well, thank god.

Its a definite, necessary step to begin.

and thats all it is, a necessary, late, beginning.

i’m not saying i’m not happy, I am. I feel viciously happy.

But I’m actually a pro-lifer, (prochoice too.)

so I wish George Floyd was alive and I wish Chauvin had not been kept on as a police officer once they knew he was so damaged.

Because Life, a good Life, should be the priority.

I am so glad. I am so glad for George’s family, that maybe now they can begin to move on, now that there is a finish to the national need for their great loss. Maybe they don’t have to see their love’s murder every day on tv.

But I know the risk is still there. While the Chauvin trial was going on, how many people were killed by police? And do I need to tell you their color? Do we even need to be told? Is there any less risk now? Is it better in the percentages?

Will there be more babies calling for their mothers? Will we all watch murders, live, as they are happening, and keep sitting down?

And I’m sorry, because I know I should be straight joyous, or relieved and I am. I AM! I can’t even believe they convicted him, I really can’t. He is now… convicted murderer, Chauvin. But it’s mixed in a glass with Breonna, Eric, Daunte. Video proof not necessary. Dozens and dozens of names every year, for hundreds of years.

Muddy waters.

If a good life is the priority, we need clean water. All of us need clean water. Baseline.

Add MakiyahBryant, 15. Yesterday, while we waited for the verdict. Yesterday.


Raining white problems, aka Grow the Fuck Up.

Grow up. Accept your responsibility.

Its been raining since yesterday. We had one practice and one game cancelled, and still managed to not be able to eat dinner until 7:30 at night. This makes a mom hangry. Or a person, I suppose.

The teenagers are working my nerves. We’ve entered the arena of when they are late or ill-prepared for their tasks, they take issue with my raised voice and attempt to turn the tables and express blame on/for the ‘irrational’ behavior of the mother.

i get it. i remember doing it. (kind of) but fuck off, mates. fuck off.

you are late. you do not have your kit for practice after school. you have missed the bus and you still are not hustling around to make it to the ‘second chance’ bus appearance.

fuck off mates.

i love you dearly. you are super hero legends in my book.

and i am the eye-rolling director of shield. call me samuel jackson, please. PLEASE?

teddy bear placed on wooden shelf with clothes
Teddy with ‘Fuck off’ tee, Photo by Erik Mclean on

In seriousness, the lack of accountability is critical here. I yell, yes I do, because I am aware that it is no longer my job to get them prepared for school in the morning. I feed them, that IS my job, but the rest? nope.

Is that what it is with the continuation of white supremacy? That all ‘we white people’ just think its a problem with cops? Or with ‘the south’? The complete fucking lack of empathy for the humanity of the black and brown people in our communities? Is that what it is?

Blame goes somewhere else and is not directed inwardly? I mean, point the damn finger at yourself, even if its a selfie. Damn, man. Its us. Its all of us.

Take responsibility for the life you are in, damnit. Its not ‘the people who came before me’. Its not ‘them’. Its you. Its me. Get off your high horse, soap box. Don’t tell me you have black friends, or a black brother. It is not enough. IF you are stuck and don’t know what to do, make a sign. give your money. read a freaking post by a black or brown writer. Listen to what they’re saying.

Don’t be an asshole teenager who blames his mother for his problems.

Grow the fuck up.


Not working, and the country is on fire, and has been for four hundred years.

well. i’m supposed to be writing, for work. and i’m not. shocking, i know.

this is what i’ve done this morning instead of writing.

laundry. dishwasher. ordered seeds for the yard, calendula, valerian, zinnia, and lovage.

I’m going to figure out what to do with tons of calendula this year. You bet your ass I am.

texted with an old friend who i asked to yell at me and he did.

texted with another old friend who got saucy. it was funny but distracting and i was taken aback.

ate some crackers. made myself an instant coffee (sign of the apocalypse, yes.)

made a schedule for errands this afternoon which include finally watching one of the classes I signed up for, assuming I get another thousand words written.

I found a birds nest in the rhododendron. No eggs yet but I figured out how I can look without touching.

I have no self-bribery system set up. The floodgates are down and I’m not withholding anything and if I want candy, I go buy it, furthering the ‘not working’. This is the complete dissolution of productivity, folks. utter dissolution.

My inner core says the work will still get done. Am I doing drugs without my knowledge?

These are the things guys.

And I’m still not shot because my inspection sticker is out of date. Its’ literally not even conceivable. Right? What about you?

close up photography of zinnia flowers
Zinnias, Photo by Swapnil Chakraborty on


I don’t.

I don’t feel like writing about the horror of my kitchen sink, because the horror of life in America is too strong right now.

I don’t feel like telling you about online dating and heartaches and my sometimes really deep loneliness because I’m not shot in my bed.

I don’t feel like crafting some clever narrative of how funny it is to be around kids who are so damn smart because my babies and I have an obscene amount of financial priviledge and I don’t get shot and left on the street for six hours like road kill.

I don’t want to tell you how often I wonder where the right-to-lifers are when it comes to human beings, grown ones. What if the angry white texans/floridians/arkansas-ians flooded the streets in Minneapolis (Detroit, Newark, Houston, Baltimore), demanding the guns of the police? Demanding new judges who will see things their way? Demanding change at the highest levels of government because goddamnit, everyone has a right to live and killing people is one of those pesky commandments?

I don’t want to talk to you about my fucking houseplants.

black mother putting jeans on shouting baby
Photo by William Fortunato on