Monday, November 11, 2013


November 11, 2013

*My father joined the Navy after his father, by then a very wealthy farmer, refused to send him to college.  According to my father, because neither the town of Marksville, La. nor the hospital kept birth records, he was able to go to the parish priest and get a “birth certificate” with a date inserted that would make him old enough to join the military.  While this birth certificate showed him to be 18 years old, in truth my father was only 15 when he went off to war. 

He told me stories of his travels in the Navy and about the beautiful women of the Philippines he met along the way. He even had an album filled with pictures of his Filipino “girlfriends.” This Filipino connection would be the underpinning of his Navy career. But one of the most haunting stories was how he described walking through the ruins of bombed-out Hiroshima and he swore that the metal fragments on the ground were still warm.

Once, while working in the ship’s galley (an assignment he got because the Navy thought he was Filipino and that the French he spoke must have been Tagalog), he could not resist the temptation to steal a slice of the roast being prepared for the Admiral.  He was caught and punished for this lack of judgment; a court martial consisting of a piece of paper in his file with a large red “X.”  When he was discharged from the ship, he was handed his file and promptly tore out the sheet with the “X.”  That was the end of that. 

By the time my father was honorably discharged from the Navy he held the rank of Chief Petty Officer mainly because he was super smart, but also because the Navy never discovered or acknowledged his true ethnicity.

*Excerpted from the book in progress “From Nestier to Oakland, An Ongoing Journey", author Sheryl J. Bize Boutte @2011

Sunday, November 3, 2013




Monday, September 2, 2013


Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

On a recent New Year’s Eve and my husband, daughter and I decided to satisfy our pancake joneses at the Oakland Grill. * Brunch at this welcoming and homey bistro located in the heart of the Oakland produce section is one of our favorites for the short stack; two stacked pancakes with a choice of sides.
After we had talked and laughed and ate all we could manage, I could not help but notice how our individual personalities were reflected in the way we approached and finished our buttery, syrupy entrees.

My husband, the designer and mathematician’s pancakes are cut precisely down the middle.  He eyeballed it, but I’ll bet you if you measured and could somehow recreate the portion he had already eaten, you would find that each half would be exactly the same size.  A true perfectionist with a creative bent, for him symmetry and neatness with just a little something akimbo mark his life approach. Note the off-center placement of the melon rinds in this pancake still life.

Our daughter, the scientist and artist, approached her pancakes by starting at one edge and moving to the inside.  This is much the same way she conducts experiments; purposely making her way from the outer perimeter to the inner core to find the answer to the question.  All the while she is multitasking, getting a forkful while maneuvering the cakes by removing the top stack to see what lies beneath.  All of this is done with minimal mess and disruption; as smooth as the way she moves through the world.  A colleague once described her as being like a duck: paddling furiously underneath the water while maintaining a silky fluidity on the surface.  She leaves randomly sized pieces and a fork with an asymmetrical lean. She is truly the best of both of us.

I started my pancake with evenly spaced pie cuts, which I approached from the outside.  A true Gemini, I quickly became bored with that and moved toward the center.  I change my mind like that all the time and usually get to the gooey middle of everything right away.  This is the trait that causes people to describe me as a “bottom line” kind of person.  When I look at this picture I think I must have been thinking about seafood because my pancake looks like a giant prawn.

Of course, this is no scientific study.  But it was a fun thing to do. While we differed I how we cut, sliced and left our pancakes on the plates, sharing this meal reminded us of the different ways in which we approach life and situations.   Those differences feed and enrich our relationships and bring joy and vitality to our discourse.  Our individualities joined with our commonalities form the mix that makes us family and at "the grill", community. 

Here’s hoping life brings you pancakes just the way you like them and that you always get to eat them your way

*Oakland Grill
301 Franklin Street
Oakland, Ca  94607

Sjbb 9.2013

Wednesday, August 7, 2013






ON OCTOBER 29, 2013



Monday, February 18, 2013



Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

 The chosen arrive in light for all to see,

 Unaware of their luminosity.

 They share their light unselfishly,

 And leave in light, forever free,

While the glow lives on

In you and me

I vividly remember when I first saw her.  I was seven and she was eight. Her yellow petticoated dress glowed amber in the sunlight behind her. Although the almost blinding light obscured her facial features, I could see that her hair was neatly parted down the middle, providing a pathway for the two thick long braids that brushed her waist.  But it was her welcoming smile that broke through the shadow and captivated me immediately.

It was her first day in America. The unwanted child of a Japanese woman and an African American soldier, she had been among the countless babies who had been abandoned at orphanages in Japan after the war.  Having no children of their own, my career Army godfather and godmother had adopted her on one of their many trips to Japan. They named her Cassandra.

As I walked up to her to get a better look, her smile never wavered.  She spoke little English at the time, but we did not need words. My godmother stepped in between us and handed each of us a small jewelry box. We opened them to find matching rings purchased by my godmother on a trip to Istanbul some months before. Grinning, we each put on our rings and in that sunbathed ceremony we became sisters for life.

We spent our childhoods playing together whenever our parents visited each other.  We missed each other when we were apart; but had no control over our meeting frequency.  Cassandra remained very much Japanese, quietly keeping her own counsel, while she slowly explored her African American heritage.  Sometimes she would show me her photo album from the orphanage, full of the mixed race children that Japanese mothers did not want or could not keep. My godparents had chosen her out of all of those unwanted Amerasian children looking expectantly into the camera lens, with eyes full of hope and longing. I often found myself looking more at the beautiful Japanese clothing they wore to avoid those eyes. With the exception of showing me the album once in a while, Cassandra never spoke of her time in the orphanage or of her biological parents. I never knew her Japanese name. And although I became more curious as we grew older, after a while I forgot about those things and never asked.

As budding teenagers, we spent countless hours steaming our faces with hot washcloths to banish breakouts. We used gallons of Noxzema and thought of it as a miracle cure. Even though I don’t remember it really doing much to banish the bumps, we reveled in the routine and the promise on the jar. We always swore we looked better after one of our “treatments.” We had many sleepovers at her house; I don’t remember her ever coming to mine.  That was fine with me. I did not want to share her with my four younger sisters anyway and besides, I got to be the little sister when I was with her.

We both met the loves of our lives as teenagers and made our entries into early womanhood during the Black Power movement of the 1970’s. Under strict parental orders to shun militancy, we were simultaneously frightened and enthralled by changes taking place and wore dashikis and black leather jackets to support the cause. With the hot steam of the Black Panthers, Angela Davis and Huey P. Newton as our atmosphere, I served as her matron of honor while my new husband played the conga drums at her African themed wedding.

She was the first to have a child and would have four to my one.  We both would get our college degrees, me in English and she in child development.  With her degree in hand she started a daycare business called San’s Childcare.  My then baby daughter would be among the first to receive the benefits of her loving care.  She became my daughter’s second mother and instilled many valuable traits from infancy through early teenage years.  When I was climbing the work ladder, it was Cassandra who supported me in teaching my daughter many things woman and many things strong.  When I could not be there, Cassandra made sure that all was well at school, the homework was done, the scratched knee was bandaged and the meals were healthy. She was a precious gift sent to accompany me on that vital part of my motherhood journey. My daughter was a part of her family and we both knew we were blessed to be in her presence.

All too soon the children would grow up and Cassandra would decide to retire from the childcare business.  The children she had taken under her wing had all arrived as infants and reached their preteen years at the same time. The time had come for them to leave the nest and fly on their own.

 On one of my last trips to pick up my daughter, I encountered Cassandra and her husband on the sidewalk in front of their house.  She was again back-lit by the bright sun and I could only see her outline, moving toward me with a slow and unfamiliar gait. As they got closer and her face came into view, I asked how they were doing.  “OK, she said.  I just have a little cancer.”  Matter of fact.  Just like that. Everything stopped: The cars on the street were no longer moving; Charlie across the way was suspended halfway up his front stairs; the dogs next door ceased their incessant barking; everything but Cassandra fell away. She had to go in to the house and tell her children.  I had to tell my daughter. I told her she would be all right and that I was there to do anything she wanted. She hugged me and without looking back, walked up the steps and through her front door. She and my unknowing daughter passed each other at the threshold and hugged each other tight as they said their goodbyes. I held my tears until I arrived at home.

Cassandra fought her disease with all of her might.  When we would visit her in the hospital during and after her treatments, I would try my best to make her laugh.  But soon it became clear that the doctor she had was not the best and the treatments were not having the desired effect.

And so, her husband moved her and their family to his hometown of Nashville, Tennessee where the world-renowned cancer specialists at Vanderbilt University could treat her.  It would turn out that the first doctor had messed things up so much there was not much hope left.

In what would be my last conversation with her, with the sounds of her children in the background, and barely able to speak, she told me there had to be something she could do.  That she did not want to just lie there and die.  I told her how much she meant and would always mean to me, from the day I saw her in the sunlight with the long braids and the smile. Then we laughed and talked about Noxzema and dashikis and how we both still had our rings and about being true sisters. I thanked her for sharing her light and helping to make my daughter the beautiful loving person she had become.  I told her I would always be there for her children as she had always been there for my child.  She took a breath and I could hear through my own tears that she was crying as well.  Then she said, “ Thank you so much.  You don’t know how much your words mean to me. I love you.” “I love you too, Cassandra, I said, and I will see you later.”  Her last words before we hung up the phone, were, “I will see you later, too.”

Two days later, I received a tearful call from her youngest daughter.  All she said was, “Mommy didn’t make it.”  At the young age of 44, a wife, mother and my sister was gone. 

As her children began to re-group and return to California, I have kept my promise to always be here for them. Although they are all grown up now with children of their own, and I don’t see them much, the bonds are strong and deeply rooted. 

I think of my chosen sister often and miss her still.  And each day, with the rising sun, she continues to share her light with us all.