For the Love of Writing

In graduate school I spent 6 months pouring my heart out for my Master's paper. I wrote about my life, the complicated experience of being a multiracial Black woman. I wrote about my family, my friends, childhood enemies and the women who saved me. It was very akin to that quote about writing where you're bleeding on the page.

This blog hasn't been quite as personal. Many of them were barely edited, apologies for the typos and general lack of commas. I did this project to prove that I could and to remind myself what it was I loved about writing. I was reminded that it's writing from my experience that I love the most. Quirky noticing and painful memories that helps me explain the systems of inequality we live in every day.

"B in the Borderlands" is meant to be a play on words, it's meant to reference my first initial and a state of being. A reference to Gloria Anzaldua's famous book that brings forward that which is usually hidden and ignored. The in-between, the intersections, the borderlands. When I came to terms with my Bisexuality I remember sobbing heavily, yelling out to the universe "why do I have to have another one of these identities?" The kind that don't make sense to people, the kind that aren't seen fully. I'd already struggled through navigating a multiracial identity and couldn't bear to feel that on another plane.

But here I am, in the borderlands just the same. 

I've tried to ignore the pull to confront these things in my writing. The need to write my experience felt like a vain quest for validation, more of our fame obsessed culture creeping in, my need to be the center of attention. But the more I write, the more I share myself--my borderlands I hear from the friends that have been kind enough to read, that it resonates with them too. I remember that so much of what we know is based on our experience and the experiences that have been shared with us. We are a country of people hearing the stories of those with power and not listening to the quiet voices of those on the margins.

I cannot speak for everyone but my ability to put my experience into words is a gift and a responsibility.

Infoglut & Social Media Overload

Last week I took a break from Facebook. 

I found myself becoming overly obsessed with the amount of likes each of these posts were getting. Then, I found myself being triggered over and over again. I figured that it was time to cut my loses and deactivate for the first time since I opened my account in 2004.

This is how we live now. It's the way we connect with each other, both people that we have no business staying connected to (elementary school pen pal) and people we need to stay connected to (mom). I've taken several social media breaks (which I jokingly referred to as "cleanses") in the past for days at a time. But this was the first time I left Facebook entirely and let me tell you it felt weird.

I switched the Facebook energy to Twitter and was instantly WAY more informed on a bunch of things. I was reminded that Facebook is limited in so many ways and I had been relying on it for things it was never meant to do. It was nice to be in a space with a little less, less characters, less pictures, less everything. Twitter is how I found out about the protest Saturday and where I went to watch it all unfold in real time. Note: this is not a Facebook vs. Twitter post even though it's kind of starting to sound like one.

We are surrounded by so much stuff, information, opinions, images, facts and figures. I can only describe it as "noise." In therapy I've been working on listening to my own voice and trusting that. Let me tell you, in the current social media landscape that is VERY difficult to do. For those of us that have trouble finding out voice it's a hard task to be bombarded by other people's thoughts and feelings before we have fully figured out our own. Not to mention the consequences of how those thoughts and feelings if shared will be received by our network.

I'm so grateful for the space social media has created for me. I'm able to stay connected to people I love and people who's opinions and work I respect. I'm able to stay up to date on the latest news and information. But with that comes a kind of exhaustion, reading word after word starts to feel like sitting in a room where people are screaming things at you "I liked this movie!" "My baby walked today!" "The country is shit!" Individually these things aren't bad, it's nice to see a baby walk for the first time or feel validated in one's worries about the state of things. But when you mesh them all together in a feed with pictures and ads and doodads it's pretty mind numbing.

I'm back on Facebook now but I'm also trying to stay on Twitter because I remembered how much I enjoyed it. Add Instagram and the occasional Snapchat peruse and I'm back where I started. There's no handbook for this. No handbook for figuring out the uncharted waters of the emotional impact of information at our fingertips. For now I'll just continue to check in with myself and take breaks when I need them, deactivate if I feel like it and get totally sucked into my phone if I feel like it.

In this political moment I'll take more breaks and add to the conversation even if I don't get the likes I wanted.

Perspectives from a (kinda) Child of an Immigrant

I don't know when I stopped referring to myself as "French Canadian and Black" and made the shift to "Black and white."

It was easier somehow to tell people what they wanted to hear when they looked at my hair, then at my complexion and then search my face for other features that might give them a clue.

I stopped saying French Canadian because it didn't feel like it counted. Like when white people say they're Irish and Scandinavian but that's like from five and six generations back. The real thing they wanted to know was what my race was, so I gave it to them straight. French Canadian isn't a race and nobody even knows what it is anyway.

I always had to explain to people that the French "landed" on North America too but were beat out by the English for what is now known as Canada, save a little province called Quebec. Quebecois or French Canadians are the decedents of those colonizers who refused to assimilate into the British ruled Canada. It's a cool history of resistance until you think about the fact that all European colonizers were stealing the land from indigenous folks and claiming anyone got anywhere first is complete crap. Another reason I'm conflicted in my Quebecois pride.

I grew up in a bilingual household until about the 1st grade. Mostly, bilingual although my when my English-only speaking father was home from months out to Sea he complicated things. It weird to say that because I feels like the phrase "bilingual home" is reserved for other families that don't have a white french-speaking mother. My first two years in school I attended a French Magnet in San Diego. I remember moving to Hawaii halfway through 1st grade and staring at the kids as they asked me things in English and Hawaii Pidgin. Every morning we said the pledge of allegiance and I didn't know it in English. This is a common experience for bilingual children and for many children of immigrants who may not speak English in the home. But I still pushed back against the idea that this is my identity, because my mom is white and JUST Canadian so it doesn't really count.

When I moved to Hawaii the experience of having an immigrant parent was pretty ordinary. My best friend and I would joke about how our moms (her's Japanese) always had trouble understanding each other over the phone, both speaking with different accents of a language neither of them grew up speaking. When people would ask my mom where she was from I'd always stare shocked. That's not a question white people get asked very much and she had been speaking English since she was 16, I didn't even notice she had an accent.

Several years ago my mom's youngest sister was the first one in their family to become an American citizen. My mom talked about following suit and I exclaimed "NO! You don't want to be a citizen of this trash country!" Partially selfish (I want the option of dual citizenship in case the shit hits the fan, as it is now), it felt like an American passport would make my mom just another American white lady and I couldn't stand the idea of that.

The privilege of not wanting my mother to have an American passport is not lost on me, it's one that not many folks have.

This President and his administration aren't going after my mom. My commonality with child of immigrant stories stops at the fear of my parent being deported. Because race matters in this conversation. If you look at the list of the 7 "banned" countries it's rare that people who look like my mom (blonde and blue eyed) would not be stopped for "extra questioning."

In this time it's important for us to remember that in most cases whiteness trumps all and as we share stories and signs that say "we are all immigrants" I hope we'll remember that:
1)Blacks folks who are the decedents of slaves are not
2)Native folks who have been here all along are not

3)Not all immigrants are affected my xenophobia the same. Collapsing the nuanced experience of people who have come to this country in a multitude of different ways erases the fact that my mom and a green card holder from Sudan are not treated the same.

Practicing Self-Love by Acknowledging Limits

Today I went to a protest. More on that in a much longer post tomorrow because it's all I can do to keep my eyes open right now and I want to really write about that experience. However, there was something I realized while my body was slowly losing every bit of energy after a few hours without sustainable food.

My body is limited.

Even writing that feels like a failure. But I will practice radical self-love by holding this truth and loving myself fully. I'm hypoglycemic and that means that every few hours I HAVE to eat. Depending on how much energy I'm using (mental and/or physical) the amount and frequency with which I need to eat could be more. This fact coupled with my peanut allergy means that access to food I can eat isn't always available.

I've known this for a little over 3 years but that doesn't mean I've really accepted it. People that know me expect that I travel with snacks and always have a healthy meal brought from home for lunch. This is how I try to prevent my body from betraying me and limiting me. But there are times when I push it because "everyone else can" and because eating in a corner while everyone else is having fun makes me feel weak and like a frail oversensitive weirdo. When the lunch meeting goes too long or I have an after work hour event to attend with no real break for dinner I panic, freeze and then keep it moving. Only to be met with intense hunger pains and lightheadedness 30 minutes later because I ignored what my body was telling me. 

This changes the way I exist in a way I'm still frustrated with. It wasn't always this way, I used to be able to go a full day without eating anything but cereal. I would excel at my classes, ace the test, take incredible notes with barely anything fueling my body. And that almost makes it worse, the memory of days when I didn't have to think "how many snacks can I fit in this bag?" or "is there going to be a fridge there for my lunch?"

Today it happened again. As I packed my bag for the protest that same wash of panic came over me, how long will we be there, how long will this half a tuna sandwich, almonds and popcorn sustain me? The panic hit me again when the protest speaker exclaimed hours later "we're not leaving until all the detainees are released!"

As I walked out of the terminal exhausted and starving I felt the same guilt I always fell: I should be stronger, the detainees don't have food, they're tired from traveling, I need to be more. Luckily I had a community of people with me making sure I took care of myself and showering me with words of love and concern for my health. 

Tonight I'm trying to take in those words of love from my friends and family. 

I'm trying to remind myself that this body is worthy of care and love even with its limits because it's the only one I have and it is enough. 

Fergus Friday

It's finally Friday in what seems to be the one longest week in my adult memory. In my exhausted state I proceeded to cook dinner, walk my Fergus and watch an early 2000's Rom Com. After all of that I still had nothing to write about. But after taking Fergus on her last walk and trying to keep her from barking at the recycling (her favorite pastime after 9:30pm) I had the most fun playing with her. I was once again reminded what a gift this little quirky four legged creature is in my life.

Dogs are also good for dressing up in family costumes

I never wanted a dog. I grew up allergic to the world and with parents who gave me pretty solid reasons for not having a dog. The fact that a dog would mean we couldn't stay out for long or go traveling on a moments notice (both things my family DID NOT DO, I might add) seemed like it wasn't worth the trouble. When Mary and I got together she talked endlessly about a dog and I told her that I would get a dog if I could name it Fergus.

Fergus was a dog puppet on a French Canadian children's show I watched on recorded VHS tapes sent to me by my Canadian relatives. I always liked the name and it seemed like a pretty solid compromise. So one summer after we had been married for 2 years and living in our apartment for a while we started the hunt for a dog. Since I'm technically allergic to dogs we had a short list of "hypoallergenic" breeds that we were limited to and were committed to adopting. A few weeks into the search Mary found our Fergus at a tiny rescue in Gilroy. After a short phone call with the "foster mom" I took a day off work and we drove the 2 hours to pick up our first fur baby.

Now if you've read anything about Fergus on this blog or know her personally this next part will sound very "on brand." We arrived at a random house in Gilroy and were let in by an older white woman who explained that "Bunny" (Ferg's foster name) was pretty skittish and didn't really do well with people. She suggested that we sit on the ground tossing treats and not making any sudden movements towards her. In perfect Fergus (then Bunny) fashion she proceeded to peer at us from the safety of behind a giant couch. She smelled those treats and would inch closer and then without us doing anything to startle her, she would dart back behind the couch. I was instantly in love. We forced her, terrified and very dirty into a too small for her crate (we were given different measurements) and we took our baby home.

Pets change your life dramatically. Depending on the species, that change could be more or less severe but there's something about co-existing with a non-human animal that changes the way you look at things. Dogs for example are very in the moment (or so that's what scientist claim). They are sad when you're gone and happy when you're there. They're mad when you accidentally step on them (sorry Ferg) and then seconds later they're back to loving you forever. It's hard to live with something that operates that way and not have it rub off even a little.

Since we got Ferg I've started to appreciate the little things more. She's forced me to appreciate going outside and getting fresh air because I'm forced to do it 3-4 times a day. If you had told me two years ago that I would be taking a 20 minute walk first thing in the morning every day I would have laughed in your face. But now that's the routine and I actually enjoy it (most of the time). She's just so happy to play and to be loved and doted on. That energy is so infectious.

There's a laundry list of things I wish I didn't have to worry about or do now that I have a dog but that's the other lesson in having a pet. You're not the only one that needs stuff. On top of that laundry list I also wish I could understand what she's barking at, upset with, scared of and a multitude of other dog emotions I don't get. Another lesson, every one (or being in this case) communicates differently. Sometimes that can be frustrating but sometimes it can teach you a lot to try to see things from another perspective.

So there's my little love blog to Fergus, my first ever dog. She's taught me a million things already and I'm sure she'll continue to amaze, challenge, love and shade me for the rest of her doggie days.

Please enjoy this weird video of her Name Sake below:

On Not Being Fine

So we're closing in on the end of week one of #TrumpsAmerica and let me tell you, I am EXHAUSTED. 

Every day, hell every few hours there's a new assault on my communities and the communities I'm in solidarity with and that shit is getting old, real quick. And this is JUST THE BEGINNING.

And this thing keeps happening, a thing that happens probably 5-10 times a day, people ask me "how's it going?" or "how are you?" It's what you say in passing in the kitchen to that person filling up their water bottle or passing you in the hall. As nice as these people might be and however pure their intentions are, that is a loaded question. It has always been a loaded question because the socially acceptable response is "good" or "fine" usually with a little smile and reciprocating ask. I am advocating for a cease and desist of this "pleasantry." Here's why:

I AM NOT FINE. 

I'm certainly not going to be fine for the next 4 years and let me tell you, a lot of shit has happened to me in the past year and a half that made me very not-fine on any given day. For a lot of 2016 I was on the verge of tears pretty much every other day. What happens when you ask me how I am is that I don't think about myself, I immediately think about you. How you're going to react if I honestly answer this question or how I don't want to tell you about the fact that I'm on the verge of tears. So instead of being honest with myself I lie, I smile and say "good!" I become an actress for keeping up appearances sake and not making anyone feel uncomfortable.

Here's what I suggest, let's stop asking people how they are unless we REALLY have the time and energy to know. Let's start saying, "nice to see you" or "how 'bout them ((insert professional sporting team here))." I don't want to lie anymore and I don't want to have to feel guilty about bumming you out because I'm only trying to warm up my oatmeal and I really don't want to talk to you at all.

One last thing. I am advocating for us getting real about our feelings in this moment. I understand that there's work to be done and that we need to keep moving forward. I'm not saying we stop doing that. But if you're feeling hopeless, just feel hopeless while you're being a good friend or clicking the donate now button on the Standing Rock Legal Fund page. I have spent a lot of the weekend and the week feeling guilty about not feeling hopeful and ready and positive about the fight ahead.

Feeling shitty and then feeling guilty about feeling shitty is DOUBLE SHIT. 

So if you're hopeful and ready that's great, but please let the rest of us feel upset, sad and deflated. It doesn't mean we aren't doing the work too or that we'll get stuck that way, it just means that right now, that's where we're at.

I Can't Have Sex Until Marriage, So Let's Get Married.

Today marks 15 years since the release of the epic film A Walk to Remember.

Besides the fact that these days I've been feeling ancient because things I have actual memories of are having 10 and 15 and 20 year anniversaries, this one is particularly important to me. In case you didn't know, I have LOVED Mandy Moore from the moment I watched her do bad choreography in front of a lime green 2000's VW bug. Consequently that was also my high school and early 20's dream car. But I digress.

For anyone living under a rock in 2002, A Walk to Remember was an romantic tale of a "bad boy" who after nearly killing his friend in a dare is given a weird punishment that includes being a part of a school play. Obviously he is WAY too cool for this play and is not interested in anything about it until a weird homely girl who doesn't talk peaks his interest somehow. After she throws a few snarky comments his way and gets a make-over for her role in the play (by make over I mean they make her wear a gown and curl her hair) he falls deeply in love with her. Of course, he gets her to like him too, as boys in these movies do, by stalking her and forcing her to hang out with him. About 45m into the movie you find out that she is DYING of cancer. PLOT TWIST! So naturally the whole thing ends with them getting married before she dies. Did I mention they were seniors in high school?

Now that I've made this movie sound ridiculous I will tell you how UTTERLY obsessed with it I was. I had a giant A Walk to Remember poster on my wall and I listened to the soundtrack like every day. If you haven't noticed I was really big into soundtracks. I watched the DVD over and over and could probably recite most of the movie and tell you so many fun facts about the movie, like how the costume director just got like 3 random outfits from Good Will to be Jamie's (Mandy Moore) wardrobe. I have watched the Director's commentary multiple times so I'm rife with useless details like that.

But despite all of that love I can recognize now, as adult that this movie is FILLED with horrible messages about gender, love and relationships. First of all, the fact that the main character is a pretty awful person doesn't keep him from convincing the most ethical and caring girls to like him. Seriously? He literally almost killed his friend and she's like I mean no big deal you're cute. Then there's the fact that the message this whole things sends to young women is that if you are pure and chaste and a total weirdo that reads bible versus to cute bad boys they will like you. THAT IS NOT TRUE! I mean, I never tried it but I work with teenage boys now and I can tell you I don't think they would look twice at a girl that wears the same outfit every day.

Next I will dive into that trope I'd like to call: "I can't have sex until marriage so let's get married tomorrow so we can have sex." A Walk to Remember did this WAY before Twilight did it but the concept is the same. Jamie was a preachers daughter who obviously was a chaste virgin and couldn't even do any heavy making out. In one scene they're kissing for like 1 minute and she's like "hey now!" and he's like "oh yeah sorry." For what, kissing her for more than like 2 seconds? So weird. They tried to play off the whole getting married thing by making it about her bucket list and how she wanted to get married in the church her (dead) mom and (alive) dad got married in but we know the REAL deal. That bucket list item was "fuck a hot bad boy." Also why is everyone dead? What are the chances that a mom dies and then her daughter dies like 17 years later? What kind of curse is on the women in this family and where is the prequel where we find out?

Finally, why are there so many films about dying girls finding love? Why do girls have to be dying to be in loving relationships? It's like the only way to make a teenage boy act like a caring partner is to give his girlfriend a death sentence. Also, why is romance the only important thing that dying girls could possible want to experience? Why didn't Jamie just quit school (why are you still going to school if you're dying?) and travel a bunch or write a Memoir and then go on a fancy 20 city book tour? It's like dating a teenage boy is the thing you wanna spend your last days doing? Dream bigger 18 year old girls!

Either way, I can't recommend this movie highly enough. It's a classic that also has an amazing movie song by the one & only Mandy Moore. Enjoy the video below which is very confusing because you can't tell if Mandy Moore is being Mandy Moore or Jamie, her character in the movie.

3 Things I Miss About College

Next May will mark 10 years since I graduated college. I cannot even believe that I'm that old. I don't feel old and I know in a life of 70-75 years I'm actually not even half way done. But in these times of political uncertainty and general doom and gloom I find myself looking back at happier times, even if they were during the W. Bush years.

#1 All your favorite people are just a few steps away

This is the BIGGEST thing I miss about college. When you live on campus everyone you know is just a few floor away or best of all down the hall. When you go to dinner, you run into other people you like and then when you go take a shower it's a group affair (not in a sexy way, at least in my experience). All the general boring things that you have to do you get to do with FRIENDS! Luckily, in my current life I still get to do a lot of the same stuff with the same person I was doing all that stuff with back then. But still there are many more friends that are are across the city, across the bay or worst across the state and country.

#2 You never have to cook

This is a double edged sword for me because I was always a little stressed about having an allergy attack since I didn't know quite what was in all the food I ate. Plus the bagel area was like a peanut butter massacre. The great thing about living on campus for 4 years was the fact that I didn't have to meal plan, manage my money for food or grocery shop and I still had a really solid array of food to eat.

#3 It's your job to read and write

The thing I miss the most about college is that your literacy game is ON POINT. I read SO much and then read novels on the side for pleasure like a huge dork. I loved writing papers and having concise and solid arguments. The feeling I got when I read over a particularly brilliant (if I do say so myself) line making a solid argument with great justification--POW! I rarely get that feeling of pride anymore. In grown-up life my writing extends to emails and a daily tweet for my work's account.

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That's why this little blog project has been so important for me. I love writing and since I started my non-profit career I've been so exhausted with the day to day of life that I just didn't ever do it. I would say in passing to Mary mid-rant about how everyone hates the Kardashians (perhaps a post about this later) "I should blog about this!" And then I never did. I felt so confident in my voice in college. Confident that I had a well researched paper or my reading reflection had solid connections and a unique perspective. After I graduated I lost so much of that confidence. I started to feel smaller somehow and like my voice and perspective weren't anything special.

So I guess I just want to say thanks for reading--thanks to all my friends who have said kind words, shared and liked the posts. We're a week away from the end of this experiment and I'm grateful to you for being along for the ride.

The Trouble with Greeting Cards

I remember growing up and going to the Hallmark store and searching for hours for a card for Mother's Day or Father's Day and feeling so left out.

It seems like such a small thing to walk into a store and get a card that reflects your family but for a lot of us it's not a small thing at all. I would go over card after card reading the inscriptions of the cards with the white mom's and white daughters on the cover, loving the words but not connecting to the pictures, so I moved on to the next one. I did the same with my dad, searching for the tiny section with the Black cards, if they even had them, and finding the same problem, a Black mom and dad with a Black child smiling on a beach. It didn't fit. Of course cards with actual people on them are not the only option and so I resigned to never buy a card with humans because it was just too complicated.

As a teen I looked for birthday cards for my best friends, Asian girls, Latinas and mixed Black girls who didn't look anything like the little white girls in tutu's and lipstick on the cute "classic" photography cards. I bought them anyway, always feeling a little bummed. I would point out who was who based on eye color and hair color but we all knew that cards were limited and it was the thought that counted.

And now Valentine's Day and Anniversaries come with similar but different anxiety. The gender neutral cards with cartoon hearts or funny saying are the one's I can choose, that's my section. The "wife" cards are filled with messages of being a lucky man or some subtle straight coded language that makes me feel like it's just not quite right. And the same thing stands, no humans because finding a card with two girls is hard enough and something with an interracial lady couple is only available for $8 cards and ordered from some obscure seller on Etsy.

It doesn't seem like a big deal when you think of all the other cards there are to choose from. But it makes you feel just a little wrong every time. And those little wrongs add up, every Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentine's Day, Anniversary and birthday add up to so many little wrongs until finally you feel like maybe you just don't matter. Maybe your family doesn't matter, your love doesn't matter, you don't matter.

And again today, in Trump's America, feeling left out of Saturday's festivities--the general feeling of hope in them I wish I could muster up & critiques I wish I could ignore--it feels like I just don't matter.

Moonlight & the Beauty of Black Masculinity

Moonlight left me stunned. Stunned by how much I missed witnessing the beauty and tenderness of Black masculinity in my life.

I walked into the theater ready to connect with this film around the main character’s experience of queerness and left feeling like it had given me something I had been missing but didn’t know was missing. And now it feels like there’s a gaping hole I didn’t realize was there before.

I was raised by two Black men and a white woman. In my formative years I thought Black masculinity WAS Blackness. I spent my early childhood days in awe of my older brother Shany, ten yeas my senior, he and his friends oozed cool and confidence. I’d come home from school and watch them in the backyard a mix of Black, Latino and white teenage boys rap battling with make-shift sound systems they’d pulled together with odds and ends. Mic stands taped to the back of a lawn chair so they didn’t have to hold it up, leaving their hand free for the gestures that I’d seen in rap videos.

I worshiped those boys and they doted on me. They’d fly through our front door stopping for snacks, to say hi to my mom and tease me and then headed straight for the back yard, the kick-it spot of my brother’s crew. “Nigga” was thrown around with the easy camaraderie of teen boys of color, my mom always worried, perplexed, frustrated with “the language.” She didn’t get it but I watched and soaked up every gesture, word, nod and pound. This was the soundtrack to my homework and afterschool snack.

My brother taught me to swim in a Mickey Mouse shaped pool at our grandmother’s apartment complex in Orange County. Hardly the beautiful picturesque scene in Moonlight but it was special just the same. He always dotted on me. Let me tag along (way less times than I remember I would later find out) with his friends on adventures that I had no business being at. He spoke to me so sweetly like I was the most special person in the world to him. All of the toughness and bravado he had with his friends just melted away when we sang Aladdin songs together and played like we were sleeping only to poke the other person in the eye or give a wet willy.

Half way through my childhood my brother and my father swapped out. During those early years my dad was active duty in the Navy and was not home much more than a few months out of the year. Years ago I found a doodle in a notebook from my childhood that said “dad is gone, I love Shany.” That was it in a nutshell. But when my brother was 19 he left home and I was left with my father to take back his role in my life.

In high school my dad was my ride. Those were our special times together, sitting in the car riding around bumpin the latest Hip Hop and R&B hits on the way to and from my dance lessons. He woke me up every morning when I ignored my alarm and made sure I got up for school, saying with a half smile in his voice “nigga you better get up and get ready for school.” Every birthday card he tirelessly picked was signed with the message to “follow your dreams, you can do anything, I’m so proud of you.” We went on adventures together, hiking, ice skating, body boarding, all with the 2000’s soundtrack of Ja Rule, DMX, 50 cent and Snoop. We’d rap loudly with the windows down and the warm breeze around us his chain and diamond earring glimmering,, the smell of his cologne lingering in the air. I felt so proud to be in that car with him, my dad with his easy charisma and quiet strength.

All those little scenes in Moonlight brought me back to these moments. Made me remember the sacredness of witnessing Black masculinity in the world. The sacredness of being loved by and cared for by Black men in a world that has twisted the image of Black men into an ugly lie. I am grateful to Moonlight for bringing us another version. The complex version I know so well of tenderness, survival, care and boundless love.

Real Women Have...

I did not go to the Women's March today. For some of the reasons that I will write here and other reasons I won't. I envy the folks who were able to feel camaraderie and community in this action. I'm glad that they/you were able to feel that.

When Mary and I were in college we made a joke about the phrase "real women have curves." It started with a discussion of how some women felt like left out by this statement. So we started brainstorming, what is it that "real" women have? We started at the obvious uterus but decided that was transphobic and left out intersex folks and women who had had hysterectomy. Then we went to the living human things: spinal cords, which we realized was ableist and tried to make better by saying, "real women have partial spinal cords." But that felt weird because men also have partial spinal cords. Eventually we landed on "real women say they're women." It doesn't sound like it from the way I'm retelling it but we were in hysterics during this conversation. It was so silly that we were trying to find the THING that makes women.

Today the Women's March tried to do that again, as many feminists before them have tried to do. They brought together people around the idea of supporting the essential thing that is a woman. But what IS that thing anyway? At the end of the day does it even exist?

I saw a lot of folks on my feed going the route of me and Mary's first statement: "real women have uteruses" or rather pussies. I want to be clear that in no way do I find vulvas and vaginas and the mention of them offensive or vulgar. I am a queer women that has sex with women. I am quite fond of and familiar with vulvas and vaginas. But as photo after photo came up of women referencing their genitals I started to feel upset. I started to feel like yet again women's experiences and even our resistance is about our pussies. And the worst part is that THEY (Trump, Republicans, etc)  made it about our pussies and here we were taking their message and running with it. It felt like once again people were equating women with pussies. And then doing this weird thing where they made pussies cute and sassy like pink knit caps with cat ears on them or giant bedazzled vulva signs. And the thing is that the march did really try to include the voices of all women, including women who may not have pussies. Also I don't know if anyone knows this but...ALL PUSSIES ARE NOT PINK. But patriarchy has made everything about women centered around our lady parts so that the second someone says "women" we think BOOBS, VULVAS, PUSSIES!

This body-centric focus coupled with the fact that standing up for sex workers was taken off of the women's march declaration is also upsetting. Because we only want to reference genitals when they aren't about sex and the moment they become about how women's bodies and sex exist in a capitalist system there's no room for boobs and pussies. The grim reality is that often the most lucrative part of women is still our pussies.

Women are real. Women are varied and nuanced and no two are alike. We shouldn't have to be. Equity is about getting people what they need and most of the time what we need is not the same. As a queer woman in a monogamous relationship with another woman, access to birth control isn't something that I need. But I understand that for other people it's vitally important. So I will fight for that, not because it is how we are the same, but because I know that "you're liberation is bound up with mine."

But honestly I'm afraid that when my needs as a Black Queer woman aren't the same as "all women" they might not show up the same way for me. I hope they'll prove me wrong.

#FollowFriday Online Media

Now that Trump has been sworn in you're gonna wanna read a lot of things by a lot of smart people. So I will provide you a short list of places you can get your fill of said things by smart people.

Bitch Media 

Bitch started as a print magazine and has stayed relevant by continuing to have a great online presence. Their articles are truly intersectional and they have a ton of super smart people working and writing for them. They are always up on the latest pop culture things and weave in a great intersectional feminist take on everything from silly to vitally important.

Reading List:

• Lovely Speeches Are Not Radical

Black Girl Dangerous

This amazing blog was started by writer Mia McKenzie and has become a go-to place for Queer people of color writings and commentary. It is radical in politics and unapologetically authentic. It is one of the few places where I can go and read something that reflects ALL of my identities and for that I am eternally grateful.

Reading List: 

• "White-ish Christmas. Or, Dealing With My Non-Black In Laws

Crunk Feminist Collective

Part feminism, part academic, part Hip Hop and a whole lot of awesome. This website features the voices of feminist women of color who "embrace of those new cultural resources, which provide or offer the potential for resistance." Not at all the White Feminism you're used to, these writings center the lives of people of color and the multiple other identities at play in our lives.

Reading List:

• How to Survive the Next Four Years

Learning from Our Stories of Resistance

I started the Autobiography of Ida B. Wells today. I bought it two years ago at a used bookstore because I knew of the SF High School of the same name. I had never heard of Ida B. Wells after being an African American Studies Major and getting a MA in Sociology. It's lucky that SF Unified made the decision to not name every school after a dead white guy so that I could stumble upon this woman's legacy of perseverance and resistance. I'm about 20 pages in and already both of her parents have died in a plague, she has started working at 14 to care for her 7 younger brothers and sisters and she's sued the Railroads for forcing her out of a ladies train car for being Black. This is before the GOOD STUFF like her extensive civil rights work and writing career!

There is a reason that we don't hear these stories. 

For every MLK there are countless people who spent their lives working towards justice in little ways and big ways that were/are never shared with the world. It makes us feel like change is impossible, like it's too hard and nobody has done it before.

But it has been done, it continues to be done and we need to start digging up every last story we can find to prove that resistance is ordinary and change is inevitable. 

Hidden Figures did this brilliantly. As much as Katherine Johnson was the main focus of the film I was completely taken with Dorothy Vaughan. She made sure that an entire department of Black women had job security for the future, that had GENERATIONAL impact. She knew that her success was important but she had a department of women looking up to her and she had to take them with her.

We can all move forward if we take care of each other, she understood that.

Every time I watch a new movie or read a new book with people of color at the forefront I am reminded of how few stories of our lives are in the world. I am validated in ways that I didn't think possible, in feelings that I thought were odd, experiences I assumed were just my own. And so I will spend the next 4 years and beyond devouring every last story of ours I can.

I will take solace in stories of love and resistance, of stories of ordinary people living ordinary lives and making their communities better. Then I will take that inspiration and continue to do the work.

The Inevitability of Awkward

The older I get the more I realize, awkward is inevitable. 

This past weekend Mary was on a Mimi's World binge and while I popped in and out of the vaguely entertaining reality special I was horrified by one thing: awkward flirting. Mariah and one of her dancers Tanaka flirted in the most excruciating way. The really unsexy, kind of 12 year old way where you say stuff while smiling too much and then giggling while you walk away. Every time they were on screen together I couldn't help but hide my face.

Fast forward to tonight during a meeting with my teens while debriefing about how well they facilitating an event last week. "Talking to the other kids is so awkward!" One after one they each said the same thing and then resolved to learn how to make it less awkward when talking to strangers. I tried to explain that talking to strangers rarely gets less awkward, you simply have to deal with the awkwardness and keep it moving.

Later I watched my current favorite and VERY awkward show New Girl. I love that show because it highlights the everyday stupid stuff and of course the unbearably awkward. Like when you blurt out how something you know about someone because you stalked them on social media. Like when I FB commented on my elementary school's crush last week exclaiming, "1997! Isn't that the year you moved to Hawaii?" UGH! Why would I divulge that I knew that information, TWENTY YEARS LATER? Classic Jessica Day move. 

The thing about awkward is that it's real life. We've been fed so much media that shows relationships coming together so smoothly, both people are brilliantly witty and suave. I think that's why Issa Rae's Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl did so well. Everyone can relate to feeling like the most awkward person every once in a while. 

So, next time you do something awkward just chalk it up to real life and keep it moving. To quote Hanson "isn't it strange how we all get a little bit weird sometimes?" But really, how awkward was it that I quoted Hanson just there?

via GIPHY

Ok, baiiiii.

Top 5 Reason's Having a Childhood BFF as an Adult is the B.

Today is my oldest BFFs birthday, this post is in honor of her and all of our memories together.

HBD Erika San!

5. They were there for your "firsts." 

First kiss, first period, first relationship, first heartbreak. These things are monumental and chances are your BFF was there for a lot if not all of them. Not only can they recall that these things happened but they probably know the sordid and inevitably embarrassing details. Hell, they were probably the person you called, texted, or if you're a teen now, snapped seconds after it happened.

4. They know your childhood crushes and frenemies by first AND last name

What is it about grade school and referring to everybody by their first and last names, or even worse, first name, last initial? Regardless, your childhood BFF can easily recall the FULL names of the people your heart exploded for and your fists clenched for. As your #2 they were right there passing the "do you like me too?" note on one side and giving some serious side eye on the other side because--solidarity sister!

3. They know your family REALLY well

I don't know about you but I LOVED sleepovers. I particularly loved sleepovers at my house. What's not to love, your friend comes over and doesn't leave for a whole day??? Luckily I have achieved my ultimate dream of a 24/7 sleepover with my wife. But before there was Mary and Fergus there was Erika with a Roxy overnight bag full of PJs and toiletries ready to eat Boba and Costco pizza to our hearts content while watching A Walk to Remember. When you basically live part-time at someone else's house you get to know their family and their lives. She knew that we always had Diet Sprite in the fridge for a quick spritzer and that my mom would come annoy us a million times. She knew that she's be awaken by the sound of my birds screeching at 7am and my dad mowing the lawn on Sunday morning in a wicker sun hat. And I knew that I could always count on her mom to take us to Ala Moana and leave us alone (she's so lucky).

2. You don't have to explain

It's nice to know that you don't have to say more than "remember that time..." to be met with "OMG...YES!" When me and my BFF get together we go through about 4 different languages and talk about all the hilarious not-quite-adventures we had as teens. This applies to any present day issues too. If something crazy happens with your family there's no need to go into the background of what led up to it all, they know the story and why it's so important.

1. They've seen your growth

It is amazing how much growth my BFF and I have made throughout our 20+ years of friendship. We started out as shy over-achieving kids  (note the below photo of elementary school Student Council) and have grown into pretty fierce and probably still over-achieving women. We've seen our values change and reform, our careers develop and our personalities blossom. Even your parents can't appreciate the way you've grown like a peer can and that's what's great about BFFs. They can look at you & vice versa in this really awe-inspired way. Imagine how much you'll get to witness and be a part of in a lifetime of friendship!

 

from '96 to 2017 <3

On Fear & Activism

11.9.2017

This is a day for writing. A day for crying. A day for rage and a day for despair. What do you do when your home is on stolen land and everyone hates who you are? I woke up this morning trying to cherish the last few moments before I faced the inevitable, that this country has put its faith in an evil man. I spent this whole election not believing it could happen, my conspiracy theorist voice told me that the powers that be would not let this person control the most dangerous military in the world. Olivia Pope’s dad would protect the republic at all costs. Where is he, Where is Command? If this was an episode of Scandal someone would have mysteriously disappeared.

I’ve grown up in fear. Fear of being raped, fear of confronting my queerness, fear of being killed for being multiracial, for being black, for refusing to let someone rape me or date me or touch me or any other offense to someone that feels like my body owes them something. I’ve lived in this fear even in the most safe conditions. San Francisco, Hawaii, military bases, insular communities. And now that fear is about to exist in a not so safe place.

Hurt people hurt people. We are a country of hurting people that look outside for people to blame instead of inside at our hurting hearts. We were built on this. I scoff when I hear people talk about our perfect democracy and how we need to stay true to the ideals the country was founded on. But the country was founded on lies and the back of Black slaves and corpses of Native Americans. How is staying true to those ideals going to get us out of this mess? It is not just history, it lived in all of us. Trauma imprints on bodies and is passed on through DNA. We cannot move forward until we heal.

It’s not about “our side losing” it’s about the fact that this man has told us that we don’t belong here, we aren’t worth of respect, we aren’t worthy of life and the promises of this country.

I don’t know what to write anymore. I’m just tired from crying and texting and reading so much sadness.

I wrote that all on the morning after the election. 

I spent the next week crying and grasping for community for validation, listening to the podcasts, reading every article, showing up in hysterics at my good friend's house in the middle of the work day. 

All I could think was how our lives, my life, wasn't mine anymore. That I would have to live as many others before me had lived, for the hope of tomorrow being better, fighting for a better tomorrow that I wouldn't see or experience. 

As a 80's baby and a 90's kid I was sold this story of things getting better. Of our people doing better, The Cosby Show, A Different World, Family Matters all showed middle class Black folks doing good, going on family vacations and sending the second generation to college. I looked at my dad going to work every day as a sailor in the US Navy and I knew that I HAD to be better, be perfect. Take the sacrifices that he made, my grandma made, her auntie made when she brought over my grandma and her siblings from Mississippi after their father died of a broken heart on a share crop. I would be the generation that made it all worth it. It's pretty egocentric now that I think about it. That I really thought that centuries oppressive systems would suddenly vanish because I went to college. But the thing is that I believed it.

And as I started to come to consciousness and pick apart the realities of our country I shifted this thought. I moved to a place of living my resistance every day, in my relationships, the way I loved, lived, worked. I told myself that protesting wasn't the only way to make change. Life went on and I went to grad school, got married, got a "real job," an apartment, a dog, health insurance, my own cell phone plan, you know grown up things. Still inequality showed up in my life, in small ways and bigger ways but I came out later and skipped the horror of being gay in high school. I married a woman after California AND the Supreme Court made it legal. Things were okay-enough.

Since that week after the election I went back to work, focused on the millions of things that needed to be done, took a week off to be with my wife for the holidays then went back to work again. Life settled into its everyday and I pushed the reality of the impending administration farther and farther away. And now it's almost here and I am at a complete loss. I'm not ready for the fight, I'm afraid, I feel ill-equip and ultimately I'm worried that I'll bury my head in the sand and continue to accept okay-enough. The privilege of okay-enough didn't protect the Black and Brown people killed by the police, every trans women of color murdered, every person at Pulse, and the countless people killed and hurting from a system that has never worked for all of us.

This moment requires more of me.

"Going Out," Looking Good & Belonging to Ourselves

There are a few things that send me into a full out meltdown like getting ready to "go out." 

In college I remember racking my brain to come up with the perfect outfit that was casual but attractive, not too sexy but not too frumpy and then attempt to do the same thing with my hair and make-up. I would stand in front of my closet, pull out a few contenders and then fall face down on my bed  and whine (usually to Mary) about how my clothes are dumb and I'm ugly and fat (the upsetting ultimate girl-self-put-down that is steeped in sexism, racism & fat shaming) and what is even the point anyway. And the things is, that was really how I approached the whole thing. The point of "going out" was to get boys to like you, to choose you, to somehow deem you worthy.

Every night that I came home without a boy having given me his stamp of approval felt like a failure. It didn't matter that I danced with my friends to my favorite songs or that I had worn that new shirt that I liked.

That feels like a million years ago. Last night as I got ready to go out and celebrate Mary's birthday at a new Queer Hip Hop party with a group of our friends I didn't have that melt-down. Of course I fretted over the outfit, the hair and the make-up but not because I was worried about the judgement of others (I mean, obvi I was a LITTLE worried, I'm still human) but because I was going for a look and wanted it to be just so. I had fun deciding my hair and make-up and dancing in my mirror to Rihanna thinking "damn I look good!" And that was enough. At several points during the getting ready process I would pop into Mary's getting ready process and ask if she thought various elements of me "looked good" and like a good feminist wife she retorted, "do YOU think it looks good?" And she was right, nothing else really matters.

This afternoon we watched The Neighbors 2. In the movie these freshmen girls decided that the Frat parties they would have to go to (because Sororities aren't allowed to throw parties...wtf) were too gross and instead of just dealing with it they would just throw their own parties. While watching this I was once again reminded of last night. For women the message is never about our fun or pleasure. We are there to make OTHER people have more fun and feel comfortable. Even in this stupid stoner movie that was being examined (even if by accident). By the end of the movie the girls end up having to throwing a "gross frat-style" party to make money. They start to talk about how they can't wear the normal stuff they usually wear because they have to appeal to frat guys that will only want to go if they dress in outfits those guys would like. This was very different than the other parties they throw earlier in the movie like their rager "feminist icon party." Phrases like "the male gaze" are super academic and might sound outdated but the concept rings true. This part of the movie is an example of how women understand what is expected of us, we have been taught it, fed it from every angle possible. Sometimes it is so pervasive that we start to think that it's the same thing we want.

For me, a queer identity and being primarily in queer places for "partying" changed the way I saw myself and how I moved in public space. As much as dressing for "the male gaze" was a part of my thought process I also worried about being too provocative and the fear of unwanted attention that comes with it. Being in queer spaces allowed me to embrace my body and dress as sexy as I wanted. To own my sexuality and femininity for myself and on my own terms. Having a partner that validates that helps too.

I hope as we continue the work of healing and resistance that this realization and taking back of self happens younger and younger until it doesn't need to happen at all. Until we can raise girls that belong to themselves from the start.

#FollowFriday Feminist Thinker Edition

With the Women's March stuff blowing up my feed, Planned Parenthood & the Affordable Care Act under attack and a rapist being sworn in as President next Friday it seemed fitting to have this #FollowFriday be about the kick ass ladies writing from a place of the personal as political. 

Jessica Velenti

This writer stole my heart when I read her book The Purity Myth. Part sociology, part her own commentary on "purity ball/right/concept" culture in Evangelical Christian communities. She's written a whole bunch of other books, LOTS of articles and started the amazing blog Feministing.com when she was WAY younger than I am now. I had the pleasure of fangirl-ing out when I went to a Northeastern University student event  to see her speak (I was not, nor have I ever been a student at Northeastern).

Janet Mock

A kindred spirit/identity twin of mine who is a multiracial Black trans woman from Hawaii. In her beautifully honest autobiography Redefining Realness she brings you into her life in an overwhelmingly intimate way. As a writer that likes to write on my own experiences, vulnerabilities and feelings it was an inspiration and made me want to be half as brave a writer as her. You can check out her HBO special The Trans List out now and listen to her speak on being Black in Hawaii on Another Round. 

bell hooks

An elder of Black feminism, hooks writes about a plethora of things in the MANY books she has published but I particularly like her series on Love. It is rare that people write about the politics of love, what we believe about love, how the act of loving ourselves and each other can be revolutionary. She's the most academic writer of the bunch but definitely worth the effort of sifting through academic language to get to some pretty amazing and validating concepts.

Kim Katrin Milan

Canadian--so in other words, amazing. I found Kim's work through a random YouTube video of her speaking about Queer POC identity at Toronto Pride and instantly fell in love. Her feminism comes from a revolutionary intersectional place that centers queerness, femme identity and Blackness. Her and her husband ,trans activist Tiq Milan just released this Ted Talk about Queer Love and watching it was the first time I ever heard a couple in the media talk about a relationship that actually reflected my own.

Do yourself a favor and read all their things and lightly stalk them on their social media pages this MLK weekend.

Now & Then: From the 90's to the 60's & back to the 90's

"Hey mama welcome to the 60's!"

When I was in 5th grade I saw the movie Now & Then and instantly became obsessed with the 60's. Something about the neon flowers and rainbow tie die really spoke to me, who am I kidding, that makes complete sense. This was around the time that "bell bottoms" were coming back into style (only to be replaced by their cousins "flare" & "boot cut" a decade later) and the Austin Powers movies were at an all time high.

"Groovy" became part of my every day vocabulary and I signed my passed notes with peace, love & happiness (but drawn out as a peace sign, heart & happy face). After seeing Now & Then on VHS at a sleepover or something (who knows where) I fell in LOVE with the music and rushed to Sam Goody to get the, you guessed it, CASSETTE TAPE, CDs were WAAAY out of my budget. Let me tell you there is little else more frustrating than trying to skip a song you don't like when listening to a cassette tape. These kids today won't know the horror of fast forwarding too far. It sounded a little like this: "wait, no that's too far, maybe if I just do rewind for a quick second, nope--that's the song before..ahhhhh"

This love of the 60's was of course welcomed by my mother who was in her late teens in the 60's living like a heathen flower child in Santa Monica. She broke out the stories of driving to San Francisco in her hippie friend's VW Bus just like that scene in Forrest Gump where Jenny's picked up on the side of the road by a bunch of strangers. My mom even had the bone straight down to her butt blonde hair that's perfect for adorning with flower crowns or wearing in whimsical pig tail braids. I soaked up all those stories and wished so hard that I could have been born in that decade. Little did I know that being born in that decade with my current Queer woman of color identity would have been the fucking worst. My carefree 90's kid self knew not about the bummer part of the 60's, just the technicolor fun and civil rights wins.

I thought it was all MLK "I Have A Dream" and Go Go Dancers all the time!

My attempt at 90's valley girl still ended up being 60's with this groovy daisy shirt.

I didn't know that I was living in what was soon to become the "cool" decade. 

I was just listening to Brandy with my two tiny front braids not knowing that the 90's were gonna come back so hard and I'd have nothing but ill-executed 60's wannabe outfits to show for them! If only I had known then that I should have gone HARDER on the 90's and left the 60's to my mom.

Yesterday my teens were at a youth-created music studio space looking at a mural of women artists of our time who have passed away. When I pointed out that one of them was "Left Eye" they all looked and me in confusion exclaiming: "Who's Left Eye?!" That's the thing about time, you don't know how much has passed until someone reminds you, usually much younger someones.

My 5th grade bedroom covered in flower wall stickies and a tie die bean bag chair with stuffed animals carefully placed on top for "decor" was just an homage to a time I had never experienced. Just like the kids who painted murals of "old" Hip-Hop and R&B divas trying to live in any time but this one.

I wish I could tell them that the 90's were cool and all but I was too busy looking for a good pair of bell bottoms to have noticed.

Just Another Mixed Black Kid from Hawaii

I know I already wrote about representation once this week but I cannot tell you how much you bask in the joy of other people's stories that are like yours when nothing really reflects you.

I heard about Barack Obama like many other people, through Oprah.

My mother, an avid watcher of her daytime TV show had seen his interview one afternoon. She told me right away, "have you heard about this guy Barack Obama? He's hapa too (in Hawaii anyone that's mixed is called hapa--not just white/asian multiracial folks) and grew up here! He went to Punahou!" Naturally I looked him up, watched some clips of him speaking and instantly went to find his book at Borders.

Note: If you are a younger reader the Oprah Winfrey Show & Boarders may be foreign to you--why am I old?

I remember reading his book on the plane ride back to USF from Hawaii and being happy to learn about another multiracial Black person's experience in Hawaii--a feeling I'd be lucky enough to experience again when reading Janet Mock's book years later. I read about how he navigated race and suddenly being included in Black community for the first time in college. I ate up the stuff about doing community work in Chicago and his need to give back. I thought of my own brother when he took a trip to Kenya to learn more of his familial history.

That's the thing about President Obama, every time I see him he feels like an old friend, a brother, an uncle. There have been times in his presidency that I felt disappointed and frustrated with him, often yelling at the screen, "what do you REALLY thing? what do you REALLY want to say?" The most recent of which was his speech after the election. As he told our nation to have faith and I was feeling so hopeless and broken I just KNEW he felt the same way.

I think I'll miss that most of all. The fact that President Obama and I share so much makes me feel like I know him and that he knows me. It made me feel like, even if I didn't agree with what he was doing, I trusted that he had us because we were family. It might sound irrational but I think many of us Black folks felt that way, we have our own relationship with OUR Obama, the one we've made up in our head. We didn't have that before and I don't know that we'll ever have it again in the same way.

I take comfort in the fact that he's not really leaving us, he'll always be referred to with respect as President and I hope that as the consequences of his uncensored honesty lessen we'll get to know how he really feels about things.

Top 5 Reason Having A Peanut Allergy is the Worst

"You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and then you have the facts of life."

If you are reading this blog then you probably know me and if you know me you know that I have a peanut allergy. It is one of my greatest sorrows, like Anne of Green Gables and her red hair. It isn't something I can wish away and unfortunately it's not just a dislike I can grow fond of, instead it is a life-threatening ailment that affects almost everything I do. Sometimes I meet other people with peanut allergies who aren't quite as cautious as me and to them I say, "I used to be like you...until that night I was in anaphylaxis but didn't now it and probably could have awoken in the night unable to breath because my throat was starting to close up."

So in an attempt to conquer that which plagues me I will give you a humorous list of the top 5 reasons (out of 100s of reasons) that being a person allergic to peanuts is the absolute worst.

#5 You have to be careful when you play on the jungle gym. 

As a tot in the 90's I didn't have the luxury of living in an allergy conscious world. PBJ was still a staple in every kids lunch box and teachers didn't really care that I quivered in fear next to Jennifer in the cafeteria. My allergy is particularly annoying because even if peanut essence touches me I instantly develop hives. Needless to say I came home many I day with a few random ones on my hands from the jungle gym because stupid non-allergic kids didn't wash their hands after eating their poisonous lunch.

#4 Your dog can never have a birthday cake

I know this doesn't seem like a big deal but Fergus NEEDS every luxury life can afford her and knowing that I am the reason she can never taste the sweetness of a peanut butter dog cake is sheer agony. You might be thinking, "big deal you're not eating it, she could still have the cake." But you would be WRONG. Fergus licks everything and lays everywhere with her body, that she licks, her peanut butter cake essence would be all over my house and I'd just end being up a big pile of hives. Plus, I've already made an exception for her (I'm allergic to dogs) and I draw the line at multiple allergens in my home.

#3 You have to read the ingredients on EVERYTHING 

This one is really time consuming and makes you look like you're obsessed with counting calories. And just in case you're one of those people WHO DO NOT HAVE ALLERGIES but still insists on butting in and saying things like "that DEFINITELY doesn't have peanuts" or "that kind of food doesn't use peanuts" just know that I have had an allergic reaction to pretty much every type of food. Did you know that Chex Mix uses peanut flour or that some sushi sauces have peanut butter in them? Pretty much everything is "made on equipment also used to process peanuts" (but my decision to eat that is based on how hungry I am/how much I like that thing). It's also super awkward when you go to a party and are like, "hey can I dig in your trash really quick? I gotta make sure I don't die at this party."

#2 Sometimes, you're afraid to kiss your wife

My peanut allergy is also a great sorrow to my wife whose favorite candies are all peanut related. Before I moved in with her she ate a PBJ for lunch EVERY DAY. She has had to make some serious sacrifices! Of course she does still eat things with peanuts on occasion, out of the house and many hours away from when she will be seeing me. And on those rare occasions where she mentions before our "hello" kiss that she had a bite sized snickers at 9am, I pause and my life flashes before my eyes. What if THIS is the one time I wasn't careful enough??? Has it been long enough??? How many other things has she eaten since then??? Did she brush her teeth??? All of this just to kiss! I've read one too many teen magazine stories of girls who had a quick make-out & DROPPED DEAD because the person they were making out with had just eaten a PayDay.

#1 Traveling is sheer TORTURE

I am of a generation that thinks traveling around the globe is the only way to live life. And if not around the globe then at least around your own country. The things is, if I don't speak the language how would I know if what I'm about to eat will kill me?? When I travel locally I try to go to chains that I know don't use peanuts but that's not the point of traveling! The point is to eat new food and have new experiences. But if you're too scared to take a bite of food because you don't know that it won't kill you, plus you're away form home, plus you're hypoglycemic and have to eat every two hours, being out of your comfort zone isn't just a fun exercise it's a miserable experience.

So there you have it folks!

The next time you're swinging from a jungle gym and making out in some far off place I hope you'll do it real good just for me (not in a weird way). 

I'll be cozy at home watching Netflix in my peanut-free zone eating some baby carrots and cottage cheese.

To Tracee, Issa & Donald for Being Our Mirrors

"If you want to make a human being into a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves." 

–Junot Diaz

Something magical happened yesterday, people making art that reflected their authentic experiences were rewarded for doing just that. I don’t care about award shows because I think they’re really boring but I do care about people winning awards for art that speaks to me and the people I care about.

While debriefing about the numerous Black folk wins at the Golden Globes with my office mates one of them shared that he’d been waiting his whole life for a show like Atlanta. Can we just let that sink in? I actually almost burst into tears when he said it. He had to wait until he was well into adulthood for a show that actually reflected his experience in the world. Later while I was hashing out the details of a letter of rec one of my students asked me to submit for her, I asked where she heard about the study abroad program she’d be applying for and she explained that it was part of another program she attends. The name of the program triggered a memory from Issa Rae’s book The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl. When I shared with her that this was the same program that Issa Rae attended as a teen a HUGE smile spread across her face. “I love her! That’s so cool!” 

Luckily, she doesn't have to wait well into her adulthood to see someone that looks like her and shares her experience in media.

I never watched Girlfriends. Tracee Ellis Ross came to me through a short-lived sit-com on BET called Reed Between the Lines. A Cosby-like 30 minute comedy about a Black family headed by a two professional household, a professor stay-at-home dad and a Psychologist mom. That’s when I started to pay attention to this funny, passionate, eloquent, powerhouse woman in the media.

Just a few weeks ago I sat down and watched an episode of television that actually reflected my racial experience and I was stunned. On Blackish Rainbow Johnson took us on her journey of identity as a multiracial Black woman and it was perfect. I had always struggle with the way multiracial people were portrayed in media. Tragic, sad and confused. Apparently split between two worlds even though everyone knows there isn’t really a “choice ” and if there is it’s between mixed and Black, not White and Black. That episode of Blackish weaved all of this into Rainbow's experiences. Her awkward attempts at being a part of Black communities in college, her upset at Junior dating a White girl and her confiding in her dad to find a deeper understanding of her identity. Not tragic, not confused (although many of the other characters wanted to deem her as such) just her authentic nuanced experience of racial identity. Unfortunately, growing up my multiracial experience being reflect in media this wasn’t available to me.

I remember watching two scenes as a pre-teen from two separate movies that had a powerful influence on my identity and what I could imagine for my life. The first was a scene from the amazing 90’s Rom Com Object of My Affection. Jennifer Anniston all 90’s jeans and Rachel hair heads out of her NYC apartment after taking the bus and walking down busy streets and into a community center. The next scene is her sitting with a group of Black teen girls and talking about sex and relationships. I had to be 11 or 12 when I saw this and I instantly knew that I wanted that life. I wanted to live in a city and sit around supporting young women in their development. The second is a scene from another 90’s classic The Other Sister starring Juliet Lewis as a young woman with a developmental disability (pretty problematic in general). But the scene I remember vividly was one where the mom calls one of Julietee Lewis’ sisters in the middle of the night. When the sister picks of the (corded!) phone and turns on the light you can see a woman’s body sleeping next to her. There was something inside me even at that young age that knew this was what I wanted my life to look like.

In both of this instances there was something missing. Those women didn’t look like me, their families didn’t look like mine and they certainly didn’t come from the same place (location or socio-economic place). When I saw the trailer for Insecure just a few months ago I couldn’t believe that someone doing non-profit work with kids was the main character of a show. Main characters of shows are always lawyers or doctors or PR execs. Most people don’t give a shit about what I do, I share a quick one liner at parties and people’s eyes glaze over as if to let me know that my work is “cute” but not grown-up or interesting enough to warrant any more of their time. Here was a young Black woman making a show where part of the continual plot was working in non-profit with crazy kids that you simultaneously love and are infinitely annoyed by.

To the majority of the US these TV shows and movies may seem like niche pieces that are an interesting look at other people’s experiences. But for me and my community Blackish, Atlanta, Hidden Figures (full post about this indescribably amazing film coming soon), Fences, Moonlight and Insecure are giving us something we’ve been waiting our whole lives for, validation and a mirror to reflect back to us and let us know we are not alone our experience.

Thank you for remind us that we are not monsters without a reflection, that we are human beings worthy of our stories not only being told but celebrated.