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Minimum wage jobs are **HARD**

We’ve assigned worth to jobs and we’ve also assigned jobs to people, so we’ve also assigned worth to people. We’ve told certain people that they belong behind the cash register at Wal-Mart or they belong over the fryer at McDonald’s and we’ve decided that those people don’t deserve a decent standard of living. The minimum wage fight isn’t really about whether or not you deserve more money for making a hamburger. It’s really about whether society’s failures and undesirables deserve as much money as everyone else.



The hardest work I’ve ever done has been for the least amount of money.  Luckily it was only for short periods of time, but I can’t imagine facing that kind of work for pennies for the rest of my life and then having to ask the government to help me make ends meet while my body hurts and my spirit is damn near broken at working 40 hours and not being able to support a family.

I’ve only had two truly difficult jobs in my entire life.  The first was before my freshman year of college when I needed a summer job and my parents bet me that I couldn’t handle manual labor.

(Looking back, this was the period where we were supposedly trying to rebuild our relationship after my coming out in junior high went so badly and here they go basically telling me I was too much of a sissy to do blue collar work.  Shady shady old Black people…)

My mom & dad definitely tricked me.  We went to a factory where they assembled torque rods.  The plant manager took me to this assembly station where these middle-aged women were sitting on stools with all their little buckets of parts around them, putting together torque rods for lawnmowers.  There was a metal bar with a hole in each end.  (I blocked out most of that summer from my memory so I don’t remember the names for any of the parts, but I could still put one together if I had to).  You took a bar and squeezed a little bit of blue lube from a grease gun around the rim of each hole at the end.  Then you put in a ball bearing, some more grease, and a big metal ring kind of like a washer.  You put that end onto a machine and pull the lever to stamp it closed.  Then you squeeze some grease into a plastic cap, put it over the end, and put it into another machine that slides a metal ring over it to keep the cap in place.  Then you rotate your bar over to do the same process to the underside of the ball bearing.  After that, you flip the bar over and repeat the process for the other end.  Rotate the bar over and do the underside.  Then you’re done.  That’s one torque rod.

These women were just chatting away with their little radio playing, assembling torque rods and making conversation.  I was like “piece of cake.  I can totally do this” and I told the plant manager I would take the job.

The head of the Lawnmower Ladies had gone to high school with my mom and she told me what an easy job it was.  The plant manager had gone to trade school with my dad and he told me if I was as hardworking as my dad, I would do really well there.

They were all liars.

I reported for work the next day for training met with the manager in his office.  I expected my trainer to be one of the Lawnmower Ladies, but this big white guy had to be at least 6’5 and 250 lbs of hard living.  He looked like he was strong as an ox and ate one for dinner every night too.  He shook my hand – crushed every bone in it – and led me to the work floor.  We walked past the Lawnmower Ladies who all waved at me.  We passed by an area that I later came to realize was the place where most of the torque rods for cars were made, and we finally ended up in the very back of the work floor full of large parts and larger machines.  This is where they made torque rods for big rigs.  And this is where I would be working.  Each bar itself was between 10 and 25 lbs and each ball bearing was about 5 lbs.  At the time I was about 5’9, 140lbs, and I was expected to pick up the bar, put it on the assembly area, drop a ball bearing into each side, assemble and stamp, rotate the bar, assemble and stamp, flip the bar, assemble and stamp, rotate the bar again.  And I was supposed to make between 100 and 150 a night.  


Had it just been me, I would have walked out, but I really couldn’t bear to prove my parents right.  “You think I can’t do blue collar work?  Fine.  I’ma do the blueingest collar work and be fierce at it.“

Anyway, that big tree of a man must have been the supervisor for that area because when he spoke, everyone stopped their convo and turned to hear what he had to say.  “Listen up.  This here is Rafi and he’s gonna be working at station four across from me.  If he needs something get it for him if I ain’t around.”  And that was my introduction to factory life.  (That was also my first brush with grown-ass heterosexual men in decidedly uncharacteristic surroundings for an effeminate gay man to be in.  Surprisingly enough, I’m still friends with one of them on Facebook but that’s a heartwarming story of tolerance for another time ::cue NBC AfterSchool Special Music::)

The process of making a torque rod isn’t hard – you just have to make sure all of the parts are lined up and assembled correctly before you activate the machine to stamp it tight – but that much weight over and over and over for eight hours ain’t cute at all.  I made it through my first shift OK, but when I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t walk.  My legs didn’t work, I couldn’t raise my arms, and I felt like I had slept on a bed of rocks.  I was three hours late to work because I had to soak in some Epsom salts while reevaluating my life.  By day three I was getting blisters on my hands.  By the beginning of the next week I had hemorrhoids.

But I stuck it out because I was determined to prove to my parents that I could be a sissy and still do hard work.  (I was a misguided youth laboring under the false dichotomy of what “real men” should do and believing I’d gain respect by proving my “worth as a man.”  We were all lost at some point, don’t judge me.)

A month into the job, I had gotten into the swing of things.  My supervisor said I had a “knack” for lining up the parts correctly every time so I rarely had to redo or scrap a rod.  He set me up with a large order that was impossible to fill in one shift – something like 700 parts for Volvo – so that I wouldn’t have to switch out the machinery or alter the process between changing from one type of torque rod to another, and I got to steadily pound away with just a break for lunch and a break to pee.  My bonus for setting the record was a whole $20 and a certificate that I still have.  I was proud of myself because I had accomplished something I didn’t think I’d be able to, but nothing in me was excited about my paycheck every week.

I went through all of that for $8 an hour.  My first office job in NYC I made a few times that amount and I spent 80% of my shift watching movies on Youtube, chatting on Facebook, and updating my blog.

Most of my jobs after the torque rod factory were retail jobs.  I was personable, not that ugly, and I could count money.  I worked in retail all through college and my first years in NYC, finally leaving retail to work for a concierge company.  I quit that job after Fashion Week and the Super Bowl descended on NYC back-to-back and I was just completely over playing virtual fetch for rich folks with too much money and no common sense.  I needed to decompress and find a job with no stress and little responsibility and I thought working in a juice bar would fit the bill.  How hard can it be to smile and make smoothies?

I lasted 6 shifts before I quit and went back to office work.  Standing up for 8 hours with barely any down time while rich people (only rich people spend $100 on a supply of juice for a week or $12 for some mashed up fruit) are standing around rudely acting like they will literally die if they don’t get their order in the next 90 seconds.  That “customer is always right” bullshit is annoying to deal with in clothing stores, but it’s amplified to the nth degree in any kind of food service with a counter.  “We’re out of pineapple right now.“  I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!  I WALKED ALL THE WAY DOWN HERE SPECIFICALLY FOR THIS SMOOTHIE!  “I’m sorry, I believe this was made with chocolate whey instead of vanilla whey.”  WHY CAN’T YOU PEOPLE DO ANYTHING RIGHT?  I SWEAR EVERY TIME I COME IN HERE.  “Wait, slow down just a second, you want the #3 but substitute spinach for kale?  There are no leafy greens in this.  Did you just want to ADD spinach?“  THAT’S WHAT I SAID.  ARE YOU AN IDIOT? OMG JUST LISTEN.  

It took everything in me not to throw a smoothie in somebody’s smug ass face.  But I stood back there for six shifts with a fake smile plastered on my face.  For $9 an hour.

During my 3rd or 4th shift, one of my old bosses from the concierge job came in and  asked (with all the surprise and incredulity in the world), “you’re working HERE???”  Why would *I* – a college educated 20-something with a deep resume – deign to work with the lower class slinging juice for pennies?  To be honest, it should have made him take a look at the office he was running since one of his best employees quit suddenly to take a pay cut and make juice, but that’s beside the point.  

The point is we know what the cashiers and the baristas and the smoothie makers and the burger flippers make, and we look down on them.  We’ve separated the workforce into employment by class.  We expect certain people to bag our groceries, certain people to make our Big Mac, certain people to write on our Starbucks cup, certain people to find a size Medium in the back, and certain people to hand us a wine list.  There’s a hierarchy at play even though none of those jobs are all that dissimilar from one another.  We give more respect to the waiter who tells us the specials over a white tablecloth than the guy who blends our smoothie, but the biggest difference is environment.  They both have to remember ingredients and pretend to care about what you want.  They both have to be well-versed in the available options to be able to make a suggestion for people who have no idea what they should choose.

That assignation of worth doesn’t just affect wages and the uphill battle to raise the minimum wage to a livable standard.  It also affects perception and how we view different segments of society.  I recommend Kate Norquay’s entire article about her years working at McDonald’s but this part is especially pertinent:

McDonald’s is supposed to be a job for people who can’t do anything else. I noticed that the majority of entry-level jobs didn’t hire people who looked like the people I worked with.

At McDonald’s, there were people with disabilities, overweight people, people who weren’t conventionally attractive, people who couldn’t speak much English, young teenagers and a lot of racial diversity. These people made up the backbone of the store. They were respected as some of our best workers.

Then I would look at a store like Starbucks, and the majority of the time, I would see people who looked like me. White, early 20s, reasonably attractive, slim, English speakers.

This was the bias that both me and the people around me were applying to my job. I meet the criteria for a “good” job at a clothing store. People who come from good backgrounds aren’t supposed to end up in McDonald’s alongside those who couldn’t do better if they tried.

If you’re a white girl in your early 20s, you will be ridiculed for working at McDonald’s. But I don’t think the same applies for disabled people or middle-aged immigrant women, for example. Their friends aren’t quietly snickering, “When are you going to get a real job?” Because this is the job we expect them to have.

We’ve assigned worth to jobs and we’ve also assigned jobs to people, so we’ve also assigned worth to people.  We’ve told certain people that they belong behind the cash register at Wal-Mart or they belong over the fryer at McDonald’s and we’ve decided that those people don’t deserve a decent standard of living.  The minimum wage fight isn’t really about whether or not you deserve more money for making a hamburger.  It’s really about whether society’s failures and undesirables deserve as much money as everyone else.  

McDonald’s is the face of the minimum wage fight, not the Lawnmower Ladies working in the torque rod factory because we know what the workers at McDonald’s look like, and it’s easier demolish support for raising wages by associating those wages with the less-educated, less-attractive, less-AMERICAN worker giving you a bag of saturated fat.  In some respects, working in a factory is about as American as it gets since it was our manufacturing prowess that solidified the middle class after World War II.  I was making $8 an hour for backbreaking work in a good ole American factory, but nobody is putting that in the same conversation with the fry guy or the smoothie maker.  The two hardest jobs I’ve ever had in my entire life, the most physically and mentally demanding undertakings I’ve ever put myself through, were for the least amount of money.  That’s why I support raising the minimum wage.  They are doing the jobs that have to be done that nobody else wants to do, but we pay them pennies to do it because we’ve assigned them a place in society and that’s where they must stay.  Even if they wanted to, it’s impossible for everybody to move up the ladder of employment because capitalism is a pyramid and somebody has to be at the bottom.  

If you have any doubts about the minimum wage, I implore you to take a sabbatical from your decent salary to go flip burgers or fill a quota in a factory beside real people who are facing that for the rest of their lives.  Look them in the face and tell them they don’t deserve a decent standard of living.  Tell them they should 40 hours a week in a thankless job just to stand in line for government benefits so they can feed their families.  I have to believe that in my heart nobody can actually do that to another person one on one and face to face.
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Happy Birthday Mommy!

I baked a little something for you!




It’s been a YEAR and, to be honest, I’m not doing that well, so I just wanted to check in real quick and get some things off my spirit.

First of all, let’s get the most important stuff out of the way immediately:

Jackée is gonna be on Days of Our Lives!

I don’t know who she’s gonna play or what the character will be like, but clearly I will be tuning in…because I’ve been watching that doggone show since birth because of you.

Also: Don’t actually go to her Twitter. You too High Holy Christian for all the mess she puts on the internet.

Anyway, yeah…this year has been rough. I got my dream job in March (yay!) but then I lost it a week later because the office closed due to the pandemic and I got let go — last hired, first fired. The first day on the job I actually cried on the way home because I’d been searching for that perfect career move for years and I thought I finally found it. So, that was a huge disappointment that knocked me on my butt for awhile.

Then Travis and I stopped speaking. I had been building up this resentment toward him and his boyfriend because all of the things we used to do, he was doing with his new boyfriend instead, and I didn’t have anybody to hang out with anymore. We were on lockdown so I couldn’t go anywhere. We’re best friends who live together, which was great until the boyfriend moved in and I didn’t have my best friend to spend quarantine with anymore. They’ve since broken up, but the cracks in our friendship are still there — I resent him for ignoring me and he resents me for not trying harder to accept his boyfriend. We’re fine now (great, actually) but it’s right under the surface if we get upset about something unrelated.

And our third roommate is…difficult. In the best of times he’s not the ideal roommate because he’s LOUD and oblivious to other people’s needs. He’s absolutely the type of person who should be living alone, but since the pandemic, it’s ten times worse because he’s an actor and a comedian who no longer has a stage to perform on, so his computer is his stage. All day every day is just the sound of his voice, from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep, hanging out with his friends videochatting, yelling and doing voices.

I wear headphones all day now and just count down the days until the lease is up because I can’t wait to get out of this apartment and away from him.

Speaking of away from him, I thought I found an outlet this summer. I met guy (we’ll call him John since other people can read this)…and we had chemistry! I don’t trust my feelings around men anymore. I’ve never developed deep feelings for a man who returned those feelings. It’s just a string of unrequited love, so if I feel a spark, I try to stamp it out to save myself another disappointment. But this was different because he pursued me. I let John make all the first moves to be sure I wasn’t building a fake relationship in my head like I usually do. He told me I was beautiful every day, he kissed me first, he came on to me first, he suggested we take a trip together, he suggested we move in together. I heard all the right things, so I let myself fall for this man. I was almost looking forward to the inevitable Winter COVID Lockdown because I could go hang out at his apartment and get away from mine. We were gonna cook and watch the snow. I was gonna spend a week or so at his apartment here and there to make sure we could live together in preparation for a move next year. He wanted to get two dogs.

Just before Halloween, John’s energy was off. I’d had a pumpkin carving party and our dynamic was different. He wasn’t paying much attention to me — which is fine because all of my friends are great and they all liked him — but the lack of affection was odd. So I brought it up a few days later and he said we should go back to being “just friends” because it bothered him that people thought we were, and asked him about whether we were, in a serious relationship. John had said from the beginning he didn’t want to be in a serious relationship, and I was totally fine with that. I told him he could date whoever he wanted, but he said he didn’t want to date anyone. I told him he could have sex with whoever he wanted, but he said he wasn’t interested in sex. He just wanted to make new friends and work on himself, but we had this great connection that he was really into. I was like, “okay…if that’s what you want…”, but I told him people would assume we were in a serious relationship if we kept acting like we were in front of everyone. He said he was fine with that — let them think what they want.

He wasn’t actually fine with that, so he decided we should pump the breaks.

And the next week John fucked my friend that I had introduced him to, the friend that he’d been sitting next to at my party instead of talking to me.

Here’s the thing Mommy…my self-esteem is shot and my abandonment issues are through the roof, and it goes back to that moment when you found out I liked other boys and our relationship changed forever. You were my best friend growing up. I felt awkward around the other kids, I felt awkward around my dad, I felt awkward around my cousins, but you made me feel normal. If I wanted to watch Days Our Lives and talk about the war in Kuwait, you let me. You took me everywhere and taught me so much about life. You told me I was the most important thing in the world to you. And then my teacher told you I was gay and you told me I was going to Hell. And you told me that regularly for the next ten years. I told you I was going to marry a man and have a happy family and you told me I was gonna get AIDS and die alone.

I let you make me feel bad about myself for years. Even after I moved all the way up the East Coast to NYC, I still felt like I had to respect you, even while you were tearing me down. When you would end every conversation wanting to pray with me for God to take away my homosexual demons, I let you, because you’re Mommy and I didn’t want to lose Mommy. When I finally got fed up and decided “this is the last time, this is the last conversation,” it was your birthday 9 years ago. I never told you why, but I picked that day because we had a fun conversation. I called you to wish you Happy Birthday and you gave me all the latest gossip on the family like you always did. We talked about random stuff, laughed a lot (your laugh is so ridiculous and I miss it more than anything), and then I jokingly asked you what I should buy you for your birthday — jokingly, because we both knew I had no money and I wouldn’t be getting you anything at all. You replied that you didn’t want anything; all you wanted was for me to give up my homosexual demons and come back to the Lord.

Mommy we had talked for an hour, a delightful conversation about everything, and in that last sentence, you threw me in the trash again. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had taken it since I was 12 years old and I just reached my limit. I kept the conversation light and made some kind of joke to get us back on track, but in my heart I knew I would never speak to you again until you made a turnaround. I wanted that to be the last conversation we had in case it was the last conversation we had, so that our last conversation would be full of good memories for you. I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth, but I wanted you to be left with lightness and joy. I swallowed my feelings, told you I loved you, and hung up for the last time, because you died later that year.

And now I’m stuck. I still feel so much guilt for being fed up. I missed you then and I miss you now and I feel like if I hadn’t stopped speaking to you, you wouldn’t have died, and we could’ve eventually found our way back to each other. I keep letting people treat me badly because if I stand up for myself, they’ll go away and I’ll never see them again. If I stand up for myself, I’ll be alone, and I would rather be with someone and feel bad some of the time than be alone and feel bad all of the time because I don’t have that someone anymore.

I realized that about myself a few months ago, so that’s the first step. And I’ve tried to stand up for myself more as of late.

Last week, a friend (we’ll call him Brian) asked me out to dinner. I met Brian just before the pandemic and he’s such a sweetheart. We had an instant bond and I was looking forward to getting to know him, but COVID kinda put a halt to that. NYC bounced back this summer, and Brian lives in the neighborhood, so I invited him into our little bubble for a couple of parties and brunches. We already had some mutual friends, but he also took quickly to John and to Travis, so he was a good addition to my social circle.

At dinner, Brian told me that he had fucked John. I introduced the two of them. I invited them both to brunch and to parties. The week after John said we should just be friends, he was out to dinner with Brian and fucking afterward.

All of John’s flings are hot and all of the guys he would show me on social media that he liked, fucked, or planned to meet up with looked more like Brian than me. I was insecure about being involved with a guy who looks like John because gay NYC is vicious and I could imagine the whispers of “wow John is way too hot for that guy” because I’ve heard people I know say it about other couples. John knew this. John knew about all of the guys I was into who liked Travis — the taller, hotter best friend — instead of me. John knew about all the times I’d been out with my Friends Who Lift and how some random guy would make me feel like trash because I don’t look like them. He knew all of that and still fucked my hot friend the week after he broke up with me. All of the men in the city, all of the men right there in Hell’s Kitchen where he lives, all of the men who hit him up on Grindr, and he fucked the one that would obviously hurt me the most.

But I cut them both off! Obviously I’ll never speak to John again because that kind of betrayal — when someone knows your insecurities and disregards them anyway– is like a knife to the heart, but my first reaction when Brian told me what he did was to let it go, because this is gay NYC and most of them do have fewer boundaries and hangups around sex than I do. My boundaries aren’t invalid just because other people don’t share them and I did what I needed to do for my mental health. I don’t have to prioritize a relationship that’s damaging to my mental health. I don’t have to swallow my feelings to make someone else feel more comfortable with their personal failures or mistreatment of me.

So I’m proud of myself for standing my ground, but it’s still the holidays, and I’m still lonely. I miss John every day. I miss what we could have been doing this holiday season, all the winter plans we made. When I was younger, I’d assumed I’d have a family by now to make Christmas traditions with. Instead, I just watch the little family I’ve built in NYC — my circle of friends — latching on to their own families, and I just feel rudderless and a little rejected. Abandonment issues are complex.

This is a lot longer than I meant it be. I hadn’t planned to tell you about the “gay stuff” because I know it makes you uncomfortable. I still haven’t finished reading the email you wrote me, but I read a little more of it each year until I start crying again. I’ve gotten to the part where you’ve come to terms with my attraction to men, so I think you would be okay hearing about my relationship/friendship problems at this point.**

And if not, well here’s a cake to sweeten it up a little!

I do love to bake — thanks for passing that on to me — but I don’t decorate anything….thanks for passing that on to me too. I decided to bake a cake and actually try to decorate it for once, and the end result isn’t half bad! True, I did try to make a Red & Hunter Green Christmas themed cake and I guess my dye was the wrong kind so it’s a Pink & Pale Green Easter themed cake instead, but it tastes good. You would especially like it because it’s not super sweet and I used buttermilk instead of regular milk.

So Happy Birthday! I feel a little lighter after getting some of that off my chest. Maybe this will be a thing and I’ll bake you a little something every year and give you an update about how I’m doing. Next year’s update will be much better than this year’s, I’m sure of it.

If nothing else, I’ll be much better at cake decorating anyway.

Love you Mommy!

(**a note for y’all who don’t know: When my mom died, I went through her emails to compile some information for my dad and I found an email that she had written to me a few weeks before she died. She sent it to an address I no longer use so I didn’t get to read it before she died. The first line says “I’m sorry…” and it took me about 7 years to get farther than that. I still haven’t finished reading it because I know she died thinking I ignored her email and I’m not strong enough to handle it yet.)
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Thank a librarian.

Libraries are community centers and librarians keep them going!



I spent a lot of time at the library as a child because I didn’t have any friends.

Just kidding! I had lots of friends and was totes popular, but I was basically an only child since my older sister was off to college before I was even forming memories. She taught me how to read, my parents encouraged it, and since they both worked, books were an easy way for me to entertain myself.

Parenting Life Hack: If your kids have a quiet hobby, you spend less money on Excedrin for migraines.

My hometown had about 400 people and only 17 of them could read, so we didn’t have a library, but just across the river in the bustling metropolis next door where 9,000 people lived, there was a library staffed with nice ladies and one old gay man who basically raised me while my mom did errands. A librarian is not a babysitter and they don’t get paid to watch your kids, so please don’t just drop your kids off in front of the bookdrop and hightail it outta there. However, my parents were really relaxed about leaving me places, because they were very old and the Scary News Stories didn’t phase them. There was a higher chance of your child being abducted in the 1940s than the 1990s, yet our parents and grandparents were out all day by themselves from sunup to sundown while we were expected to be tied to our parents at all times. My folks pretty much functioned under the premise that nobody was going to take me out of a library — I would have to actually follow them, and I wasn’t stupid (and I didn’t/don’t like people).

So I spent many a Sunday afternoon in the library while my mom was running errands and my favorite librarian, Ms. Greer, would actually entertain me….by putting me to work. Had I known I was doing her job for her, I would’ve asked for a cut of her paycheck, but 3rd Grade Me was very excited to ink the inside back cover of all the new books with the fancy library stamp. I felt super important being trusted with the task of taking the returns and putting them in their proper spot on the shelf (thanks, Dewey Decimal training!). She had me take Lemon Pledge and wipe down the study corrals and I did it with gusto.

When my mom asked me to pick my socks up off the floor, it felt like the end of my life, so I guess she wasn’t asking me nicely the way Ms. Greer did.

I spent more time in the library growing up than any other building that wasn’t home or school, so when I saw this story about some Australian librarians checking on their senior citizens during COVID, I wanted to tell y’all about it because librarians are truly underappreciated.

When Melbourne’s Yarra Plenty regional libraries first went into lockdown in March, shut the doors and left the remaining unborrowed books on their shelves, staff were sent home with a phone.

“One of the hardest things about lockdown was people being separated from their community,” said Lisa Dempster, Yarra Plenty’s executive manager of public participation.

“The library is often a hub for the community, and we identified the most vulnerable cohort of our community would be the elderly.”

So the library staff pulled from their database the phone number of every library member over the age of 70 – a total of 8,000 records.

Then the librarians started calling those members. All of them.

(cont. The Guardian)

I lived next door to a little old lady 6 or 7 years ago and I would do errands for her and do her grocery shopping and sit with her a couple of times a week.  After I moved, I used to take her to church once a month up until last year. Her daughter moved in with her and thought it was “weird” that a former neighbor would still check up on her, but I like her. She’s like a Bonus Grandma and her kids weren’t checking on her. She spent most of her days alone in her apartment, and since she was right next door, I could go over there and sit on her couch and do what I would normally do on my own couch — watch TV and play on the internet or crochet. Her daughter is/was convinced I was just spending time with her because I wanted to get into her will. It just didn’t occur to her that I would want to look after my neighbor or look after a lonely old lady.

Not to generalize, but Western cultures don’t care for our elders the way other cultures do and we don’t look out for our neighbors the way other cultures do. We don’t build community the way other cultures do. Librarians do that! Libraries are community centers and librarians keep them going! Librarians get to know the people in their community, like the nerdy little kid who sits and reads quietly on Sundays while mom is at the beauty supply store. Librarians care about that community, like these senior citizens getting calls from their local library to make sure their faring well during a pandemic. Think about adding libraries to the list of causes you look for when choosing a politician to champion. They’re always under attack and they need our help to keep serving communities quietly and constantly without any gratitude.

I did thank Ms. Greer though. Before I went off to boarding school I bought her a nice card and sent it to the library.
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What would Dianne do?

Tomorrow, I’ll try to press Reset (for the millionth time this summer!) but today we finna eat good and pretend I don’t have any problems. If y’all got some good gossip, feel free to drop it in my inbox. Dianne would.



Seven years ago today I was in my hometown for my mom’s funeral. It’s not really “a thing” for me anymore and I usually just commemorate the day by reading funny things I’ve written about her.

Everything just feels worse when you’re already down though. Like, I lost my phone Sunday. It felt like the end of the world. I’ve lost my phone in the past, and it just felt like an annoying inconvenience. Last year around this time, I breezed through just fine. This year, I wish she could help me laugh at some of my misfortunes and then cook for me.

My mom didn’t cook as often as some moms did because she worked and she ran a business and I had so many extra-curriculars to be shuttled to and from. Plus, my parents were both really social and cooking dinner wasn’t super high on the list of priorities. When she *did* cook though, we had a ball in the kitchen. Sometimes my dad would be sitting at the bar working on something of his or helping to shuck corn or shell peas. I would generally be in the way between picking the music. And my mom would be in charge of directing the topics of gossip, because both of them were messy and lived for drama.

So. Given my current emotional state, what would Dianne do for me?

First, she’d tell me to pray, and I’d let that go in one ear and right out the other. Then she’d ask me what I wanted to eat. I can’t fry chicken like she could and my salmon croquettes never come out right, but there’s a crock pot in the kitchen, so I just made some BBQ sauce and threw some chicken in it. Also, the grocery store by me has Lipton, so I bought some bags and some sugar, and we finna have sweet tea. I haven’t made cornbread from scratch in years, but I went over the recipe in my head and I think I still got it. I bought me some early peas and some sweet potatoes, and I’m bout to cook like my mama.

Tomorrow, I’ll try to press Reset (for the millionth time this summer!) but today we finna eat good and pretend I don’t have any problems. If y’all got some good gossip, feel free to drop it in my inbox. Dianne would.
Venmo: Rafi-DAngelo
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