scarf but nobody's /hit/ me. My dad keeps getting harassed at his shop though. Graffiti, nothing terrible.' Even so her frown has deepened. 'Do you fight well? Probably useful to know how now.' Scramble perks up a little. 'Huh! Well, if you have a website or email you use for commissions, I'd like to pass it along to some friends.' She shakes her head lightly, chuckling. 'One of these days, when I have steady enough business and can afford it, I am definitely hiring someone to do client relations.' The mirth leaves her quickly, though. 'I hope it doesn't get any worse, it's bad enough as it is. So many more of them think they can get away with that stuff now -- and the sad part is, they /can/ get away with it, and that's not a new development, either.' She cants her head. 'I could probably avoid some of the fighting if I kept my mouth shut, but that's not how I roll. Yeah, I fight pretty okay -- I've been an angry black girl longer than I've been able to fight, so I had strong incentive to learn.' Lyric reaches into her purse for a slim pink and silver card case, pulling a business card out of it to extend to Scramble. 'I could definitely use more word of mouth!' She shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, head shaking. 'They've been shooting us dead with no consequences for all of history. Not /new/ but...' Her cheeks puff out; she blows out a sharp breath. 'Still terrifying to realize just how /many/ white people are --' Her hands drop to her sides briefly. She gives Scramble a small lopsided smile: 'Probably could -- but you can't be /too/ quiet either. I've had people in my face because I /didn't/ answer them swift enough. Getting in their face right back, maybe that's the best. I do /not/ have the energy to figure out what skinny tightrope of acceptable behavior will piss off the least number of wypipo.' She fingerspells this last word for emphasis. Scramble accepts the card, salutes Lyric with it, and tucks it into a pocket of her jacket. 'You know, there's still droves of white folk who don't get that?' Her brows furrow deeply, her head gives a small shake. 'But then again, maybe all the extra crap we been getting is cuz more of them /do/ get it. Not that I'm usually getting into reasoned discourse with them or anything.' She gives a quiet snort of laughter. 'Don't know if it's /best/, but it's what I'm /going/ to do anyway. But hey!' Her eyes widen as if she's suddenly recalled something. 'You know where you're not going to have to deal with that, is at the Karamu my community is hosting Saturday. Gonna be dancing and drumming and boatloads of food -- you should come.' 'There's a lot white people don't get.' Kiiind of rueful. 'We'd be living in a /whole/ different country otherwise. Much less deadly one.' The heavier resignation lifts from Lyric at the invitation, though, swiftly replaced by a bounce -- bright smile -- clap of hands. 'Really? You mean that? Can I bring my drums? I'm pretty good! I would love that. I can bring food too. Should I bring food too? I'm bringing it.' These last thoughts, kind of half to herself -- questioning, then decisive. Food, check. 'It'd be a different country,' Scramble agrees easily, 'I'm just not all that sure if it would be less deadly or /more/.' But then she nods. 'I say what I mean -- and it doesn't /always/ land me in a fight! Please bring your drums and your food if you like, but you don't /have/ to bring anything but your beautiful self.' Her grin is bright and eager. 'The place is called Habor Commons, down at the end of Jackson Street in Low East Side, right by the water. I think the event technically starts at six, but there'll be people around all afternoon, so show up whenever you feel like.' Lyric's eyes are even wider, here. 'Harbor Commons? You know Isra maybe? Dusk? At school Isra was my mentor.' FROWN. 'While she was there. But maybe you know them? Isra always has the /prettiest/ art and Dusk,' a litttttttle darker in her already-dark cheeks, 'just /is/ the prettiest.' Once more, her hands clap together. 'I'll be there! With drums. For /sure/.' 'Oh, yeah, we're tight.' Light, casual; Scramble is maybe not as surprised by this small world moment as one might expect. 'I should have thought to mention -- a lot of folks know Dusk from his interpreting and his...' The smile grows brighter, knowing. '...pretty. So you go to school with Taylor, then. He should be there, too. It's going to be fantastic.' Her excitement is palpable now, and she reins it in with an effort. 'I should get to dinner soon.' She offers a dap with her off hand and continues one-handed, 'Stay safe, sister. I'll see you Saturday.' 'Yeah! Well he's hard to miss. Easiest terp to remember.' One of Lyric's hands describes the large shape of a wing behind her. 'I made Taylor his prom suit! The /most/ dapper.' Lyric bounces forward to return the knuckletap, waving cheerfully after. 'I'll see you!' She's scampering off, considerably more bouncy than before as she trots into the market.