used clothes are an upgrade for me, a makeover that Nicole Patrick calls Operation Peacock, with Nicole
as my consultant and personal shopper. In other words, my fashion fairy godmother.
“I got some new size tags for the racks,” Nicole says. “Let’s put ’em on first. You take the skirts, I’ll do the tops. I’m
also expecting someone I want you to meet.”
The shop is ours alone for the moment, and I seize the opportunity. “Nicole, when you were a social worker, did you have Rastafarian
clients?”
“My caseload had its share of families with young men in dreads.”
“Were they—” I want to ask, religious fanatics? Cult members? “Were they believers?”
She shoots me a look. “Believers? They tried to find their place in the sun in a world that is mostly hostile to them. Es-tranged,
I’d say.”
“What are their beliefs?”
“The history is complicated, Reggie. Mainly, it’s a mix of Marcus Garvey’s back-to-Africa movement and Haile Selassie as God-on-earth
in Ethiopia. It’s not my religion, but one big thing: the Rastas oppose Babylon.”
“You mean Babylon as a symbol of sinful luxury?”
“For them, it’s more like a symbol of centuries of white power oppressing black peoples. Here in North America, the shackles
of the slave days become the shackles of poverty, inequality, the trickery of whites. They eat natural foods.”
“I hear they smoke a lot of marijuana.”
“Tokin’ offenders?” Nicole chuckles, snaps a size 16 tag, and looks my way. “Reggie, most of America is hopped up on drugs
of one sort or another. Think of the pill pushers on TV. Think of all those feisty little schoolchildren getting off the bus
with their tummies full of sugary Froot Loops. They turn the kids’ energy into an illness. They call it attention deficit
and dose them up good, so they sit cooped up inside the whole livelong day. Who benefits? The drug makers. That’s the real
‘disorder’ we’re talking about.”
I recall my son Jack’s Ritalin year, practically a rite of passage for every other fourth-grade boy at Fox Country Day. Marge
Hooper and Leah Stromberger had coaxed me to their pediatrician because Tucker and Brent behaved so much better. Jack did
too, but we wanted our real son, not a Stepford boy. Even Marty agreed, Marty who hardly gave the family a thought.
“Okay,” I say. “I take your point.” We work along. The new spring hues are light and bright. “I hear the Rasta colors are
red, green, and gold. Are they symbolic?”
“They’re from the Garvey movement. The red stands for the Church Triumphant of the Rastas. It symbolizes the blood shed by
martyrs in the history of the Rastas.”
“Do their preachers wear red robes?”
“Not that I know.”
“I have one preacher in mind, a red-robed preacher with dreadlocks. He was—or is—called Big Doc. What can you tell me?”
“Not very much.”
Nicole can clam up when you least expect it. If knowledge is power, Nicole Patrick guards hers carefully. Years of social
work made her the eyes and ears of Boston’s black communities: Roxbury, Dorchester, Mattapan. She’s a storehouse of information,
but prying it loose is something else.
I’m not ready to be shut out. “This Doc headed a group home on Eldridge Street near the turnpike. I’m trying to find out—”
Just then an unlikely customer enters, a tall white woman in a plaid jacket and a briefcase-like handbag. She and Nicole exchange
air kisses. “Reggie, would you come on over? There’s someone I’d like to introduce. Regina Cutter, this is Ms. Caroline French.
Ms. French represents the Newton Home and Garden Alliance.”
We shake hands. Caroline French has light brown hair and ivory skin and a certain eagerness about the eyes. Her emerald-cut
wedding set brushes my fingertips.
“I love this shop,” she says to me, white-to-white. “The heavenly aroma—it’s my favorite, sorbet à l’orange. And how
as my consultant and personal shopper. In other words, my fashion fairy godmother.
“I got some new size tags for the racks,” Nicole says. “Let’s put ’em on first. You take the skirts, I’ll do the tops. I’m
also expecting someone I want you to meet.”
The shop is ours alone for the moment, and I seize the opportunity. “Nicole, when you were a social worker, did you have Rastafarian
clients?”
“My caseload had its share of families with young men in dreads.”
“Were they—” I want to ask, religious fanatics? Cult members? “Were they believers?”
She shoots me a look. “Believers? They tried to find their place in the sun in a world that is mostly hostile to them. Es-tranged,
I’d say.”
“What are their beliefs?”
“The history is complicated, Reggie. Mainly, it’s a mix of Marcus Garvey’s back-to-Africa movement and Haile Selassie as God-on-earth
in Ethiopia. It’s not my religion, but one big thing: the Rastas oppose Babylon.”
“You mean Babylon as a symbol of sinful luxury?”
“For them, it’s more like a symbol of centuries of white power oppressing black peoples. Here in North America, the shackles
of the slave days become the shackles of poverty, inequality, the trickery of whites. They eat natural foods.”
“I hear they smoke a lot of marijuana.”
“Tokin’ offenders?” Nicole chuckles, snaps a size 16 tag, and looks my way. “Reggie, most of America is hopped up on drugs
of one sort or another. Think of the pill pushers on TV. Think of all those feisty little schoolchildren getting off the bus
with their tummies full of sugary Froot Loops. They turn the kids’ energy into an illness. They call it attention deficit
and dose them up good, so they sit cooped up inside the whole livelong day. Who benefits? The drug makers. That’s the real
‘disorder’ we’re talking about.”
I recall my son Jack’s Ritalin year, practically a rite of passage for every other fourth-grade boy at Fox Country Day. Marge
Hooper and Leah Stromberger had coaxed me to their pediatrician because Tucker and Brent behaved so much better. Jack did
too, but we wanted our real son, not a Stepford boy. Even Marty agreed, Marty who hardly gave the family a thought.
“Okay,” I say. “I take your point.” We work along. The new spring hues are light and bright. “I hear the Rasta colors are
red, green, and gold. Are they symbolic?”
“They’re from the Garvey movement. The red stands for the Church Triumphant of the Rastas. It symbolizes the blood shed by
martyrs in the history of the Rastas.”
“Do their preachers wear red robes?”
“Not that I know.”
“I have one preacher in mind, a red-robed preacher with dreadlocks. He was—or is—called Big Doc. What can you tell me?”
“Not very much.”
Nicole can clam up when you least expect it. If knowledge is power, Nicole Patrick guards hers carefully. Years of social
work made her the eyes and ears of Boston’s black communities: Roxbury, Dorchester, Mattapan. She’s a storehouse of information,
but prying it loose is something else.
I’m not ready to be shut out. “This Doc headed a group home on Eldridge Street near the turnpike. I’m trying to find out—”
Just then an unlikely customer enters, a tall white woman in a plaid jacket and a briefcase-like handbag. She and Nicole exchange
air kisses. “Reggie, would you come on over? There’s someone I’d like to introduce. Regina Cutter, this is Ms. Caroline French.
Ms. French represents the Newton Home and Garden Alliance.”
We shake hands. Caroline French has light brown hair and ivory skin and a certain eagerness about the eyes. Her emerald-cut
wedding set brushes my fingertips.
“I love this shop,” she says to me, white-to-white. “The heavenly aroma—it’s my favorite, sorbet à l’orange. And how
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