My heartbreak over Alton Sterling and Philando Castile’s murders means nothing at all. It does not bring these men–all the people of color slayed by officials falsely claiming to enforce the law–back their lives; it does not return them to their families and friends. Once again I find myself–this middle-aged white lady in a boiling-over, messed-up major metropolitan area–at a loss about a country that so fiercely protects its right to bear arms and then slays people of color even when they don’t practice that right. God help them when they do. Drastic measures are the only sensible response. The question is: Which ones? When I was young I marched and whined and boycotted all the time. I still honor these actions (except for the whining) but see that something more is required. If the corruption is big–and it is monolithic–we must be so much bigger. We must be as uncomfortable as is required to effect true change. Discomfort is a luxury, for it means we are still alive.
Now is the time of year when my brain slows to an absolute crawl. I’m trying to write an overdue piece on a topic I adore–a topic I campaigned to cover, for heaven’s sake–and all I can think about is ocean breezes, porch swings, fresh corn, snapdragons, sugar snap peas, glasses of rosé, a book beneath a tree, tan limbs wrapped around my own. If in winter I prefer to hibernate, in summer I only wish to sprawl–Mama Nature is producing such glorious bounty that it seems disrespectful to compete. Yet deadlines loom and, ever the freelancer with a case of the Cassandras, I feel compelled to take all the assignments I can, especially as it’s work I am lucky to do. (Remember your ancestors’ struggles, chants something deep in my blood.) Yes, this concrete jungle boils over; yes, my temper threatens to do the same. But somebody’s gotta buy that premium permakitten food and I’m the only member of my household with opposable thumbs.
The dove family took off from our fire escape the day before yesterday. That morning, Grace and I rushed to the window first thing as had become our ritual. But only Sweet Baby Blue, the late bloomer of the roost, was waiting for us. I suspect he’d been dispatched to say goodbye and thank you, for he perched on the rail with an erect bearing that made him look very grownup. He looked straight at us, and I felt Gracie straighten accordingly in my lap. Then we all froze. Grace’s green gaze, my green gaze, the dove’s dark, bottomless gaze: It suddenly became a big moment. Continue Reading →
My heartbreak over Alton Sterling and Philando Castile’s murders means nothing at all. It does not bring these men–all the people of color slayed by officials falsely claiming to enforce the law–back their lives; it does not return them to their families and friends. Once again I find myself–this middle-aged white lady in a boiling-over, messed-up major metropolitan area–at a loss about a country that so fiercely protects its right to bear arms and then slays people of color even when they don’t practice that right. God help them when they do. Drastic measures are the only sensible response. The question is: Which ones? When I was young I marched and whined and boycotted all the time. I still honor these actions (except for the whining) but see that something more is required. If the corruption is big–and it is monolithic–we must be so much bigger. We must be as uncomfortable as is required to effect true change. Discomfort is a luxury, for it means we are still alive.
Now is the time of year when my brain slows to an absolute crawl. I’m trying to write an overdue piece on a topic I adore–a topic I campaigned to cover, for heaven’s sake–and all I can think about is ocean breezes, porch swings, fresh corn, snapdragons, sugar snap peas, glasses of rosé, a book beneath a tree, tan limbs wrapped around my own. If in winter I prefer to hibernate, in summer I only wish to sprawl–Mama Nature is producing such glorious bounty that it seems disrespectful to compete. Yet deadlines loom and, ever the freelancer with a case of the Cassandras, I feel compelled to take all the assignments I can, especially as it’s work I am lucky to do. (Remember your ancestors’ struggles, chants something deep in my blood.) Yes, this concrete jungle boils over; yes, my temper threatens to do the same. But somebody’s gotta buy that premium permakitten food and I’m the only member of my household with opposable thumbs.
The dove family took off from our fire escape the day before yesterday. That morning, Grace and I rushed to the window first thing as had become our ritual. But only Sweet Baby Blue, the late bloomer of the roost, was waiting for us. I suspect he’d been dispatched to say goodbye and thank you, for he perched on the rail with an erect bearing that made him look very grownup. He looked straight at us, and I felt Gracie straighten accordingly in my lap. Then we all froze. Grace’s green gaze, my green gaze, the dove’s dark, bottomless gaze: It suddenly became a big moment. Continue Reading →