Keep Turning the Griddle

 The Chicago L train screeched overhead, a sound Nathan still felt in his teeth six months later. It was the sound of urgency, of a city that had no time to wait. Back home in Trinidad, the loudest morning sound was the keskidee, and time was something you had, not something that had you. Here, time was a currency Nathan was quickly running out of.


He worked in the claims department of a vast insurance company, in a cubicle that smelled of recycled air and ambition. His job was to process forms, verify details, and close files. In Trinidad, he’d worked at a community health clinic. The pace was slower, woven with long conversations and the understanding that a person was more than a piece of paper. The work got done, but it breathed. Here, the work didn't breathe. It just beeped, demanding attention.


His manager, a brisk woman named Carol, pulled him aside on a drizzly Thursday. "Nathan," she said, her voice kind but firm, "your output is below the team average. You're thorough, which is great, but you're not moving enough files. We need the volume."

Volume. The word felt like an accusation.


On his way home, he walked through the cavern of the Clark/Lake station, surrounded by a river of people moving with singular purpose. They all seemed to know a secret he didn't. He missed the familiar weight of the humidity, the easy laughter of his cousins, the way his grandmother’s voice could calm any storm. Here, the wind off the lake was sharp, and his mind was full of noise. He craved the mental comfort of home, the feeling of being held by a place that knew him. That comfort was his anchor. Without it, he felt adrift, his thoughts scattered by the city’s frantic energy. That night, he called his grandmother, Nana.


"Boy, you sound like you're still in the office," she said, her voice a warm beam across the cold miles.

"It's just so fast here, Nana. I'm trying to be perfect, to get every detail right like I did at home, but they just want it done. I'm falling behind."

He heard her soft chuckle. "Nathan, you remember helping me make cassava bread?"

He smiled despite himself. "Of course."

"And do you remember the first time? You tried to make the first cake perfect. You fussed and fretted over the shape, and it still fell apart on the griddle. I told you then, 'The first one is for the ancestors, the second is for practice, and by the third, you find your rhythm.' You weren't perfect, but you kept turning the griddle. And by the end, we had a pile of bread."

Nathan was silent for a moment, the El train rattling the windows of his small apartment.

"Discipline ain't about getting it right the first time," Nana continued. "It's about turning the griddle. Just keep turning it. The rhythm will come."


The next morning, Nathan walked into the office and sat at his cubicle. The list of files glared at him from his screen. He took a breath. He stopped trying to process each claim with the slow, meticulous care of a craftsman. Instead, he focused on the next action. Pick up a file. Verify the name. Check the first box. Move to the next.


He made mistakes. He had to back-track on a few. The old Nathan would have seen this as a failure and spiraled into frustration, losing even more time. But Nana’s words echoed: Just keep turning the griddle. He corrected the error and moved on. He didn't wait for the perfect, focused headspace he had in Trinidad. He worked in the noisy, distracting headspace of Chicago. He continued regardless. By midday, he had processed more claims than he had all yesterday. It wasn't perfect work, but it was moving. By the end of the week, his numbers were up. Carol gave him a nod of approval, which in Chicago, was as good as a hug.


He still missed home. The ache for its comfort was a quiet hum beneath every day. But he realized something vital. That comfort, that anchor, wasn't a place he had to be inside. It was a rhythm he carried within him. It was the rhythm of the griddle. It was the rhythm of showing up, of making mistakes, of correcting course, and of continuing regardless.


He was Nathan, from the Caribbean, and now, a part of busy Chicago. The city hadn't softened for him, and the mental comforts of his homeland hadn't magically reappeared. But he had found a new comfort: the quiet, powerful satisfaction of keeping the griddle turning, one imperfect, consistent file at a time.


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