The first time I ever heard the n-word, I was in Charlottesville, Virginia. I was nine, walking with my mother and stepfather. Two kids ran past. One called the other a word I’d never heard growing up in Washington, D.C., despite having classmates and friends of multiple races.
My mother pressed her lips into a thin line, then said, “I hate that word.”
In case you missed it, there was a Women’s March on Washington the day after Donald Trump’s inauguration. (No, I can’t bring myself to call him President. Since facts no longer matter, I guess I don’t have to.) The organizers had a permit for 200,000 anti-Trump protesters.
Over a half-million people showed up, with pink hats and hilarious signs.
I’m not a fan of pink. I scorned the traditionally feminine color as a child, insisting that all my clothes had to be blue. This was not easy for my parents, thanks to gendered marketing. Blue dresses were tough, and a girl’s blue bathrobe was downright impossible. They gave me a boy’s blue bathrobe. I loved it.
I wanted a blue winter coat. In the midst of a bitter divorce, struggling financially, my dad didn’t have time to hunt for a blue coat (this was before Amazon). So I wore my blue bathrobe to school. Continue reading Broken Hearts & Pink Hats (#169)
Once upon a time, there was a Junior High School in Washington, D.C. It was a public school. Each student was assigned a home room. Each home room elected a Class President.
The Class President did nothing. Until May.
In May, the school threw a carnival-themed fundraiser. The Class President was responsible for getting a game from the slightly insane (and thoroughly terrifying) Glee Club Teacher. She had a closet that clearly had storage space in another dimension. Continue reading The United States of Junior High (#156)
My Chinese-American husband and I have been lucky. Unlike so many other AMWF couples, Andy and I have never been harassed by racists. Maybe it’s because we live in Los Angeles, multi-racial city. Or maybe it’s because Angelenos are too self-absorbed to notice other people’s skin color.
My friend M recently passed a young woman with a pack walking alone on a deserted rural road in the United States. In the rain. Now, I’d see this as a potential opening scene for a horror movie. M saw it as a Nicholas Sparks book. M stopped and offered the soaked young woman (we’ll call her “Anna”) a ride. Continue reading Anchor Babies (#79)