this is courage

Not hyper macho body armored muscle queens laden with weapons.

But.

People. Americans of all sorts. Showing up all day for the mundane and the glorious. 

First, at a non-regulation polling site at 8.30am on a Saturday, to find like minded neighbors already in line. A grumpy blond woman in her jammies. A harried couple with their child, half-costumed for the No Kings march. Millenials en route to brunch. All of us trying to weigh in despite little information and limited ballots.

Then thousands gathering in oppressive Louisianan heat, humidity and a blistering sun, from elderly veterans to pre-gaming gays and parents with sweaty kids, holding handmade signs, some in costume, exercising the right to free speech and having a say.

And later, Pride, onlookers and dancers and performers damp from the passing thunderstorms, decked out in glitter and rainbows to celebrate our beloved gay friends and families. A visitor from Arizona excitedly scooping up beads to take home to her kids. A white-haired woman in a leotard, lip-syncing to George Michael's "Freedom", her krewe dancing in the street around her. Glitter gays diffidently texting from their float. It's chaos and joy and I love it.

 

* 

To those who criticize, I wonder about motivations. It's personal for me. I show up because I want to (have you BEEN to a protest or a parade?! the joy and solidarity and camaraderie are <<chef's kiss>>). I show up to be counted. To feel less alone. For those who can't because of work or mobility or exhaustion or fear. I'm not brave. Just determined.

uh...about May

Did I blink and May barreled past like a semi on the interstate?

It was a month of hard -- and heartbreaking -- work, twelve hour days and rushing to enjoy life in the few hours remaining. 

And also a 1.5 day road trip to the Mississippi Gulf coast, dodging torrents of rain to make the best of it, hitting up thrift shops and a moldering bookstore, arcades and casinos and an amazing Vietnamese bakery and finally enjoying one damp walk along the beach. 

Then, a few days in New York City, to see friends and meet their sweet new baby, an alert four-month-old, eat Mexican food together and laugh; to see NE family and visit the 9/11 museum, and to check out a friend's photography exhibit at ICP and also, oh my goodness, Superfine, the fashion and history show of a lifetime, and the FIT graduate show, and then drinks with a dear Brooklyn punk rocker.

It was also a month of loss, of realizing two friendships that were important to me, one decades long and one more recent, were suddenly uneven and frustrating and floundering and were they maybe not even really friendships? That gut-emptying feeling of ah, so I like them more than they like me. Of feeling foolish and slow and stupid for trusting people with my thoughts, my time, my true self.

Relationships are a gamble I guess, and I'll learn and the hurt will heal but it's hard not to think of these as losses.  

 

writing about mom

I've been waiting to share this new piece, "Mom Can't Remember," out in Thimble Literary Magazine's spring 2025 issue.
I won't say it's deeply personal (though it is) because duh, all writing is. As writers what we put on the page is filtered through our worldview, is our creation, what's on our mind, sticks in our craw, excites us, frustrates us, worries enrages motivates thrills us.

I'm avoiding getting to the point but the point is, this one's about my mother and the complexity of her after suffering a grave illness.

If adulthood is figuring out who to blame, I'm still working on that.
I loved her and love her, I feared her and sometimes admired her.
I miss her every day.

this is love

How do you celebrate amid grief and worry? 

We did, last week, sisters and nieces and assorted family. Some were unable to join due to work, but the rest of us traveled across states and borders and storms and troubling times to find a bright sliver of hope being together, laughing, bickering, snacking, thrift shopping, remembering.

We celebrated a dear one's victory over a serious illness, and mourned the departure of one less fortunate. We visited my mother's grave, weeping and sipping her beloved diet Dr. Pepper. 

One family member baked the tenderest of cookies, another gifted hand-sewn baskets, others created a space that was gorgeously luxurious.

We did not grow up saying I love you in words and even though now we do, I also know: this is love

good golly it was a literary weekend in the dirty South

Good golly it was a literary weekend in the dirty South and I feel so lucky.

I ushered a few packed sessions at the New Orleans book festival, dealt with complaints and helped carve out space for ADA attendees. Several writers from The Atlantic were on the agenda and so interest was understandably high.

After a quick break to inhale a sandwich I got some me time and heard Alexander Smalls, Nina Compton and Nini Nguyen discussing food and culture and life; to Rachel Khong speak beautifully about how writing is the most intimate relationship between her and the individual reader; to Jarvis Deberry and others recounting the first horrifying and deeply personal hours and days of reporting on Hurricane Katrina; I listened to TaraWestover muse about how being true to yourself sometimes means parting with family, and her struggles to dig deeper in her second as-yet-unpublished book; and Charles M. Blow, W. Kamau Bell and SarahLewis in conversation with Mitch Landrieu, a funny yet deeply emotional discussion of the new Jim Crow and the work still ahead. Words and ideas still matter. Let’s get to work. 

• https://www.alexandersmalls.com/ 
• https://www.neworleans.com/restaurants/chefs/nina-compton/
• https://www.chefnininguyen.com/ 
• https://www.jarvisdeberry.com/
• https://www.rachelkhong.com/
• https://www.facebook.com/CharlesMBlow/ 
• https://sarahelizabethlewis.com/
• https://tarawestover.com/

 

is it me is it you?

As a kid I remember my mom and grandma talking about an older woman, a second cousin who'd done something scandalous. She's in her 60's, Gram said. And Mom said Oh I thought she was at least 70.

And I marveled, How do they know if someone is forty or sixty or eighty? I wasn't even ten yet and any one past eighteen seemed unimaginably ancient, the years not even worth counting.

I found doodling calming and once sketched my grandmother in profile, as realistically as I could. She was so upset with the drawing, with the proportions and my tactless attempt at realism. My nose is not that big, she insisted. But it was how I saw her, a small person sitting on the floor with a sketchbook and pencils. It was how she looked to my naive eyes. Distinctive. Glamorous, with her champagne blonde perm, capri pants and sleeveless tops.

I learned to hide my drawings after that. 

I learned honesty is upsetting and will get you in trouble.

Now, I'm on the other end of that spectrum. Where I once wondered how older folks become so cantankerous and inward-focused, I now realize it's a lifelong act of resistance to stay nimble and open, to guide the mind out of comfortable ruts and into the broad, shifting path ahead.

well hello March

If January felt like years, like getting sucker-punched daily, February went by in a flash, like a hit-and-run.
I'm writing as best I can.
The horrors are deep and sickening.
Canadians boo USians. (how!?)
We are not who we were 1.5 months ago, not who we thought we were or imagined we could be.
At a parade the other night we watched yet another suburban krewe sashay by to tired '50's tunes. "The good old days," someone commented.
And a friend turned, with a studied look. Good for whom?
*
Family has been familying. I got an unexpectedly sweet thank you from a niece; and then a strange greeting card and even stranger email from other fam. We are all losing it, quietly, desperately, and with a mightily-summoned measure of dignity.