New neighbors moved in across the street, a young couple, man and woman. No kids that I could tell, peaking out through the upstairs window where the tree doesn’t block the view. A white couple. No surprise there. I’m a white woman living in a sleepy white somewhat suburban town on a white street with white neighbors. I prepped my welcome to the neighborhood gift, a basket chock full of
Safety pins to the rescue, or just another feel good moment for white people?
About this whole safety-pin campaign, inspiring people wear a visible safety-pin in solidarity with groups (too many to list) threatened by the sexual-predator-elect. I ain’t gonna lie, I kinda like it. But then again, I’m only a cis-non-religious-middle-aged-slightly-overweight-white-woman, not as nearly targeted as the vast marginalized populations on Trump’s you’re-not-like-me hit list. The safety-pin takes guess-work out of who is on the side of human decency. Instead of wondering if they voted
Biting My Tongue during racist conversation
Yesterday, I was a lady who lunched. Three of us went; they had salad, I bit my tongue off, and the inside of my cheeks and my nails. We’re the only two friends this woman has anymore, and here’s why. Our lunchtime, um, discussion: Couldn’t vote for Obama because of his terrorist background. Our government is running a ponzi scheme just like Madoff. Reverend Al is a racist and hates white