Tiffany asked me what I wanted for my 51st year, and my quick answer was “to get to the money.”
To sit courtside at Los Angeles Sparks games and say hi to Dee, our favorite bartender in the Delta Sky lounge.
To travel for basketball reasons on a whim. To join our wealthier friends in donating to the arts.
To become fluent in opera.
To be a patron of the spaces that generate the vibes I want to see in the world.
We stood in line at the home opener for ACFC, surrounded by people who want to live in the same inclusive, collaborative, and supportive society that I want, and that’s what I desire.
More of this.
More reminders that the chaos on our screens isn’t always reflective of the realities of our neighborhoods.
I want to love my neighbor like atoms sharing a cell.
I want to love my body like a turtle loves its shell.
I want to be where joy is.
I want to be joy.
I want joy.
Joy.
What do I want in my 51st year?
To rain down joy on my loved ones and enemies alike.
I don’t remember if it was Anna or Melle who remarked on our booming voices and boisterous laughter last night, but the statement was true. We sat around an oval-shaped table eating lumpia and pancit and garlic rice and Menudo and donuts at Robinson Space in the middle of the Historic Filipinotown neighborhood of Los Angeles. The room was decorated for Christmas and revolution, and we were having a grand old time.
These old friends hadn’t been together in this configuration since before the early days of the pandemic. It had been two years without our usual round of March birthday brunches and drinks. Two years without quick get-togethers or whatever we used to do when a plan could come together without worrying about our mortal safety and that of those we love just by breathing the same air with people we like for a while.
And yet there we were, drinking white claws and seltzer water and making small talk with new acquaintances.
It was a family dinner. It was a celebration. It was recognition of the work one of us had been doing during these desperate times. While most of us had been in our own homes protecting our butts, Melle had been in the streets of our city making sure our neighbors didn’t go hungry. Her organization, Polo’s Pantry, was in its infancy when the needs of those she intended to serve increased exponentially. At the same time, many of the government services they may have depended on became unavailable.
Melle and the community coalitions she is a part of sprung into action to meet those needs. They did so from nearly the moment stay-at-home orders began at the time when we didn’t fully understand the risks, the safety protocols, or how long we’d be living this way.
“I say ‘I love you’ through food,” she said as she spoke to the attendees last night. Food is a love language. It had brought all of us together on a Saturday night to laugh, cry, learn, and share.
“We are happy, even, that we have food enough for Daniel, who eats peacefully, not knowing that we are laughing, but sensing that something wonderful has happened to us, which means that wonderful things happen, and that maybe something wonderful will happen to him. ”
— James Baldwin
My favorite scenes in If Beale Street Could Talk (both the film and the book) happen at home. The first—though, chronologically, the second—is in the apartment Tish shares with her family. She reveals that she is pregnant to her mother, who creates a small celebration around the dining table with Tish’s sister and father to bring them into the joy and fright of a possible new life.
Then they invite Fonny’s parents and siblings over so that they might also enjoy and live in the news. It doesn’t go as well, but in it, we learn about the power and limits of hospitality and the malleability in the definition of family. It’s instructive for all that will follow in the story.
The other setting I love is the one quoted above. Fonny has a place in the world that is his, and sometimes it is also Tish’s, and they can invite an old friend into it and share a meal and fellowship. I do not know that I’ve read words more beautiful than Baldwin’s in describing that feeling of being able to provide respite to another. To sit around a table, break bread, drink a little, and talk. The intimacy and hope and security it brings, even if only for a few hours.
It builds us up. It fortifies us for whatever the world might throw our way.
We are in the process of buying a place right now. After figuring out if a space fits us, the next question on my mind is will it meet the needs of our people. We aren’t constant hosts, inviting others into our residence frequently, though we consider doing so often. Last year, my family tried to establish a new tradition of monthly dinners at each of our spots across the city. We were pretty good for about half the year, and I very much enjoyed the times we hosted including a Mother’s Day meal that had more people seated at our table than ever before. More common, though, is for us to have a single guest over, like Fonny and Tish, and we put on some music and pour some liquor, and we treat each other with kindness and sincerity for as long as necessary.
What I’ve learned watching those tours, especially while I’ve been reading Baldwin’s words is that if we get nothing else right, let’s do the last. Let’s make it so that our family—blood or chosen—feels welcome and that from the time they enter and until they leave, they will know that something wonderful happening is always a possibility.
It’s easy these days to find things to be grateful for in my personal life. So much so, that it’s been a struggle to share my gratitude publicly over the last month or two as the daily onslaught of breaking news seems to ratchet up the level of terribleness with every sunrise. What right do I have to celebrate in the face of this?
It smells like a campfire outside. The sun is shining, but I don’t know that I will see it as the haze of the Woolsey Fire envelops Los Angeles. It’s Veteran’s Day weekend, and this nation’s president is derelict in his duties as commander-in-chief failing to honor properly those who serve or have served in our military. There was a mass shooting 41 miles from my house just a few short days ago. There have been so many mass shootings across this country this year that I’ve forgotten some.
After Tuesday night’s midterm election results were revealed, I began Wednesday morning with a meditation. I’ve been journaling more—once in the morning to set my intention for the day and at the end of the night to take an accounting—and in that process on that day, I committed to tapping out a bit from breaking news at least for the rest of the year. The world immediately pushed against this notion with crazy, but I’ve mostly held to it. Even if I haven’t yet replaced all that attention-seeking with books and maybe learning some new things,—my Candy Crush skills though are getting damn good—I have been more intentional with how I spend my time. I’m less informed, perhaps, minute-by-minute but not uninformed. I get my news in the morning from my favorite podcasts and then in the evening on the way home from my news curating apps and newsletters, and then I’m trying my best to go about my life.
And, this week, that’s what I’m grateful for: reclaiming my time.
Inside Edition crossed 4 million subscribers on YouTube
Ridiculous slack conversations at work about Chantel Jeffries, why she’s famous, why she is able to put out music, and who Vory is, exactly
We got a new stove, and it’s the fanciest kitchen appliance I’ve ever used
Surviving a Lyft ride that included unexpected debris on the freeway and getting a check-in from the company, a rebate, and credit for some free trips in the future // I didn’t even complain, the driver did a good thing and informed Lyft of what happened
Watching my intern flourish during presentations this past week
Having a pretty exceptional work dinner at Norah turn into an endurance challenge as the food just. Kept. Coming.
Making it home from NYC despite 7 hours of delays due to weather
Finally making my way to the Tenement Museum for a tour and getting to eavesdrop on white folks (domestic and from abroad) reckon with the realities of immigration and poverty throughout history
Spending a few brief minutes with Catherine in a different city
If a random restaurant name generator were to spit out three words that would definitely pique my interest, they would be Turntable Chicken Jazz
WNBA All-Star 2018 was so spectacular it deserves its own section
Loews Minneapolis is a lovely hotel, and while the WNBA players didn’t stay there, AC Milan did. It shares space with the Minnesota Timberwolves and Minnesota Lynx practice facility, so we saw many a basketball player throughout our stay. The lobby bar was great for people watching and drinking and eating throughout the day.
In the newly renovated Target Center, there is a gym. It is the most beautiful gym I have ever been in, and I suspect nicer than 99% of the gyms in Southern California. They have a juice bar and a real bar. At the gym. Their standard locker rooms are more luxurious than the executive locker rooms at most LA gyms I’ve been in. I loved that place. The only thing they didn’t have was the kind of elliptical machine I like but, seriously, if they had hotel beds, I’d just stay there my next visit to Minny.
We found the official hotel of WNBA All-Star a couple blocks away from us and spent way too much time in their lobby restaurant gawking at and interacting with players, coaches, officials, and other fans. Tiffany got pictures with nearly every player in town at one point. We had a brief interaction with Sparks All-Star and current fave, Chelsea Gray, and she found us during the open practice the next day and gave us a tee. During the same event, we also got called out by Coach Cheryl Reeve for being the lone Sparks fans in the building (we weren’t, but we were definitely the loudest), got a pair of free tix from the Sparks for making the trip, and got accosted with an abundance of Minnesota Nice from county fair award-winning jam maker. She gave us a sample of her jam and her hand-picked wild rice. It was so weird and so delightful.
We had excellent seats at both the open practice and the actual game courtesy of Erica Mauter. It is always a delight to see her. My only other time in Minnesota was for her wedding 8 years prior. She, her wife, and her sister are some of the best people we know, and it was exceptional to spend some quality time with them. Beyond Tiffany and Erica making NBA security a little nervous when they ran up on some players in the lobby of the hotel, I most enjoyed our dinner at Hai Hai. The food was excellent, and the drinks were five bucks cheaper than any fancy cocktail here at home. We’ll just ignore the dude in the MAGA hat who walked past us as we were waiting to be seated.
That he was such an anomaly during these last few weeks in which I spent most of my time with people and in experiences that represent the world I believe is the most ideal and optimal is a reminder that despite the onslaught of terrible news and uncertainty and anxiety and the on-going reminders that we live in a society that has throughout its history rewarded awful men, that is not the only reality.
This, all of this, is real too. And we’ve been living our best life.
