Mornings at Rise: and, How a little goes a long way

This essay is about Rise Coffee House. Because it’s closing. Because it’s changed me. Because it has been one of my soul’s great loves. This essay is about Rise, but it doesn’t quite start there. So do bear with me.

When I was down to the final days of my decision for graduate school, going back and forth in conversation with the departments I was choosing between, one of my contacts wrote an email to me that read like this: “(First—picture me running like Taraji P. Henson did in Hidden Figures trying to deliver critical information before the space launch!)” She was trying to convey the urgency of what she had to share with me, and she was hilarious in doing so. I loved this email opening. I feel something similar as I sit down in front of my computer this morning. To write, like really write, for the first time in… I don’t know. A year? Two? I’ve lost track of how long I’ve trekked through this writer’s desert. My breathing having adjusted to the hot air. My body to the constant ache of discomfort and heat. My mind resigned to the fact that maybe this is just life now. But today, apparently, a wellspring. There are waves moving through me. And I have some things to say.

My sister and I are very different in a lot of ways. This has always been something like a joke in our family, and also what I find to be one of my favorite parts of our dynamic. Megan is going to be pursuing an MBA in the fall, with her sights set on being part of changing the landscape of the beauty industry for people of color. It’s pretty dope. And I have every belief that she will do just that, powerhouse that she is. When I moved home in the spring – Megan and I under the same roof for the first time in 10 years (god is that right? are we old enough for such a number to be true?) – I took over a small corner of our bathroom. And began to notice that going through the cabinets and drawers in our bathroom felt like the equivalent, to me, of walking into a Sephora. The number of products this human dabbles with is astounding – for hair, for skin, for things I probably don’t even know need to be tended to! She is constantly curious about wellness and beauty and tending to your body in a way that can sustain you for a lifetime. Meanwhile, I ran out of my actual moisturizer and started slapping Aveeno on my face on the mornings that I remembered to do so.

One night, when we were driving home together, I asked her about helping me with a skincare routine. Recognizing that watching her had impacted me. And that if I am willing to care for other parts of my being, I might as well at least understand my options for tending to this body sack that moves me through my days. Ask my partner, the skin is an incredible organ. Science! Anyways, so I asked Megan what I should be doing, eyes downcast as I confessed my Aveeno sins. And she was elated, “Okay!” she said, slapping her hands on the steering wheel, straightening up in her seat, ready to take on the project that was me as if she were one of those beauty consultant saviors on The Princess Diaries. We talked through skin type, and cleansers, and exfoliants, and masks, and steamers, and toners, and I’m sure a million other things that I couldn’t keep up with. And I took it seriously, maybe because I am nervous about losing my Black Card (yet again) should this Black skin, indeed, crack one day. Maybe because I just needed a project. And deciding to take care of my skin was a fairly easy one.

But I listened to her suggestions sincerely, and have been processing through what I want my routine to look like. This has even included a trip to Kiehl’s, a place that I will probably never spend money at, so that they could tell me all about my skin type and health and whatnot. For free. 10/10 do recommend this. So they suggested some products, and I feigned interest as best as I could, remembering the balance in my Checking Account as they showed me the prices of those 2-ounce bottles of magic. And, what they kept saying, what I keep hearing from these skin care professionals, is that “A little goes a long way.”

I’m thinking of that refrain this morning, almost like a mantra, as I swipe through the Rise Instagram: the closure of our beloved cafe has been announced. And, understandably, people are having some big feels. Waxing poetic in the ways that a lot of us who have woven ourselves into the very fabric of Rise aren’t able to yet. One person’s reflection, in particular, struck me: they shared a picture of a young one, holding a piece of pineapple on their fork seemingly very pleased, with a copy of the receipt which included a note to the kitchen: “ADD FRUIT: Only pineapple for the tiny human.” This person was thanking Rise for this accommodation, this morning moment, this “day-making” gesture for their tiny human.

And there was that mantra, again: A little goes a long way.

This is not a mantra that I move through the world with. I am one of those people who got trapped in a scarcity mindset and has yet to find their way out. But I thought of that refrain, and I thought about Rise, and I thought about how easy it would be, for that barista at the register to make that family’s day. How a small gesture can shift everything. It’s what so many of my days at Rise were trying to teach me, I think: Enough. No more. We have abundance, already. A little goes a long way.

It’s a lesson I could use right now, in fact, as I find myself grasping for something, anything, to steady this during-and-post-pandemic version of me. This me that is unsettled and sometimes unhinged. I have been desperate for something to swoop in and to save me, to wake me up, to shake me out, to breathe life back into me. Yoga, CrossFit (lol, story for another day), friends, learning a new language, a skincare routine, work, writing that refuses to manifest, music, Instagram scrolling, books, my family, the NBA Finals, my partner. I’ve been grasping, turning outward, trying to fix myself. Forgetting so much of what has already been stitched into me. Today has reminded me of one of those things, returning me to my mornings at Rise, all of them, a few of them, in stills and movement and sound:

Leaving old shit or heavy shit or hard shit at the door, because I knew that I was about to get to dial the espresso in with one Francis Ladish, barista extraordinaire. And we would rap about tweaking this or that. And the espresso would change, ever so slightly. And that would be enough.

Or when just the right song came on at just the right moment, and suddenly everyone behind the bar was a singer. And the room was lighter for it. And for that moment, we needed no more.

And always always, Jessie walking in through that back door. The way her joyful “Hey guys!” would warm up the room as she greeted our team. Abundance.

Or the perceptiveness of so many people on the floor with me. How we came to know each other, tend to each other, see each other, day after day. And how a, “Hey, are you doing okay today?” could cultivate a moment of trust that would build our very foundation for nine years. We needed no more.

Or when someone stood in front of the Coffee for the People board, and found exactly what they needed. And you could swear that something bigger than us was orchestrating such connection. Such recognition. We had become bigger than the sum of our parts. Abundance abundance abundance.

Or what it meant to me when a customer asked me my name, and remembered it. Or what it meant to them when I remembered theirs. The sweetness of being seen. Being known, in that small way. Rise has had a way of holding all of us, our names, our voices, our stories. Like a warm hug. Or a smile that makes the eyes like sunbeams. Or laughter that reverberates against the walls.

We have needed no more in that space. Because a little goes a long way.