With little effort, you too can make a racist. Makes 2 to 4 million servings (and then some, with leftovers for sharing)
Ever since I was a little Black girl, I have been warmly embraced by racism. I fondly remember, as a kindergartener, sneaking into the kindergarten room next door with my other little non-Black friends on a secret mission to trade our Black baby doll with the White one (the White one was prettier, obviously).
Since then, I’m hit by nostalgia every time I turn on the news and hear of yet another innocent Black person dying just for existing. …
After a year marked by a racial awakening, decades of movies about slavery, and White privilege on display at the Capitol this week, I welcome the escapism.
Bridgerton showed up as a suggestion on Netflix when I was browsing one evening. I saw that it was a period piece based on 19th-century Britain, which marginally sparked my interest (to be fair, I did like Pride and Prejudice after all). But when I noticed the picture of the tall Black man peering over the shoulder of the dainty snow White woman standing beside him in a garden of sorts, I was immediately repelled (despite the obvious attractiveness of the former). I was sure that I already knew what this show was all about.
If racism is about power (and it is) and a racial hierarchy exists (and it does), Black people cannot be racist.
“To be black and female in a society which is both racist and sexist is to be in the unique position of having nowhere to go but up.” — Rosemary Brown
There’s been something I’ve been hearing a lot lately — and especially since George Floyd was killed in June — and it bothers me every time I hear it.
“Black people can be racist too.”
I remember when, at the Emmys, Issa Rae said she was “rooting for everyone Black” and (White) people were upset and were like “if a White person ever said that, they’d be raked over the coals but because a Black person said it it’s somehow ‘okay?’” …
It’s becoming more and more commonplace for single women in their thirties to research their options — regardless of whether they want children
With last month being PCOS Awareness Month, and this month being Pregnancy and Infant Loss Month, and while I try to put off going to bed, it seems like as good a time as ever to talk about my trip to the fertility clinic.
(This is long. My suggestion is that you go curl up with your blanket and some hot cocoa while you read about my womb. You’re welcome.)
It’s not a recent trip. I went about two years ago (and I have sat on this post since then because of #vulnerability). …
You all can continue to explain if you want to. I no longer will.
I don’t count myself among the greatest of people dead or alive, but I can’t imagine a situation or a society or a circumstance in which I would reply “All Lives Matter” to an expression of grief, loss, pain and frustration.
A month ago a friend of mine interviewed me for her Instagram Live. She wanted me to talk about race, social justice and the church. I mentioned my frustration with the phrase being parroted by many a Christian in response to “Black Lives Matter”: “all lives matter.”
“So when people say ‘all lives matter’ in response to ‘Black Lives Matter’, what do you say to them?” …
I sent the following letter to my Member of Parliament. I hope you will consider writing your own letter to your Member of Parliament as well:
I don’t do this often. I’m sure many letters that you receive start out this way. In the hopes of you taking this letter seriously, I think it important that you know that I don’t make a career out of complaining to politicians. I’ve become so disenchanted and jaded with the whole political process that the extent of my engagement is voting — nothing else and nothing more. But I find the treatment of Jagmeet Singh in the House of Commons last week deeply troubling. …
I’ll start by admitting a rather embarrassing thing I’ve done: I’ve turned to Google Assistant for emotional support.
I want to remember her as more than just a punch line, and instead as a complex character
Insecure on HBO is one of my favourite shows.
One of the reasons why I love watching Insecure is because it resonates with my life. Like many (most? all?) Millennials, I am insecure about many things, including my personal life. I obviously can’t speak for everyone, but I believe that to be its main appeal — that the show is relatable.
The show is also empowering. On this one show, we have seen Black women take ownership of their sexuality in a way I have not seen on any other show. We have seen Black women take ownership of their careers in a way I have not seen on any other show. …
Kobe Bryant wasn’t perfect, but neither are you.
There is so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it ill behooves any of us to find fault with the rest of us.
— James Truslow Adams
My mother attended a funeral recently for a long-standing member of the church in which I grew up. I remember the person fondly. He was a faithful deacon — the first to arrive to open the church and the last to close it. He always sat in the back pews ever-ready to help the audio-visual team and the church service run smoothly. He was just always ready to help. We loved him. He was a quiet man, and he and I exchanged few words, but in the rare cases we did, it was a mouthful: “Sister Samuels, I don’t sin,” he told me categorically one evening after a service. I remember staring at him silently in bewilderment. All have sinned and fallen short according to the Bible, so there’s that. But at the moment I really didn’t have much to counteract his declaration. …
I’ve always wanted to know what it would be like to be loved and wanted by a man. I couldn’t figure out, for the life of me, why I only seemed to attract gay ones.
“There’s something on your pants,” Colin told me. I was in front of him as we climbed the winding staircase of his new workplace. I had taken him up on his offer to give me a private tour of the former mansion. Without a second thought, he rubbed away the aberrant dust mark on the back of my leg.
Later on, in the evening, he accompanied me back to his place where I would be staying for the night. He asked me if I was thirsty and grabbed us both a glass of water, placing mine on the window ledge beside me. He sat across from me on the other side of the room as we talked… and talked. We talked about children. We talked about relationships. When I thought I had misplaced my glass, without skipping a beat he walked across the room and handed it to me again. We reminisced on our law school days, and I couldn’t help but think of how far we had come — first as friends struggling through school, now each serving as directors at our respective non-profits, me still single, he now engaged. …
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