Celia Roberts fidgeted with her fingers as she surveyed her work, scanning every dish to make sure it was perfect. Sautéed turkey wings with gravy. Homemade macaroni and cheese. Collard greens with kale mixed in, along with smoked turkey and neck bones. Cornbread. For dessert, 7 Up cake. The vegetable oil was on and popping in the kitchen, ready for the drumsticks. She wanted to serve the deep-fried chicken fresh.
She was so proud of herself, she pulled out her phone and took a video of it all.
“Man, I did a good job,” she said. “The secret ingredient for me is the love I put into it. I don’t ever want to rush nobody’s food. I want them to know they are loved.”
She had gotten up that morning, on a Sunday, and was at Foods Co. shortly after it opened at 6 a.m. to shop for the meal. She got home and immediately started preparing and cooking. She spent all day, giving her attention to every dish. To see it all come together so beautifully provided such a feeling of accomplishment. Sunday dinner for five fit for a magazine spread. She impressed herself.
That’s when the worry crept in.
Kindness flows naturally for Roberts. But doing too much can be detrimental. She is a single mom with two kids. Money is always tight. She wanted to do something nice for her friendly neighbor. Roberts lives by the code of
be a blessing. But maybe she went overboard. She was down to the last of her money, a reality she plowed right through when taking out the cash to buy the food. She left enough in her account to get back and forth to work until payday.
As she stood there looking at all this beautiful food, much more than her family needed at the time, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was all for naught.
Is he really going to show up? Of course he’s not coming. I barely know him. What was I thinking?
Around 6 p.m., a knock echoed through her apartment. He came. When she opened the door, it was her new neighbor and his brother.
Glenn Robinson III first met Roberts back in early September. She had just moved in and was surveying the new digs. The complex has a rooftop lounge area with a grill. She wanted to see it but her key fob wasn’t working. Robinson, who was hanging out with his agent, noticed and let her in. He introduced himself as Glenn and they struck up a conversation.
Robinson was a new resident as well. Back in June, after one season with Detroit, his $4.2 million team option was declined by the Pistons, making him a free agent. In July, the Warriors signed him to a one-year, $1.89 million deal. For the first time in his life, the 25-year-old in his sixth NBA season moved out west, finding a nice place in the Mission District.
To meet the standards of San Francisco’s Inclusionary Affordable Housing Program (for all new residential projects of 10 or more units), this building reserved a percentage of its units as affordable housing. Roberts, in essence, won a lottery and was granted the right to rent one at a below-market price. Her new home was a blessing to their family, she said.
Robinson and Roberts, who was with her kids, seemed to have an instant connection. First off, they are African-American, a rare sighting in the building. Also, she has an 18-year-old son, so any example of a successful young black man catches her eye, latching on to her dreams for her boy.
And Robinson, he is a grounded soul who can’t shake the values instilled in him from his youth.
“My dad,” Robinson said of the former No. 1 overall pick, “I knew him, but he was playing and busy. I was raised by my mom and grandma. But my dad was in the league. So I’ve seen the money. I’ve seen the cars. One day I went to practice with him. My dad let me sit on his lap while he was driving and we raced Ray Allen. At the same time, I come from Gary, Indiana. I’ve given back to the kids in the community. I’ve seen that people really do struggle. Even my grandmother was on food stamps for the longest time. So this hoopin’ is cool and all. But if you aren’t using this platform to help people, it ain’t nothing.”
Glenn Robinson III, right, won the competition for the starting small forward position, vacated by the departed Kevin Durant. (Noah Graham/Getty Images)
Their initial chat on the roof, somehow, led to her telling Robinson about Slap Ya Mama, a cajun seasoning she loves to use. It’s supposed to be so good it will make you slap ya mama. That their conversation wound up on food is no surprise if you know Roberts. She loves throwing down, as they say. She credits her father, Joe, for teaching her. He was a cook in Mobile, Ala., one of the few jobs available to African-Americans back in his youth. He did most of the cooking at home, too, when Roberts was a kid. She started by just watching him do his thing in the kitchen. She graduated to helping him. Before long, he was passing along his expertise.
Joe Roberts died in August. He was 72.
Naturally, because she is her daddy’s daughter, she told Robinson she would cook for him. His reply: “I’mma take you up on that.” Cooking for him was her display of appreciation for his help and his kindness. It wasn’t a big deal for Robinson. In his mind, he merely opened a door and engaged in some small talk. But for Roberts, such little things matter. She’s a member of the working poor class and has overcome a lot to get to this stage in her life. She was now living in this new place, something in her darkest hours she probably never thought she could provide for her children. She had no idea how she’d be received in this place, and already someone was so kind and welcoming. Robinson didn’t take her non-working key fob to mean she didn’t belong, or question what she was doing there. He treated her like a neighbor. She wanted to return the favor in the form of a meal.
Plus, what college student doesn’t need a home-cooked meal?
“I was telling my son,” she said, “See how you can be in college and doing well?”
They ran into each other regularly. In the halls. On the elevator. At the nearby Philz coffee shop. He started calling her Ms. CeCe. She was becoming his new auntie in San Francisco. Her 8-year-old daughter, Samiya, was becoming his cute little cousin. Out of nowhere, he took their relationship to another level.
“How about I take you up on that meal this weekend?” he asked one day on the elevator.
“Sure,” she said, a little stunned. She never expected him to actually take her up on it. That’s just what people say, right? No one ever follows through. Maybe he was different, she allowed herself to think. Deep down, though, she still didn’t expect him to
actuallyfollow through.
A couple days before he was supposed to come over, the concierge alerted her of a package. It was from Robinson. He couldn’t come for dinner, as planned. A team dinner was scheduled that night. So he left her three organic steaks: a New York strip, a tri-tip and a sirloin.
“I just wanted to apologize for flaking,” he said.
See, nobody actually takes the offer. That’s not how the world works anymore. But that’s OK, she thought. The steaks had warmed her heart. She had a feeling about him in her spirit, and she was right about him. That was more than enough for Ms. CeCe.
Later, during another encounter in the hall, Robinson surprised her again. After getting a hug from Samiya, Robinson told them his brother, Gelen — a nose tackle who earlier this month was drafted into the new XFL by the Dallas Renegades — was coming to town. He wanted to know if the offer of a meal was still on the table.
“Now the pressure was on,” she said, “since we had a firm date and time.”
The aroma hit him as he was coming down the elevator. It smelled so good. She wasn’t lying, he thought. She really can cook.
He was excited as he knocked on the door. He smiled when Ms. CeCe opened.
“I was ready to eat,” he recalled, grinning.
But when he walked in, he was struck with sadness. He didn’t let it show, but he felt his heart drop.
The apartment was so bare. They didn’t have any furniture, just three folding chairs and a table. The television sat on an old nightstand in the living room. The bedroom had just two air mattresses and their clothes. And, no, the Roberts weren’t waiting on the movers to bring the rest of their stuff. This was all they had.
“My brother, he’s a football player,” Robinson said. “He’s almost 300 pounds. I’m thinking he’s ’bout to break one of them chairs. We can’t break their chairs.”
This made Robinson feel even closer to his new neighbor. She doesn’t have any furniture and she spent her money cooking for him? He knew right away he wanted to do something nice for the family. But first, it was time to eat.
This was the kind of feast you felt. It didn’t have the long banquet table, wooden chairs and cloth napkins. No serving dishes or decorative dinnerware. No chalets to drink from or centerpiece to ogle. What was there, though, was warmth, appreciation, a sense of belonging.
Roberts served the fried chicken hot with Slap Yo Mama seasoning sizzled into the crusty skin. She won the deep fryer from work. Actually, she received a $50 Target gift card as a reward for referring a new employee. She used the prize to buy the deep fryer. She had no idea it would come in this handy.
But before she went to buy the food that morning, she prayed.
“I got in my car,” she said, “and I said, ‘God, I only have a little bit of cash. Please just anoint this meal and let it grow.'”
It worked.
“It was so good,” Robinson said. “I mean
really good.”
Roberts started the dinner conversation by asking Robinson about his grades. He was confused at first. Then he realized she thought he was a college student. He broke the news to her.
“Ms. CeCe, I’m not in college,” he said. “I play for the Golden State Warriors.”
They didn’t recognize his face. Perhaps most Warriors fans wouldn’t. He hadn’t even played a regular-season game yet. He’s one of nine new players as the Warriors made over their roster. And Robinson isn’t a well-known player. The Warriors are his fifth team since he was selected in the second round of the 2014 NBA Draft, No. 40 overall. He averaged a career-best 6.1 points for his hometown Indiana Pacers in 2016-17. Thursday was the first time he opened the season as a starter.
In hindsight, Roberts rolls her eyes at herself over not putting it all together. But she would have had to be a diehard NBA fan to recognize him. She had no idea he topped $10 million in career earnings with his latest contract. She certainly didn’t know his father was a two-time All-Star and NBA champion. Still, his height didn’t tip her off, nor did his note about the team dinner, nor did him staying way up somewhere at the top of their complex.
“I kinda figured something was up,” her son said when Robinson revealed his profession. “He looks like a basketball player.”
“Wow. OK,” Roberts responded to Robinson’s revelation. “Now go on in there and wash your hands for dinner.”
They spent the evening getting to know each other. She shared her story, filled with struggle and pain, but also hope and service.
Roberts, 42, is a native of San Francisco, from the Diamond Heights neighborhood. She went to Lincoln High, “but I was a little bad and ended up at Mark Twain,” a now-closed continuation school in the city. She said she is a survivor both of abuse she suffered as a child and domestic violence as an adult. She doesn’t make much money as a caseworker, but she makes ends meet. Also, she has spent the last couple decades helping the underserved members of the San Francisco community: victims of domestic violence and human trafficking, members of the jail population, homeless people facing eviction from their SRO housing. She did this all while living one emergency from being homeless herself.
That’s why she had no qualms about inviting someone into her barren home. She has a full life even without extra money. She has experiences that taught her valuable lessons she passes to her children. The mistakes and pains she overcame, or still lives through, are but proving grounds for her faith. She has a perspective that makes her thankful, that consumes small blessings as if they were big treasures.
So, no, she wasn’t ashamed she didn’t have furniture. She was too proud she had a nice place to which she could invite someone. She compensated for her lack of accouterments with an excess of hospitality.
“He didn’t mind,” she said. “He didn’t look around and turn his nose up. He didn’t mind. If a person is genuine at the heart, they won’t trip on what you’ve got or what you ain’t got.”
And the brothers hung out, too. Robinson could’ve come up with a myriad of reasons to get out of there, and took a plate to go. He’d done enough just by showing up. But they stayed awhile, spent some quality time. Robinson even had some alone time with her son — “And his name is Lynn III,” she says with widened eyes and a head nod. “And he’s Glenn III. See how God works?” — and gave him an encouraging talk.
When Robinson left, he told Ms. CeCe it was his turn next. He can’t cook like her but wanted to take her out to eat.
She smiled. This time, she was certain he wasn’t just saying that. He keeps doing nice things to make her feel special.
“Sure, nephew.”
Robinson saw Ms. CeCe in their complex again. He asked her if Friday was a good day for him to take her to lunch. Oct. 25.
“My birthday is Thursday,” she replied, “so that’s perfect.”
Ohhhh, this was perfect. She had no idea.
A couple weeks ago, Robinson finalized the establishing of his foundation. Now, he knew the perfect family to be the first beneficiaries of his new charitable arm.
It’s called ARI. He named it after his 18-month-old daughter Ariana. He used her nickname for his foundation, which inspires his desire to give. So he made Ari into an acronym for his new work: Angels are Real Indeed.
Robinson has been doing camps and helping out in communities his entire career. He does boots-on-the-ground work in Gary. But he wanted something official and organized, an infrastructure to do greater good. He has a heart to work with families, to empower fathers who handle their responsibilities, to support women who have been marginalized and traumatized
