THE COOKIE STORY
I remember when I first heard the cookie story. It was the summer of 1975 and the pungent scent of the dinner we just devoured still hung in the air: a dozen salty pork chops fried in La Choy soy sauce, hot oil, and garlic, accompanied by a massive pot of steamed rice and four cans of Green Giant creamed corn. It was too early for bedtime, but the stifling heat and humidity of late July in Irvington, New Jersey sapped us of our usual urge to play on the sticky asphalt surface of our backyard. I sought refuge along with my ten siblings in the living room—the only spot in our house with a portable, window-sized air conditioner. Dad draped a faded bed sheet across the doorway to trap the cool air, then he and Mom dragged twin mattresses down from the upstairs bedrooms, placing them end-to-end across the wooden floor. When I entered the room, a frigid blast swept over my face as my brothers and sisters shoved me forward, sweeping the impromptu curtain back into place. Now we lay two to a mattress, our bony bodies clad only in cotton underpants and threadbare t-shirts, crossing this way and that like a game of human dominoes.
Lying atop my pillow damp with sweat, I listened as the others chattered about Sonny and Cher’s scheduled appearance on the Johnny Carson show that evening. Several were taking bets on which song the duo would perform, though why anyone would wager on anything other than the obvious choice of “I Got You Babe” was beyond me. The hum of the air conditioner drowned out the Garden State Parkway, which ran past the bottom of our home’s intersection of 677 Grove Street and Eighteenth Avenue. We lived in a boxy, two-story structure with a sea foam green stucco exterior; our family occupied both floors on the right side of the building while the apartments to the left were rented out to tenants, which sometimes included various relatives. I waited for someone to switch on the outdated television in its large wooden console, when Dad appeared.
Back then, no one in the world scared me more than my father. Not because he abused me. Blessed with either luck or cunning, I generally avoided my father’s wrath. But my older siblings constantly warred with him, never getting it through their heads that this was a battle they couldn’t win, not against him. Each time they challenged Dad, he exploded with excessive fury, teeth clenched, leather belt swinging, hell bent on showing us that his authority wasn’t to be questioned. When this happened, Dad’s face twisted and contorted with rage, distorting him into a terrifying creature. It reminded me of the movie Sleeping Beauty when the evil witch, Maleficent, transformed into a hideous, fire-breathing dragon. What frightened me most were his eyes. In my father’s bulging, red-rimmed eyes I often discerned a burning hatred for someone or something unknown.
As Dad entered the room, all conversation ceased. He filled the doorway, arms akimbo, surveying his brood. Coarse black hair blanketed his head and protruding brow. Though only five feet tall, he towered above us. Years of laboring outdoors as a carpenter turned his skin dark and leathery and forged broad muscles in his shoulders and chest, offset by a small potbelly. He was shirtless, dressed only in a pair of cut-off denim shorts, exposing his sturdy thighs and bulging calf muscles, which made his lower legs look like turkey drumsticks.
Stepping over our bodies, Dad wove his way toward Mom. She sat across the room on our handmade couch, built from a wooden frame topped with a long, rectangular foam cushion. He sank down beside her, tucking his feet under his crossed legs, then began filling his pipe with fresh tobacco. Mom reached down and pulled me onto her lap. Although I’d turned nine that April, I was unusually small for my age and she easily lifted me off the mattress. As she did, my hand brushed against Dad’s bare heel. The skin felt hard and rough, the result of many barefoot years. I yanked back my fingers as if they’d just grazed a sizzling pan, and wondered if he could even feel my touch against his callused flesh. Dad must’ve spotted my sudden motion from the corner of his eye, because his head snapped defensively toward me. I shrunk away from his glare, burrowing closer to Mom’s ever-pregnant belly, which presently contained my youngest brother. Mom peeked down at me, a waist-length mop of chestnut hair framing her tanned, freckled face. Her brow furrowed as she took in my anxious expression.
“Martin,” she said, “why don’t you tell them the cookie story?”
The suggestion came as a shock. Dad rarely spoke to us kids, and when he did it was usually to bark out monosyllabic orders.
Dad inhaled, then bit down hard on the end of his pipe. Finally he exhaled. Whiskey-flavored tobacco smoke filled the air like a musky perfume. He stared at the ceiling, as if deciding how best to start.
“In the beginning,” he said, “God made the earth. He built the mountains and the oceans. He filled it with animals and plants, and it was beautiful.” Pausing, he peered around the room to ensure that the dozen of us were listening, and we were, in rapt silence.
“God looked around at everything He had created and said, ‘Something’s missing.’ So He made little men, like gingerbread men, and He put them on a tray and placed it in the oven. But, see, God had never done this before, so He left the cookies in the oven too long and they burned. And those were the black people.”
I gasped, imagining the charred little cookies, but Dad just frowned in my direction and continued.
“God said, ‘This won’t do.’ So He mixed another batch of little men and set them in the oven. But this time, He pulled the tray out of the oven too soon, and those were the white people. God shook his head and said, ‘It’s still not right.’ So then He shaped a third group of little men and slid them on a tray into the oven. This batch came out nice and golden brown. God said, ‘They’re perfect!’ And those…well, those were the Filipinos.”
As Dad uttered these words, the strangest thing happened—the muscles in his face relaxed, easing the lines above his brow and slackening his jaw. From where I sat, it almost looked like he was smiling.
