We waited an hour for the food. The rice came dripping with gravy, heavy and sweaty from days of traveling. It tasted like a bowl of batteries. Remember when we thought we could charge them in the refrigerator? Was that just me? Divorced parents. Daddy took us to the toy store, but always never bought the batteries. Mommy was too busy making sure we didn’t wake her dog to get any. It’s one of those things that gets overlooked when you’re poor-ish and stressed out and making sure your kids look neat for the next trip to the immigration lawyer. Ornery West Indians think they are better than regular black folk, like their shackles were made of different materials. I almost laughed at that. Mountain mulattoes, fancy accents, Chinese last names. But like me, they can’t cook rice.