Note (10/5/22): This is a short little slice-of-life moment I wrote about back in June. I’ve always loved the Cedar Riverside neighborhood for its melting pot nature — of interesting sights, smells, food, cultures, characters — and I also love relating seemingly ordinary interactions like this one to wider boundary topics / issues.
It’s been one of those sweltering, 100+ Minneapolis days (visibly more frequent by the year…), and — during the just-cool-enough twilight hour — I’m rollerblading around Cedar Riverside.
From the moment I lived in nearby Middlebrook Hall five years ago — since taking countless walks, rides, blades, and runs through the neighborhood — I’ve loved spending time in this cultural enclave. The scent always catches me first. It simply smells welcoming, an unidentifiable mix of perfume, incense, and warm spices wafting around and overhead.
Today it borders on overwhelming, as I huff and puff big lungfuls of soupy air while zipping past, in succession: a child care facility, Somali restaurant, African clothing store, and the Cedar Cultural Center. Feeling tired and all of a sudden hungry, I slide to a stop in front of the New Cedar Restaurant; a small corner joint that opened recently and serves a variety of East African cuisine.
Bright flashes from a wall-mounted TV inside catch my eye first, and I turn to look at the Al Jazeera feed: it’s wrapping up a couple of stories on Africa (violent unrest in Mali and the Democratic Republic of the Congo) and then turns to updates on Palestinian investigations into slain journalist Shireen Abu Aklah. Several older Somali men lounge around a white plastic table, sipping from delicate-looking teacups, but seem to pay no mind to either the news or this random dude staring past them.
As I take in the scene, a guy crosses the street towards me. A 30s-ish black man possessing a slight stature and unmemorable baggy outfit, he pinches an unlit cig and looks a bit glassy-eyed when he stops close enough to make eye contact.
He’s coherent but a hair slurred when he says, pointedly but not aggressively, and in a subtle Arabic accent: “This is my uncle’s restaurant. What are you doing hanging out in front?”
The thought crosses my mind: Well, sir, sorry to say but I’m here to impede your uncle’s business by throwing a raging street rollerblading festival… duh.
“Oh, I’m just watching the news.”
He seems taken aback by this — visible in the way his posture softens a bit. He turns to follow my gaze through the glass. “Oh, ok. This is Middle East news.” He peers back at me. “You’re interested in it” — half statement, half question. And after a moment’s pause:
“You been to the Middle East?”
“Yes, I actually have been before.”
He gives a small and curious head tilt, almost bird-like. “Hm, alright.” Another beat or two of rest… “You Jewish?”
Now it’s my turn to calculate — what’s the cost-benefit of honesty? But I figure the truth won’t hurt here. “Yes and no. My family’s half-Jewish ethnically,” I say, “but I don’t practice Judaism, I don’t believe in it.”
As soon as the words tumble out, his confusion is palpable. He clearly doesn’t know what the hell to make of me, and I can’t blame him — a tall, shirtless white guy rollerblading around a predominantly African-Muslim neighborhood, invested in Arab news, and who is and is not Jewish. I fiddle with the tank top dangling from my waistband, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
“So half your family is Jewish but not you,” he repeats, working through his assessment. “That’s good,” he concludes. “It’s not your fault if it’s half your family. Cuz you know Arabs really aren’t friends with Jews. They do many terrible things.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what I was watching about Shireen Abu Aklah” — gesturing towards the window. “I really don’t support Israel at all.” This is the honest truth, but I decide to askew the details of my Birthright trip there back in 2019.
“Yes, yes… they are very bad” — glass eyes flicking away and then back at me. “You can watch the news. I just don’t want people hanging in front of my uncle’s restaurant,” he repeats. “I look out for the restaurant for him.”
Unsure what to do with these contradictory statements, I start to tell him I totally understand and have to get going anyways. My stomach is throbbing and the heat doesn’t help my growing lightheadedness.
“No, no,” cutting in. “It’s ok — you can stay.” He seems satisfied with a job well-done and turns to walk off as he says this.
“Well, thank you. Have a good one.”
“You too.” He ambles off slowly and I turn back once more to Al Jazeera, which has already moved on to the next tragedy du jour. The men have finished their tea and stood up, milling about. I make eye contact with one, trading a smile and nod. And with that, I’m left with only my own pale reflection, superimposed over the TV screen — events pulsing, pulsing, and reverbing all the way through the cracks of this corner hideaway, half a world and no worlds away.
Jake Marble 