I’m making a blanket for my room. I’m almost done, so I’ll post a pic of it when I’m finished later this week, but this is an early progress pic.
I’ve been feeling cranky all weekend and last night I couldn’t sleep, so I got up early to do some volunteering and then I went to Michael’s to get some more yarn since I’m almost out of the blue. There was only one cashier and the guy she was ringing up had so many complications with his transaction (I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but anyone who has ever been a cashier can tell when “problems” are happening), but that’s fine because I didn’t have anywhere to be. I just stood in line, listening to my music. The customer in front of me was a tiny Chinese woman with the cute lil Short Perm Old Asian Lady hairstyle and a face full of more makeup than I would expect so early on a Sunday morning. I assumed she had somewhere to go later, but she could also be one of those older ladies who is always Ready To Be Seen whenever they leave the house, the same kind of lady *EYE* plan to be when I’m 70.
Anyway, she was gesturing to my yarn and moving her mouth, so I took out my earphones to hear what she had to say. This is a rough transcript of our conversation, a real one from what I remember, not a White House version that’s just a summary pitched toward mitigating the damage toward the President.
Miss Lady: So much yarn. For you?
Me: Yes ma’am.
Miss Lady: What are you making?
Me: A blanket for my room, crochet.
Miss Lady: Ohhh you crochet?
Me: Sometimes. If I can’t find what I want or it’s too expensive, sometimes I’ll just make it. Do you? You have a lot of yarn too.
Miss Lady: Oh yes, yes. Knitting Christmas presents. Scarves, hats. All kinds of stuff.
Me: Oh nice. I used to make scarves and sell them.
Miss Lady: You must be very good! Not very usual to see a man with yarn.
Me: Well, it’s just cheap haha. If I can’t find what I want, or if I find what I want and it’s too expensive, I usually try to figure out how to make it. Blankets, clothes, furniture, anything. I like making things.
Miss Lady: Oh some lady will have a difficult time with you.
Me: Haha why?
Miss Lady: Because you know everything. (mocking me) Oh I make this, I make that, I make anything.
Me: Nooo! I think it would be nice and cheap because we won’t have to hire people to fix things.
Miss Lady: Hrmph. You cook?
Miss Lady: Very annoying. (mocking me, again) I do everything, I can do anything.
Me: It’s better than doing nothing. (with the accent and the age difference, I couldn’t tell if she was ACTUALLY coming for me or playing with me…)
Miss Lady: My husband, he does nothing. He tells me he’s very lucky to have me.
Me: Well that’s nice. He appreciates you.
Miss Lady: He better!
Cashier: Next customer!
Miss Lady: You paying cash?
Miss Lady: Come, come. (I followed her to the register.) Put your things here.
Miss Lady: Put your things here! I have a coupon, but it’s one time. I pay and you pay me back so you save some money.
Me: Oh wow that’s so nice! (The coupon was for 10% off and I was buying less than $10 worth of yarn, but it was super cute.)
Miss Lady: Help you save up some money to buy the lady something nice instead of making it. (STILL UNSURE IF SHE IS COMING FOR ME)
** transaction, transaction, transaction, leaving the store together**
Miss Lady: You going up or down?
Me: Up, you?
Miss Lady: Down.
Me: Well it was very nice to meet you and thanks again for the discount.
Miss Lady: (holds arms out for a hug) You have a nice smile. You should smile all the time.
Me: Thank you.
And then she walked down the street with her bags of yarn.
Maid is the best show on Netflix.
There’s no more realistic portrayal of single motherhood in poverty than this series.
I do a lot of stream-of-conscious thoughts about things I’ve seen and I call them Hot Takes. These are Hot Takes, but a little more in-depth than usual, with some personal reflections at the bottom.
1. C’mon Emmys! Everybody is doing their good good acting here. I used to sweep hair in my mama’s salon and I used to do electrical work on my daddy’s remodeling jobs, so I know the pressure of doing your best work with a parent around. So, props to Margaret Qualley for hanging in there with her mom, because Andie McDowell ain’t no slouch.
2. Lo-key was waiting on Anika Noni Rose to break into song, at least a lullaby or something.
3. You can call it prostitution or whatever you want, but you not finna put me in a house with this man and expect me to keep my draws on.
4. The shame of being poor is so complicated and layered. You know you need help. Your friend in a position to help you knows you need help. You also know that your friend knows. And yet, you pretend you do not need help! Your friend pretends that you do not need help, because they are ashamed that you need help and they want to avoid making you feel more ashamed about needing help.
It’s all an extension of this value we put on people based on how much money they make. Rich people are rich because they are good people and are being rewarded for being hard-working, good people. Poor people are poor because of some moral failure. Part of the reason the fight for higher minimum wages is so tough is this moral hierarchy of salaries. The person who bags groceries deserves to make enough money to live, but giving them a higher salary puts them closer to your salary, and you feel like you’re a better person than they are because you made choices (or had choices) that kept you from being in a position to bag groceries. You want to be able to look down on people who you feel made bad choices or don’t work hard enough.
So, it’s hard to ask for help. You don’t want your friend to look down on you like a person who made bad choices or doesn’t want to work hard enough. You pretend everything is fine so you can look like a good person.
5. The fact that Alex also has to parent her mother is a great addition. I think a lot of conversations about single mothers stop there, at providing for their child. A lot of people in poverty are there because of the lack of choices they had growing up, which is a reflection of the environment created by their parents. Young adults are sometimes caring for their parents too.
6. Also, I’ve been working out in my head how to word this and it’s always clunky, but here goes: I like that this story is about a white woman. One of the reasons why conversations about social safety nets and universal healthcare and access to housing only go so far is racism. There are too many White Americans who will cut off their nose to spite their face — they don’t want Black people to get “free stuff” so nobody ends up getting aid. The picture of the Welfare Mother as painted by (Mostly Conservative) White America is a Black woman in an inner city with multiple children by multiple men locked up by the state. It’s not an intelligent white girl running from a bad situation cleaning toilets to get by. I think Maid is an important piece of art about poverty because everyone can watch it devoid of race. Conservatives can “see themselves” and Liberals can see poverty divorced from having a conversation about what part race plays in the choices we have.
7. It’s a near-perfect limited series for me. I haven’t read any of Stephanie Land’s essays (the story is based on her), but now I’m going to. I can’t say anymore here without spoiling it, but it touched me very deeply and it’s taken me about a week to process it. I’m about to add some more personal observations, but there will be spoilers, so you can stop here if you haven’t watched it.
I watched this last week, but it’s taken me a long time to be able to process how it made me feel. Y’all, I was sobbing multiple times throughout the course of that series, because it was so accurate. I’ve been homeless and I’ve made bad decisions because of mental health struggles and I’ve worked in a domestic violence shelter just like that, and I was transported. The stories are told so well.
I’ve used pennies to pay for something off the dollar menu. I have budgeted every cent I had for the entire month to make sure I had enough money to ride the subway to work…but only to work. There was a bad patch years ago where I had been unexpectedly fired from a job and had trouble finding a new one. When I finally got an offer, I didn’t have any money for transportation to and from work until my first paycheck, so I walked home every day. Three hours, regardless of the weather. I had to walk home, because I had budgeted everything I had until my first paycheck. I’ve negotiated labor with a landlord. I had been living in an illegal basement apartment where the owner got caught and I had to leave with no money for First, Last, and Security. This old gay man on the UWS let me live there for reduced rent in exchange for errands, cooking, and cleaning.
When I saw Alex’s pocket of cash slowly depleting with each essential purchase, y’all. Y’all! I was sobbing. I check my bank accounts and credit card balances multiple times a day, every single day, to make sure I still have money. Before I buy anything at the grocery store or put my card down to pay a bill in a restaurant or make a purchase online, I check the account to make sure there’s money in it. Logically, I’ll know that I have more than enough money to last me for a few months, but I have to check, to make sure the money is there. Every single time! I mean, I don’t have any money now because my savings dried up during the pandemic, but even when I’m comfortable, I still feel very uncomfortable.
Not having enough money to live is embarrassing and soul crushing and you don’t want to talk about it, because you’re ashamed that you failed. But you need to talk about it, because you still have to live, and you need help. The way Maid captured that tightrope act is masterful storytelling.
Paula, Alex’s mother, adds an entirely new level that we don’t often see. I’ve never had to care for anyone other than myself, but in caring for myself I saw a lot of Paula. I’ve made a lot of bad decisions because my brain was too foggy to make the right ones. I once lost a job because I couldn’t get out of bed for two weeks. I knew I had to work and I knew what would happen if I didn’t go to work, but I couldn’t actually make myself get up and leave my room. I’ve put myself in so many abusive situations for some sense of stability. Sometimes I could see that where I was or what I was doing was unhealthy or dangerous, but I put it aside, because you gotta eat. That’s about as much detail as I’m ready to put online, but I’ve told myself “I’m fine!” a lot, when I was absolutely not fine.
And the shelter…
I’m still in a bad place because one of my girls from the shelter overdosed a few months ago. I can’t shake it and I want to find another way to help that’s further up the chain of command. When you work in a DV shelter (and I volunteered in one for a decade), you do see the same faces come back and forth. And then one day you don’t see them again and you wonder, “are they back in a bad situation or did they finally shake it?” But you can’t wonder too long, because there’s a new face. There’s always a new face.
When Alex is back with her ex and down an emotional void toward the end of the series, I had to take a break. I think I cried for like ten minutes. There are so many women I never saw again at some point, and I know that’s where they are — in a void, just going through the motions, trying to survive. They’re stuck there because we don’t have enough systems in place to pull them out. We have court systems that won’t help you leave an abusive situation until you have a black eye or a broken bone. No rewards for being smart enough and brave enough to see the physical abuse coming just beyond the horizon — you have to stay until you get hit, and then maybe there’ll be assistance for you.
It takes a special kind of person to do that work for decades, and it’s not me. I can’t go back to a DV shelter. I don’t have the inner strength necessary to do it and I don’t know how I feel about that. I’ve told myself that it’s okay to admit you’re not strong enough to help the way you want to help, but I grew up with guilt as part of my upbringing. I feel like I’m failing myself.
But it also makes me more determined to find a way to help further up the chain. The more steps removed you are from the day she leaves a bad situation, the more women you are dealing with who are absolutely ready to leave for good.
I want to be the person who can offer a job. Her boss wasn’t the best boss, but Alex was able to make money because there was someone there offering (very basic, mildly exploitative) employment for someone with no skills.
I want to be the person who can offer housing. When my mom married my dad, she didn’t sell her house, because she was proud of it. She was a single Black woman in the South who bought her own house, and when she moved in with my dad, she rented her house out to other single Black women who would’ve had trouble finding housing elsewhere. She accepted low income housing credits and she adjusted the rent based on what the woman could pay.
I want to be the person who can offer free legal services. If Alex had had a lawyer the first time she went to court, she wouldn’t have lost her daughter for a week. If she hadn’t had a lawyer the second time around, she wouldn’t have been able to take her daughter to college with her so she could make a new life for herself.
What I really want to do is go to med school to be an OBGYN so I can give my time to free clinics in underserved communities of color. There are no unwanted children in Maid, but in reality, that’s the number one predictor of poverty for women. Unwanted children keep women shackled to bad situations and oftentimes it’s the result of no access to reproductive services. Birth control, from preventative to reactive, needs to be free and available.
There are so many reasons Maid is a good show, but the realism is intense. There’s no part of it that I didn’t recognize in some way, either personally or through the stories of women I’d met in the DV shelter. Everyone who has ever been poor can relate. Every woman who has ever been in an abusive situation can relate. And everyone who has experienced neither should watch it for a glimpse into what those lives are like.
A Lesson Before Dying
Parents are people, and they don’t have all the answers either.
I was the absolute nosiest child in all of South Carolina.
My parents weren’t the typical Southern Christian Black Conservative parents of the 80s in many ways. On the outside, they didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, and went to church multiple times a week. I didn’t realize it until I was much older, but inside our house they were more progressive in the way they thought about family and the roles we play. There was no Man’s Work or Woman’s Work in our house really. My mom cut grass, because she liked to be outside. My dad did most of the laundry, because he liked to fold and iron clothes on Sundays watching sports.
As for me, I didn’t really get treated like a child who should be seen and not heard. I watched the news with my parents every night, so if they were talking about missiles in Iraq over dinner and I had something to say, they let me say it. Other parents left their kids at home when they went out to dinner with their friends, but mine took me along. I usually brought a book to read, but I was always eavesdropping, and on the car ride back to the house, they treated me like an equal third in the gossip.
I was the nosiest child in all of South Carolina because my parents loved to gossip and let me participate. Being nosey also meant I was a snoop and I was always going through my sister’s stuff. She was already out of the house, in college, and married hundreds of miles away, but you know how it is when you’re first starting out. You leave a lot of stuff at home in your old bedroom, and I felt it was my right, as a nosey child and younger brother, to go through all that stuff. I stole her CDs, tried on her heels and her prom dress, read her diaries from high school, and I also borrowed her books.
Shel Silverstein was my first favorite author. I don’t remember how I came across him, but I had read a lot of his stuff by second grade and A Light In The Attic was the first hardcover book I ever owned.
My sister kept most of her CD collection (she had multiple 300-disc binders because she bought new music every Tuesday) in a big trunk that also had some of her college books. I saw a book that reminded me of Shel Silverstein.
Obviously these books have nothing to do with each other and looking at them as an adult, it’s so strange that I would link them at all. Maybe I thought the house by Shel looked like a drawing of the house by Ernest. Whatever the reason that I’ve forgotten decades later, I still remember thinking of Shel when I took the book and started reading it.
Without giving away the entire plot of A Lesson Before Dying if you haven’t read it, it’s a story about race in Louisiana in the 1940s. A Black man is on trial for capital murder, and his white defense lawyer argues against the death penalty by comparing the accused to a hog: there’s no point in executing such a stupid, simple beast incapable of higher thought. It would be a waste of the state’s time and resources since the accused could no better plan a murder/robbery than a pig could. He was sentenced to death and the rest of the book mostly consists of conversations between the convict and a Black teacher who has been tasked with helping this man understand his humanity so he can walk to the electric chair as a man.
It’s very light reading for a seven-year-old!
I don’t know what I thought the first time I read it, because I’ve read it too many times since. I was about two-thirds through before my mom took it upon herself to read the book jacket. She’d seen me with the book, but she always saw me reading stuff. She used to drop me off at the library while she ran errands and she never much bothered with what I might be reading. But she read the book jacket and took it away from me because of the subject matter. She said it was way too mature (which it was), but I told her I wanted to know how it ended. I tried to negotiate when she said no, and in the end she decided we’d finish it together so we could discuss it and she could explain it to me.
You can’t explain all the nuances of racism to a second grader. You can barely explain the nuances of racism to an adult white person. It’s just something you have to live, but she did her best. The next year, we read it again, and I knew a little more. We read it again the next year, and we had more things to discuss. We read A Lesson Before Dying seven or eight times before I went off to boarding school. Ernest J. Gaines was the third author I could call a favorite (in the interim, I had discovered the trashy pulp fiction of Stuart Woods, which was full of guns and polite descriptions of oral sex, but my mom never read any of those book jackets).
Years pass. Life goes on. Our relationships with our parents change. After I was outed to my mom in middle school, ours was irreparably damaged and I lost my best friend forever. I spent the next ten years or so watching her descend further into Christian Desperation around why I couldn’t shake my homosexual demons, so I just gave up and stopped speaking to her. I didn’t deserve the guilt trip she laid on me every time I called to check on her from my home in NYC, so the last time I called her for her birthday over a decade ago, I made the decision it would be the last time I would speak to her until she came to her senses. When my birthday rolled around, my sister convinced me to at least reach out to her by e-mail and really explain to her how I was feeling, so I did that. I didn’t get a response, but I hadn’t expected one.
My mom died suddenly a few weeks after I sent my birthday e-mail. I was having dinner with a friend when my brother-in-law called to say she had been flown by helicopter to the nearest metropolitan hospital. She was dead before my flight arrived. The next couple of weeks were mostly spent making sure my dad was okay (my mom was the second wife he’d lost), and making sure he had access to all of her financials and password-locked accounts. In the sent folder of her e-mail account, there was one to me. My mom didn’t reply to the birthday e-mail I’d sent her, but after it sat in her inbox for a few days, she typed up a brand new one and sent it to me. I never got it because she sent it to an e-mail address that I don’t check anymore. I opened it and the first line said “I’m sorry…” so I started crying and closed the message. Later I printed it out and took it back with me to New York where it sat in a notebook that I opened once a year to try to finish it. It took me years and years of therapy to actually be able to read it, but I finally did. I can tell it was just as hard for her to write as it was for me to read.
That was much later though. And you might be wondering what this has to do with Ernest J. Gaines. I flew back to New York, “I’m sorry…” e-mail in tow, and one of my best friends randomly decided we should get tattoos. I’d wanted one before and never made the commitment because I wasn’t sure what to get, but I finally knew. I dug out an old birthday card my mom had sent, and I took it with me to a tattoo shop in the East Village with my friend. I asked the guy if he had a script that looked close to her handwriting, and he did. And this was my first tattoo:
Everyone says it looks like “a leckon” which it does, but I didn’t want it touched up, because her handwriting was imperfect too. She was imperfect. She did the best she could with the lessons that had been taught to her in the church, but when I read that she was sorry, I knew she had learned one more lesson before dying. It would be years before I could get past the first line of her e-mail, but I saw all I needed. I didn’t get to talk to her about it, but when I look down, I see her handwriting of my favorite book as a child, back when our relationship was idyllic and progressive and gossipy. I remember the lessons she taught me every year about being a Black man, and I’m happy to have known her.
(*This post was inspired by a tweet that asked “What is a work of fiction (novel, comic, TV show, movie, what have you) that changed the way you thought about the real world?” I hadn’t thought anything about race at all before A Lesson Before Dying so it pretty much served as my first introduction to injustice and inhumanity.)
Everything is broken.
What are y’all doing to preserve joy? I’m very sad.
I was depressed after I moved to NYC. Years and years later I would finally get diagnosed with depression and anxiety, but back then I just looked for coping mechanisms to make me feel better. I didn’t want to do drugs, because they make you look old. I didn’t want to eat my feelings, because I’d already been chunky when I was younger and could vividly remember my babysitter calling me “husky” for the first time when I was in second grade. And I didn’t have any money — retail therapy wasn’t option.
So I volunteered. I learned during COVID lockdowns last year that I’m actually a nurturer, and taking care of people makes me feel better. When I was new to the city, I volunteered because it made me put my struggles into perspective: I hated my apartment on the top floor of an overpriced building in Bushwick where they were making crack in the basement, and I couldn’t find a job that paid me enough to eat more than bologna and cereal, but I did have a roof and I did have food and I did have my health. Volunteering also tapped into my desire to help people feel better, so it was a win-win. I started volunteering at a battered women’s shelter, which turned into babysitting for their kids when they had job interviews. Babysitting eventually became a full-blown youth program in the neighborhood complete with college prep, tutoring, and museum trips.
I met so many kids over the past decade who I think about all the time. One girl made me want to rip my hair out because she used to drag everybody around her unprompted, so I had to discipline her, but I also had to hold in the laughter each time because she was so smart and the reads were good. She works for the MTA now. There was a little gay boy who used to follow me around everywhere. The center was administered through a Catholic Church and he was just so fascinated by an openly queer man traipsing through the building like I owned the place. He’s currently at CUNY to be a teacher. One of my kids got into Penn. One is a manager at the Target where I shop.
One night years ago, maybe 8 years ago thinking back to the apartment I was living in at the time, I got a call around 3am. One of the women said a teenaged girl had walked in. She thought the girl had been sexually assaulted, but the police hadn’t been called yet because the girl was asking for me specifically. I got dressed and went, but I didn’t recognize her when I got there. I pretended to, but I had no idea who this girl was. June looked to be around 13, and she was disheveled, but she obviously wasn’t living on the street. Street kids never come in wearing a satin bonnet on their hair.
I was able to pull the backstory out of her. June and her mom had briefly stayed at the shelter a couple of years ago when they ran away from the home they shared with a man who was physically abusive. I guess June’s mother and boyfriend worked it out soon after, because she went back to him and I never saw the mom or June again, but I did remember her after I talked to her for awhile. She was good at math I think. Or science. It was a long time ago, but I remember being impressed with a class she was taking at her age.
Fast forward a couple of years, and mom’s boyfriend raped June, so she ran back to us. She said she felt safe at the shelter and she didn’t know where else to go. She didn’t want to run to the police because the boyfriend’s brother is a cop, but we talked her into it. What other choice did we have? The system is imperfect, but without reporting it, there was absolutely no way for her to protect herself from this man.
She ended up with CPS and I don’t know what happened after that. I dropped the ball. Her mom was on and off drugs, so I don’t know if she was on June’s side or the boyfriend’s side, but I would guess the boyfriend. We saw a lot of instances where the man would take an interest in the daughter, and the mother would blame the daughter for “enticing” him. But yeah, I totally lost track of her. She never came back to the center and I just let myself forget about it. We had so many kids come through with their mothers that we’d see for a week or two and then they were back to their lives. I don’t think you can keep them all in your spirit, because emotionally and mentally, it will wear you down and tear you apart.
A couple of days ago I was chatting with one of the kids I met back in the day, Alissa. We were giggling about memories we both had from when she used to come by for the afterschool program. Sometimes they find me on social media and it’s nice to see them doing well. Alissa has a kid and does nails not too far from the center. A lot of them live right in the same area, and they know each other because they went to the same schools or they’re related.
Alissa told me June died a few months ago of an overdose, probably fentanyl-laced heroin. She doesn’t know what happened with June’s rapist, but June was in foster care for a few years, aged out, and worked the streets selling sex for rent money, and then for drugs. Alissa and June had mutual friends from the neighborhood because they went to school together and she got those pieces of the story through the grapevine.
I don’t know how I feel. I’ve heard bad outcomes before. One of the kids I used to tutor in English was shot and killed a couple of years ago. A few have been in and out of jail. You try to focus on the wins and realize you can’t help everybody, but so so so many people failed June and I feel heavy inside. If her mother had had support to get off drugs, support that wasn’t immediately tied to imprisonment for possession, it’s possible she could’ve stood on her own two feet without a man, and she wouldn’t have had her daughter around an abusive boyfriend who would eventually rape her. If the foster system was equipped to provide guidance for young adults, June wouldn’t have been on her own when she turned 18 without resources. If we had better social safety nets in this country, she wouldn’t have been forced to do sex work to keep a roof over her head.
I don’t write about politics and current events as much as a I used to. For a few years, I was making a decent income breaking down the news of the day into my own words so other people could take an interest in what was going on in the country. I felt like I was helping people get involved — by giving my POV, they would be inspired to do something. I liked getting messages from readers about how I made them look at something differently or why they donated to a certain cause because of what I said. I was being helpful, and that’s the nurturing part of me. I could make the world a better place by staying informed and keeping others informed too.
And then I stopped believing that. I just did not want to write anymore after the 2016 election. It peeled back too many layers of the country and I didn’t think anything was actually fixable. The United States is rotten to the core. Everything is broken and nothing works. Human nature isn’t as intrinsically good as I’d hoped. You can’t teach empathy and you can’t help someone care about human suffering, so what was the point?
I do appreciate the people who have the moral foundation and mental fortitude to continue fighting the good fight, so I didn’t think it was responsible of me to put more negative energy out there. Better to be silent and let the fighters fight than to get on this soapbox and continually tell people how broken everything is.
I got diagnosed with depression and anxiety a few years ago, and after some false starts, I found the right pharmaceutical cocktail for me, and some of the negativity lifted. Everything isn’t terrible all the time. There is joy all around us. Even in times of darkness, the overall trajectory of humanity is still an upward trend in a positive direction. It’s hard out here though. June has me down a well and I’ve been at the bottom of it for a couple of days now. Why didn’t I check on her? She should be working at Target or doing nails or going to CUNY to be a teacher. She shouldn’t be dead. She asked for me specifically when she ran to the shelter for help, and then I just…released her to the system and into the world.
I don’t know y’all. I’m trying to focus on the wins and keep the positives in mind, but I’m tired. Some of y’all who have been reading this site for a long time wonder why I don’t write as much anymore, and I just don’t always have the energy to pay attention to the world the way I used to. There are just so many Junes and I don’t know what to do about it.
What are y’all doing to preserve joy? I’m very sad today.
Why do female gymnasts wear leotards?
Hot Takes: Queens
Joe Manchin doesn’t want to give money to people who need money.
Tina Turner cashes in.
Hot Takes: Malignant
Maid is the best show on Netflix.
Race1 year ago
How to respond to “riots never solve anything!”
LGBT1 year ago
Niecy Nash ties the knot with singer Jessica Betts.
Pop Culture2 years ago
Today I Learned: Betty White Gave Arthur Duncan His Start
Race1 year ago
Why don’t we say “Ebonics” anymore?
LGBT1 year ago
Valentina Sampaio, Sports Illustrated, and trans women under the male gaze.
On Television1 year ago
The story behind Hottie and that microwaved chicken.
Race8 months ago
Gen Z slang is all AAVE.
Pop Culture3 years ago
Aubrey O’Day is a blowup doll and I love it.