Today’s post is about *stop being mean and just let us eat a GD cake.*
I can’t write a thoughtful, helpful blog post about how thoroughly fucked it feels to live in a country where legislation is passed with the express purpose of keeping “your kind” out—and so done in the name of the very faith you hold dear. So instead I will tell you a story.
I’m making this pot roast from a recipe my Gram Rena gave me years ago, fighting tears with every chop—and I haven’t even gotten to the onions. My Gram has dementia—and I miss her every time I remember something of hers that she cannot.
I’ve started and stopped writing my desperate, helpless thoughts on America’s Goddamned Problem with Black People a handful of times these last few months. Because what can I say? I’m a middle class white woman. My words are low on the priority list of what people need to hear right now. So I’ve been listening a lot. Chiming in only with support. Sharing Facebook posts of my black friends and retweeting the words of black thinkers so that anyone who might listen to my privileged voice might hear instead the voices of the choking, the gasping, the righteously fucking furious. […]
The small man Builds cages for everyone He Knows. While the sage, Who has to duck his head When the moon is low, Keeps dropping keys all night long For the Beautiful Rowdy Prisoners. –Hafiz The plan for January was to blog my ass off. There’s a format for being a writer, you know, and it goes something like this: Blog, blog, doubt yourself, blog, promote, promote, hate yourself, promote, platform-build, platform-build, avoid yourself, platform-build, repeat ad nauseum, publisher-court, publisher-court, sell yourself, publisher-court, get lucky–maybe–and then what? So I posted nothing at all til mid-month. I did it for years, […]
Of all the people I had to come out to, the most difficult one was me. Can you imagine how it feels to not know the truth about your own self? Let me tell you: There is no fear so terrible as not knowing the person who is your own soul. But Jesus knew. And he was so good to me about it, because of course he was. I’d love to share this piece of my journey with you today at A Deeper Story.