Saturday, I turned fifty-seven years old. My mother died when she was sixty-eight years old. Lung cancer and emphysema whistled through her and that was that. My mother’s mother died when she was one-hundred-and-one years old – probably with all her teeth and at least a hundred thousand more huffs to heave. But time is time and there she went.

Given the maternal statistics, I could hang on another forty something years or be blotted out at any moment now. That being fact…

If on my death bed I could be given the gift of having the full attention of all the single and childless 20 and 30 year old femmes and women from all over the world –– if some Great Somebody In The Sky could gather them all round my bedside via the greatest zoom room in the history of all the galaxies and I could be given a chance to leave them with one single piece of parting advice, it would be: Don’t waste your good tits.

I’m old now and now is the time for me to just say what I mean. The offended can just tune out. I will not waste this gift placating to simpering holier-than-thou folks wounded by fact-of-life words like “shaft” or “throb”. This advice is mine to give. Take it or leave it: Don’t waste your good tits.

When I say tits, breasts are not what I’m talking about.

Tits become breasts and breasts become bosoms and I am definitely not talking about either of the latter.

Tits are the burgeoning awakening.

Tits are not breasts. Breasts are for the maternal and the mature and the nurturing. Once you’ve entered breastdom, bosomhood is just around the corner and it’s already too late.

Tits are what you have when you’re young.

Tits are what you have before you have to start doing self-examinations in the shower.

Tits stay fixed no matter how many times you roll over in the middle of the night.

Tits, no matter their cup size, can take or leave the helping hands of a sturdy bra and not worry about a sciatica flare-up.

Tits point. That’s it: they point.

Tits bounce. Hell, they even bounce back.

Tits are to the feminine what a good hairline is to the masculine. They matter. Their receding is just unthinkable.

But okay, let me make my deathbed plea more profound: Don’t waste your good tits on Jesus.

Don’t waste your good tits on sermons and bible studies and devotionals “encouraging” you to forget all about your good tits, admonishing you to pray your good tits away or stash them beneath a burlap sack of shame until marriage.

There’s a whole hoop of women who wasted their good tits because of Jesus.

Because of Jesus, they didn’t wear the little black dress or the off-shoulder silky shirt or the baby tee or the miniskirt. They didn’t kiss the boy beneath the bleachers or behind the church or, dare I say, backseat of the car. They didn’t press their ripeness into the panting chest of their crush and then back away with a feigned innocence punctuated with a little giggle causing their peak possessions to shimmy just the tiniest bit. They didn’t. They didn’t. They didn’t because “Jesus.” Though Jesus never said a thing about any of the above.

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Yesterday, me and The Kid got into a happy conversation with the new neighbors who bought a gorgeous little brownstone just next door. Ex-Angelenos. An artist couple looking to make good things here in this good city of Chicago. They look the part. Young, attractive, and always wearing that easy-casual attire that the young-uns pull off so well – I care but I don’t care that much and I don’t care as much as you care. I’ve never seen either of them in leggings – and thank god, I can look them in the eye without judgment or feeling judged.

You wanna know something? I live for these moments. I live for the absolute fact that the three-story-high silver maple stood at attention on our tree lawn, saluting everyone walking by, is my most dependable neighbor. And I live for any neighborly, impromptu happenstance that lands on the front stoop. I live for a chitchat on the sidewalk. I’m absolutely living when two neighbors become one more and then another and another and we all converge there, one foot propped on the stoop as we go on and on about the weather or our dogs or our farmer’s market. It’s the stoop. You can’t get this close over a fence. A fence keeps out, but a front stoop belongs to anybody needing a place to sit or wait or rest. A front stoop will always help you get your bearings. A fence could never.

So there we were. Chins wagging about their dog Lulu, a French bulldog who loves cheese and absolutely everybody. And then one of them pointed at The Kid’s phone case and called out the name of the anime printed on it. And then the other said, “Good choice.” Then, of course, as it always goes with these young things, I was just stood there clueless and listening. “You wouldn’t like it,” The Kid said. I looked at the black and white image of the girl with gloom and dagger eyes and shrugged, “probably not.” They went on about all their favorite anime and their favorite Adult Swim series and which horror movies were must-sees and don’t sees. Midsommar… Hereditary… Weapons… Obsession… You know, all things horrifying. Even still, wonder caught on their voices.

The sun gave us one last glance before dropping behind the building. Our sepia existence now a warm dove gray. More chatter mingling with more sirens mewling as more passers with dogs and strollers and grocery carts shuffled by. We talked on a-little-a-lot more until The Hubs called looking for us. We should’ve walked through the door half an hour ago. “We’re down here with the neighbors talking. Be up in a minute.” But we talked at least another ten or fifteen more. We shifted to let folks by. We chatted up families with kids both afraid and not afraid enough of Lulu who loved any kind of attention. We moved on to talking about travel, which The Kid and I hadn’t done much of but they’d done plenty. We talked about their work and my book and The Kid’s plans for making a living. We talked about the latest remake of Cape Fear and how the original was better. We talked about how The Hubs and I just saw The Odyssey and if it was worth the hype. It was – and I added how all the actors were all child prodigies and if someone had told me that the girl from The Princess Diaries and the girl from that Disney show and Ben Affleck’s best friend and Edward from Twilight and the comedian from House of Buggin’ who also voiced Sid the Sloth from Ice Age were all going to star in an adaptation of The Odyssey, I would’ve said, “You couldn’t pay me enough to see that.” Proves you don’t know what you don’t know and that the future is full of so many unimaginable things, it’s best not to bet on it.

We said a few more things. Let a few more passersby go on by. Then we said our goodnights. They headed on their way to the park (Lulu had been very patient with us) and we headed on in and up the three flights of stairs to the smell of potatoes and garlic and sizzling chicken.

There is no one right way to do this life, goodfellows. If yesterday had been a front porch looking over a big lawn leading down to a shoulder of a road lined with ditches, I’m fairly sure it all would’ve been just as fine.

If instead I’d been given a fence, I would’ve made good use of it.

I’m married to a big thinker. It’s lovely most of the time. There’s an irresistible charm to a six-foot bearded man who will, out of nowhere, stare up into the clouds, point and tell you something so cosmic and scientific you’ll never take the simple task of walking the dog for granted again. That’s my guy. Cloudchaser, stormwatcher, stargazer. I’ve never been more in love.

I was holding The Kid. They were seven and all kneecaps and elbows and wide eyes and every possibility. Smitten was too tame a feeling to describe my obsession. I lifted them and they drifted into me, branches and limbs wrapped around my hips and neck. There was no greater bliss than carrying my soul, my baby, breathing into my neck and calling me “mama.” The hubs looked at us, a hush harbor of cuddles right there before his eyes, and smiled my favorite smile, the one that shows all his goodness, the one that makes the crow’s feet kissable and said, “One day you’ll put them down and never pick them back up again.”

Sometimes, as much as I love him, I wanna poke my husband dead in the eye. Sometimes I wanna flick just the tip of his dingle dangle to remind him that some of his thoughts are too big and too small at the same damn time. And when these kinds of big-and-small thoughts occur to him, it would be best for him to just keep them to himself. The flick on his dingle dangle would be my reminder to him that he is but a man who foolishly fell in love with a woman and because of this said love, I could bring him down to size if I ever chose to do so.

But I am a peaceful woman.

“One day you will put them down and never pick them back up again.”

Well, sure. Sure.

I said, “Why do you think I’m still picking them up? They’re seven! They can walk! I know this! I don’t need you chiming in.” He shrugged. I wanted to hate him but he looked so clueless and adorable and I was such a hussy for him. Still am.

There’s the physical act of literally lifting and carrying and harboring your child, but there’s also the metaphysical. There will come a time when you will put your child down and never pick them back up again. It’s the price you pay for doing your job as a parent. They will stand on their own two feet, branches and limbs dangling in the wind, breathing into the neck of god-knows-who (because they will pick a partner someday and there’s not much you can do about it). They will start calling you “mom”. Their sweet lilting voice calling “mama” will be long gone.

And you will just have to sit there and watch this all go down while keeping your big thoughts, your small thoughts, your benign I-just-thought-you-should-know thoughts to yourself. They won’t wanna hear them any more than I wanted to hear, “One day you will tuck them in and never turn out the light for them again.” Yes… he shared that big/small thought as well. The kid will become The Kid. Full-grown with (if you raised them right) their own bills to pay. And they will have their god-knows-who to lean on and cuddle and do god-knows-what-when-and-what-for with and they will swoon over their little god-knows-who’s big thoughts (if you raised them right, they will have chosen someone with big thoughts) just like you have done for years with your cloudchaser, stormwatcher, stargazer.

(And let me digress a bit here: be sure to teach your kid not only to love books and movies and music, but also to only give their love to those who also love books and movies and music. Teach them not to lay any eggs with anyone who doesn’t have books—yes, the plural is a must)—on their nightstand. Size does matter. Tiny thoughts need not apply.)

Now back to what I was saying…

But one day, Billy or Mary or Charlie God-Knows-Who will break their heart. Suddenly, The Kid will metaphorically run into your arms again and you will lift them and they will wrap their branches and limbs all around you, breathing into your neck, hiccuping tears into your collarbone. They might even call you “mama” again. It’ll be a slip but still, it’ll be nice to hear. And they will want you to soothe, hush-harbor and kiss it all better even though you know and they know you can’t.

And here’s my advice: just lift.

Don’t jump to threatening to roll-up on god-knows-who and stomp some common sense into them. They could be back together again by morning. Trust me on that.

And don’t ever tell them god-knows-what-big-small-thought you ever had about god-knows-who’s hair or clothes or breath or the way they held their fork. Again, “weeping endures for a night but joy comes in the morning.” The turnaround will blow your mind. Love is love and all that. Who can say what will happen by sunrise?

And don’t take a side. Stay neutral. As much as you want to say, “Fuck god-knows-who,” hold the thought. It might just be that no one’s at fault. After all, they are only 22, 23, 24… twenty-not-quite-ripe-yet. There are things you will never know, and here’s the blessing: you don’t ever need to know what went down between your adult child and their adult god-knows-who. That is none of your business. Don’t go on the defense or the attack – and for goodness sakes, don’t play the mediator or the advice columnist. You have no advice to give because your generation’s ideas about love and relationships are a square peg in a round hole. It’s not your job. They have their own cavalcade of mediators and advice columnists at their disposal and, I hate to tell you, sex therapists who are all also only 22, 23, 24… twenty-not-quite-ripe-yet.

But here’s one question you can ask them that will matter to them because it’s coming from you, the one who first carried them and the last who put them down: “Do you regret it?”

It’s a simple question. The answer will give you all you need to know: Was it love? Was it worth this heartache? Are you willing to risk it again? Did I do my job? Did I give you everything you needed to love well and be loved right back? Did I teach you how to be brave and vulnerable? Did I love you big and small enough?

I picked them up from work and I asked them, “Was it worth it?”

The Kid stared out the car window at the Chicago skyline floating by. I could feel their heart, wide and wondering, testing its soreness, probing its big thoughts, kneading its tenderness.

“Yes,” they said. “It was worth it.” And then a sniffle. A small fraction of a quarter of a smile. “I liked being in love.” A sigh. “I know I’ll fall in love again.”

“Good.” I said.

“Yeah,” they said. We drove on home and I had a big/small thought: One day, except for obligatory visits and holidays and the occasional “just becauses,” they will come home to me for the last time.

One day we will climb our buildings three flights of stairs together, open our front door, place our keys in the basket, and walk down the long hall to the kitchen where my hubs will be waiting for us, cooking dinner with Evie begging at his feet for whatever scraps she can get. The Kid will recap their day again for him with more clarity and detail than I got on the car ride home and I will be a little jealous because everyone adores this man. The Kid, our kid, most especially does, and the feeling is totally reciprocated and I will be the third wheel on the outside listening in on all their big thought conversations while pretending to be nonplussed.

Then The Kid will start the shower a full fifteen minutes before they even get into it and the hubs and I will exchange “for the love of god” glances at each other but say nothing because they’re our kid and we’re a little afraid of them and we both wanna be their favorite.

One day all of this will be for the last time.

One day they will walk from their room to our front door, go through and close it behind them and we won’t see them again for a long lasting while. Maybe a whole two-weeks. And it will feel like someone is taking a vegetable peeler to my skin for all of eternity.

The Kid will walk on out the door and open a new one leading to god knows-where-or-when-or-what-for-or-who-with. One day, they will have their own front door and the only way I will be able to enter is to ring the buzzer or knock like a stranger.

I used to carry them… but then, one day I put them down.

No regrets.

Now is all we got.

And this now is the only reason I hate the idea of dying. What if I die while I’m right in the middle of doing something? What if I’m in the full throes of “now”, ten toes down in the business of living and the Grim Reaper comes and yanks me off the stage like how the Sandman dances amateurs off the stage at the Apollo?

Death is a son of a bitch and yet I can’t stop thinking about the little devil.

Death is a regular guest in my house. Whenever I get a call from my sister back home, The Kid and the hubs pause, waiting to hear who died and how. They know when it’s my family calling because I never answer with a normal, “Hey…” Our family is made up of way too much sackcloth and ash for that:

What’s going on? Everything okay?

Gurrrl, Vince died.

Oh my god, really? How?

Gurrrl, in Indiana.

When did he move to Indiana?

He didn’t. He moved to Kentucky but he was in Indiana yesterday.

I was just in Indiana! I drove ten and two the whole way there and the whole way back because the last thing I wanted to do was die in Indiana. I can’t believe he died in Indiana. Why was he in Indiana?

Gurrrl, who knows? You know, Vince liked to drink. He was there at some bar. Fell right off the bar stool and died there on the floor.

Oh my god.

Gurrrl, they didn’t even bother to call the police or an ambulance. What was the point? He was dead-ass dead. The bar called the morgue and that was that.

So sad.

Gurrrl, that’s not even the half of it. His mother called looking for him.

She called you?

No. She called him but his was already dead. His phone rang down at the morgue. Someone who works there answered it.

Nooooo….

Gurrrlllll… yes. Told her he was dead. Apparently it’s protocol.

How mortifying!

Better the morgue than the police station.

I don’t wanna die in the middle of doing anything. I don’t wanna die from extraneous physical activity. I don’t wanna die while choking or swimming or driving. I don’t wanna die in the middle of my best laid plans. But I most especially I don’t wanna die while I’m doing anything mundane but perfectly human.

I don’t wanna die sleeping. My sister Michele woke up one morning, rolled over to kiss her husband as she’d done for thirty-two years. He was dead, not sleeping.

I don’t wanna die having sex or on the toilet. I don’t wanna die with any part of me unclothed. I don’t wanna die amongst strangers in a mass shooting, or in an plane crash, or in some natural freakish disaster. I don’t wanna die sitting at a bar, in Indiana, alone.

When I was a kid, my siblings and cousins and I would have tickle fights. We’d all pounce on one person and tickle them until they laughed and peed their pants. We tickled them until the air in their lungs couldn’t manage to express a wispy plea: “Stop… enough…” We’d tickle them into breathless, soundless giggles. We’d tickle and tickle until my grandmother caught wind of our shenanigans. She’d warn us, “Cut it out before one of you ends up dead on the floor, you dumbasses! You know ‘tickled to death’ isn’t just something people say. It can really happen. I had a really good friend. She was a good church friend of mine and she and her husband was messing around and he started tickling her. He just kept on tickling and tickling until she was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. But did that stop him? Ohhhhh, no. He just kept right on and she died, right there in front of all their children. So just cut all that out! Sit your asses down somewhere and cut it out!”

My grandmother never cried when she said any of this. Not a hint of verklempt in her voice – not a tremble. So because of her stoic delivery, and also because we were terrible children, we’d carry on adding dramatics to the game. One of us would pretend to be the villainous husband. One of us would pretend to be my grandmother’s damsel-in-distress good friend and keel over onto the floor with our legs trembling in the air before going stiff as a dead cockroach. And the rest us would pretend to be the heartbroken children, screaming, “Whyyy?!?!” Then we’d kneel before the father, crying, “Daddy, how could you? She begged you to stop.”

Two weeks after Vince died my sister called:

What’s going on? Everything okay?

Gurlll… Earl’s gone.

Oh no… You mean gone gone?

Girl, gone gone. He was supposed to pick up his welfare check from Kia’s but he never showed up. You know how Earl is about his money. She got worried after calling for a few days. So she called the police. They found him dead on the kitchen floor in his apartment.

The Kid and the hubs watched my face, first the shock and the tears and then the confusion and disbelief settling in. They listened to my long exhale knowing the news coming in could be any host of tragedies. I hung up, told them that my cousin Earl, the one who was dressed in the tweed blazer at Thanksgiving, died.

The Kid asked, “You mean the one who was so drunk he passed out and fell out his chair?”

“Yeah, that cousin.”

The Kid muttered, “Oh that’s sad. But it tracks.”

There’s a funny little animated show called Dr. Katz Professional Therapist. Every time a family member of Dr. Katz dies, he gets a fit of giggles. His son asks him: “Why do you laugh at someone else’s demise? I don’t understand that.” Dr. Katz tells him, “There’s something about it. One minute they’re alive and the next minute they’re dead. It’s like slapstick.”

Maybe Death is just the worst comedian ever. Like one of those comedians who tells the kinda of jokes you know you shouldn’t laugh at but, by god, you just can’t help yourself. That little demon says whatever he wants and never gets cancelled. He’s that funny.

When I was ten, a fellow Girl Scout’s family hosted a swim party. They had a fancy in-ground swimming pool with a slide and everyone—the kids, the parents and even the dog—was sliding. But me? I knew better. I didn’t wanna die. A few of the moms assured me it was perfectly safe. “See? Look how much fun everyone’s having.” So I slid! It was the most fun I ever had until I was struggling for my life in a chlorine haze of blue. One of the dads reached in with one beefy hand and saved me. He dragged me onto the terrace, smacked me on the back and, like a newborn baby, crying and afraid, I came back to the world.

I don’t remember exactly what deal I made with God, but the next morning when the doors of the church opened, I came forward to the altar to be saved. That next Sunday I was baptized – cleansed. Rewarded with a new life. Promised life ever after. From there on out, my now was forever.

I could now drink the blood that was given to me, eat the body that was broken for me. I was now adopted and forgiven. The spirit of the Lord would now carry me. I could now leave all my past sins behind. Now, all things would be made new. It was as the old folks sang, “no more cryin’… no more dyin’….” And all it took was one prayer and one dip in the water. What a deal!

When some stars die, it’s all now. It’s all so present tense. It happens and keeps happening and keeps happening. The dying doesn’t end. Nasa puts it like this:

I wanna explode from within too. I wanna keep happening and happening, throwing out pieces of myself. I want my death to make something new. I don’t wanna reincarnate. I want an entirely new cosmic existence. If I could be guaranteed this deal, I’d respect Death just a little bit more. I might even flirt with him a little. Maybe give him a wink as I swam with sharks, or jumped out of a plane or, I don’t know, ate bacon-wrapped potato chips dipped in chocolate and never touched kale again. I just don’t wanna die on a barstool in Indiana or home alone in the kitchen.

I wanna have a right-here, right-now, present kind of death star death with all my family and friends around my bed while I go in and out of consciousness, throwing off invisible shards of matter as I describe to them the amazing things Death is showing me. I wanna tell them all about the things I see traveling towards me from behind my closed eyes. I wanna be able to tell them if there is or isn’t a light at the end of the tunnel. And if there is a light out there calling for me, I hope both my grandmothers and both my grandfathers are there. I hope they look so young and so ancient-of-days at the same time that I’m like Paul, dazzled with blindness from their brilliance. I hope to see my mother and my nephew and my niece and my cousin and my father I never knew. I even hope I see Vince and I hope he looks good. Well-rested. I hope he tells me he couldn’t remember a thing about Indiana and all about how he wasn’t so lonely because his people were right there waiting on him – family he hadn’t seen for years, family he didn’t know he had.

And I hope to see my cousin Earl. I wanna ask him if he remembers how my grandmother used to tell that story about her friend who died from laughing too hard, and I hope he says, “Oh yes, I met her. She thought it was funny too.” I hope he looks exactly like he did in his obit picture. The one where he’s wearing a tuxedo. A Black James Bond, a devil-may-care grin. I hope he’s still funny because he was so funny.

And then, like we always do when we check in, he’ll ask me, “What’s going on? Everything okay?” – and I will use that bright light like a spotlight and tell him everything.

The Hubs and The Kid got into another one of their precious conversations while he was cooking our Marley Spoon dinner (it was one of our favs – pecan-crusted salmon with sweet potato fries - yum!) The Kid was giving him the rundown (you know – as twenty-something new college grads are apt to do) on all that’s wrong with the world and this life and the riggers of a work-life-balance and the cost-of-living and how kids-these-days don’t know how good they got it and what we need to do about it and how it’s too late because previous generations have done the most and done them wrong and right back again to what we need to do to fix it.

Fresh home from their real job wearing their real grown up clothes, dry-clean-only slacks and a spotless shirt, The Kid (a 5-foot-2 elfin pixie) stood at our tiny makeshift kitchen island giving my hubs (a 6-foot viking of a hobbit) the straight-up facts about vape pens and how they’re making a comeback and how the government better put a stop to it if they really want to get up that birthrate because, as we all know, vaping is bad and something about it decreases fertility. I don’t know if it decreases male or female fertility. I wanted to know but I didn’t bother to ask. I grabbed my apple Spindrift (the apple is the best y’all) and shuffled out to the kitchen. The Kid was on a roll and I stayed out of it pretending to have to go and tend to something urgent at my desk which is the best perk for writing a novel. You can always blame a burst of sudden inspiration as your reason for bailing out of anything. I especially use it as my get-out-of-jail-free card anytime my Gen-Z Kid (and, I do understand my hand in creating this entitled generation of know-it-alls) is on a roll atop their soapbox.

But our apartment is small. One long hallway that works quite efficiently as one long breezeway carrying any back-of-the-house conversation all the way to the front-of-the-house where my ears (I may be reticent to engage but I’m still nosy) are both tuned in listening. My hubs told them, without pausing his chopping (I could hear the knife thwacking against the cutting board) and without a hint of condescension in his tone (cause we’ve both learned our lesson there), “You know the government doesn’t really care about birthrates? You know, these elitist goons don’t really want everyone to procreate? Pretty sure vapers are at the bottom of their list.”

The Kid agreed but I’m pretty sure they didn’t know what in the hell he was talking about. Anyone whose ever had the pleasure of cohabiting with a twenty-something who recently received their Bachelor’s Degree with honors and now holds a real job that requires real slacks—not jeans, not wash-and-dry pants—knows that twenty-somethings would rather pretend to understand than lose a debate (even if they’re the only one debating) and they would rather concede than ask a question – too proud to reveal they don’t know everything.

But I’m not a twenty-something who knows everything. I didn’t graduate from college with honors. Shit, I didn’t even finish college. I’m not so cocky to pretend to know anything.

I’m fifty-six years old, turning fifty-seven this summer, full of worries about the fact that I’m nearing that age where I could die and no one will say, “But she was so young. She still had so much life to live.” So later that night, after dinner, after catching up on the latest episode of Your Friends & Neighbors and after scrolling through YouTube clips about the state of the world (shocker, I saw nothing about vaping’s big comeback) and after tucking into bed and after pretending to be asleep while my hubs read a little, the minute my hubs turned out the light I asked him, “What the hell do you mean the government doesn’t care about birthrates?”

I wished I hadn’t.

The hubs pulled me in close (in case you’re wondering, I’m the little spoon and he’s the big spoon and I like to face the window because there’s just the smallest sliver of moonlight piercing through our West Elm blackout curtains and I like to know when I close my eyes that the darkness isn’t final) and as sweetly as he could, his voice low and steady like a good sleep story narrator with the hint of an English accent adding an extra layer of calm, he told me all about the technocrats and how they want to get rid of poverty because they believe the lower class is a drain on human progress. And I asked, “But who will clean their houses and work in their factories and do all the grunt work?” He whispered, “Robots.” And I asked, “But who will build the robots?” He whispered, “AI.” And I asked, “But what about the people left without jobs? Wouldn’t that just create more poverty?” And he told me all about some anonymous guy who wrote an essay about using the poor people for biofuel. And I asked, “What the fuck?” And I was never more grateful for that sliver of moonlight that night (and also for the steamy audiobook I listened to until I fell asleep. There’s nothing like a hockey romance about a perpetual hockey slut turned golden boy to renew my faith in the world. Quite frankly, after this news about the billionaire technocrats, billionaire romances are dead to me!)

I used to think the word “evil” was equivalent to the word “harm.” But after my hubs’ rundown on the inner workings of a technocrat’s mind, I realize we all do harm, even if we don’t intentionally want to cause another harm.

When I was young and fit and sexy enough to be the love interest of a hockey slut (tits and ass to the sky, y’all), I caused harm by breaking some hearts. I did it intentionally. I don’t know if I did it because I was too distracted by my youth to believe that I could ever grow old enough to look back and see the harm I inflicted – or if I was just stupid and careless. I believe it was one part of the former and two parts of the latter. The other thing is that my hormones fully-developed long before my cognitive development kicked in.

And I’ve killed bugs… with Windex. That was harm.

And one time one of my college roommate lent me her bed frame and mattress and I promised when I moved out of my summer apartment I would return it. But I didn’t. I dropped out of school and just left it there. I never even told her where to find it.

And one time, a friend asked me to be her maid of honor and I said yes – but stopped answering her calls. She got married. I wasn’t there. She had a baby. I wasn’t there. She died giving birth. I wasn’t there. I heard the news from a friend.

I’ve harmed again and again. So I don’t think harm is evil. I think to harm is to be human.

I used to think that evil is the absence of humanity, but when I think of a beautiful forest that’s never felt a human footprint, I don’t think that’s evil. And I don’t think the stars, all those galaxies and universes no human will ever see, are evil. So no, evil isn’t the absence of humanity.

Maybe I don’t know what evil is (exactly) But I am sure as shit that replacing humans with AI and robots and cutting off the hands of the poorest of the poor and burning them for diesel is evil.

And as I lie here, little spoon cradled in my big spoon, I am certain that it won’t work. I’m certain these technocrats won’t win – even if they do the most evil. I know this. I know it because even when I finally close my eyes tonight, there will be a sliver of light piercing through, and if I’m lucky and all goes well, I will wake again and the sun will be there – at least for now. And for some reason, I just believe that’s gotta be something. It’s gotta be something even if it’s only our big spoon cradling our little spoon whispering in our ear, “goodnight, see you in the morning.”

I gave up social media. Turned out crashing into the ocean of its waves before I’d had my first morning stretch and a good morning yawn was detrimental to my health. Self-defeating. Lung-crushing. There weren’t enough dance reels or cuddly animal memes to replenish my breathless soul. So I went cold-turkey and recently celebrated five months of sobriety.

But y’all… sigh. After hearing about the recent Supreme Court decision, I broke this morning and I scrolled and I’ve been under the influence since 7:30. I tried not to look and I have yet to hit rock bottom – but the good news is came across a brilliant post by the very wise @tressiemcphd who wrote:

Louisiana. Tennessee. Alabama. The White reconstruction strategy stays the same.

I wrote this piece in 2023 before Trump 2.0 swiftly enforced his White nationalist agenda. The Supreme Court gutted the Voting Rights Act, and the rest of the Republican Party received their marching orders.

As the Southern Black Panther Party elders keep reminding me, they have been here before. There are lessons to be learned from those before us – those who sacrificed their lives, experienced social death, and fought and won against all odds.

And this is the first comment she received on that post:

The American South has always been holding the country back from better. Always the south 🤷🏽‍♀️

To which @tressiemcphd replied:

I’m going to block you after I pin this with my reply so others know the house rules here. “The American South” isn’t “holding the country back.” White racism is. Conflating the two is exactly what racists want. The South is not uniquely racist. It is uniquely constructed to be a safe place for racists.

I will keep this brief, dear heart-kins. My job here is to write love letters, but to love well requires healthy communication, honesty and acknowledgment of hurts and mutual agreement on what is true and right and lovely and good. Anything else just ain’t love.

If you lovely good fellows want to make this country a better place, and if you’re putting your vote where your mouth is and showing up at the polls and marching in the streets chanting “NO KINGS! NO KINGS!”, but the places you go, the neighborhood where you live, the friends you hang with, the books you read, the movies you see, the schools your children attend don’t represent the multicultural (and I do mean multi as in socioeconomic and racial) community of your dreams, then it will all be for naught. White racism is insidious. Like carbon dioxide, you hardly notice it. The death is a slow, deep sleep you can’t fight off because you don’t notice it’s happening.

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Dear Heart-Kins,

I don’t know how I missed this but apparently in 2020 my beloved city of Chicago was besieged with thousands of signs all carrying a singular command:

I never saw a single one of these signs. And, yes, while it’s true that I do enjoy my hermitage, I promise you that I do get out a fair bit. Unfortunately, I never had the pleasant delight of having one of these signs greet me as I wended my way through the city. These signs have made it across the country.

I can’t remember how exactly I stumbled across them. It happened literally just moments ago (that’s how struck numb my brain was as I took in the photos. It started tingling like how my hands do whenever I grip something tight in them. Don’t let go of this… hang on with all your might.)

I just had share it.

The artist is JB Daniel. Here’s what the website had to say about the project:

The project manifests in two parts. First, as a daily installation of a “Help each other” sign in found locations by the artist. Sometimes contemplative, sometimes confrontative, but almost always unexpected. Remarkably, most are still in place. Some are even cared for by strangers.

The second part of the project is the “Please take one” installations. These installations are purchased by individuals (hosts) and are usually set up in the hosts’ front yard. Passersby are asked (via a sign) to “Please take one” to put in their yard, turning the message into a community action throughout a neighborhood.

To date, thousands of signs have been installed throughout the United States.

If’d you’d lie to participate, click HERE. I do not know this artist. I just was googling something else (again, for the life of me, I can’t remember what) and I saw a picture of one of these signs. So if you want to go all in, just click the link and it’ll take you to the artist website. You can read more and CONNECT WITH THE ARTIST.

There are so many ways to be a good human - so many ways to fight oppression and hatred. Here’s just one more way.

This morning the hubs and I woke up early, made tea and gathered ourselves and our blind/deaf/senile dog Evie on the sofa for a Saturday morning movie date.

What to watch?

We’d planned the place and time but hadn’t bothered to pick a film because picking a film, even when you’re just choosing for yourself, is taxing. Movie watching is such a treat, even in this day and age of streaming – and to choose to indulge in a morning movie-thon is an indulgent treat indeed. You want to make the most of your choice – one that won’t waste your time or wreck your day.

We went for a classic: Cabin in the Sky. It was so much the perfect pick that I’m sitting writing to you about it right now. In fact, I think you should just pause here and go watch it. I can wait because the perfection that is Cabin in the Sky has waited for your attention for far too long.

In brief, Cabin in the Sky is the 1943 film adaptation of the 1940 Broadway musical of the same name. Both the stage musical and film featured an all-Black cast. Doesn’t matter what the storyline is, all that matters right now is that it’s a 1943 movie with an all-Black cast. Period. Go watch it.

Go watch it because, when it was released, Southern states banned it.

Mr. Jim Crow made it illegal for White or Black audiences to watch movies starring Black folks – so a movie with an all-Black cast was dead-on-arrival. When a theater in Mt. Pleasant, Tennessee tried to show the movie, folks (and by “folks” I mean White folks) protested outside and threatened to cut the power. Thirty minutes into the film, the sheriff forced the theater to shut the screening down.

Here are some other movies the good ole South refused to show in theaters:

• A Patch of Blue starring Sidney Poitier whose character kisses a White girl.

• Intruder in the Dust based on a Faulkner story that features a Black man fighting the legal system.

• Imitation of Life starring Lana Turner whose character’s Mammy’s daughter tries to pass for White.

And Sesame Street, which isn’t a movie – but it’s worth mentioning.

Sesame Street was banned in Mississippi for having an integrated cast… of muppets. They claimed it was Black and White children playing together – but it was the puppets too y’all. It was the colorful, “racially-diverse” casting of puppets that did them in. Orange and blue and yellow and pink and green all sitting together on the front stoop what just too much for them.

But here’s what the South didn’t ban: Birth of a Nation (1915), Gone with Wind, Holiday Inn, The Jazz Singer, The Dam Busters. These movies feature Mammy figures, lynchings, the KKK as the heroes, blackface song and dance numbers, and a black dog named <insert racially demeaning n-word> that was changed to “Trigger” for American audiences. Two of these movies had special screenings at the White House.

In the middle of watching Cabin in the Sky, I turned to my husband, hand clasped to my heart, and said: “This is my new favorite movie.”

After watching the credits roll, my hubs grabbed our handy dandy Leonard Maltin’s Classic Movie Guide (gifted to me by him a month before our wedding with the inscription “Okay we got 50 years to watch all these. Ready?” – insert heartswoon). We were excited to gleefully read what we thought would surely be Maltin’s glorious review, but instead found the following:

3 out of 4 stars:
Stellar black cast in winning (if somewhat racist) musical fable about [the] forces of good and evil vying for the soul of Little Joe…

Have you ever been pissed-speechless? For a moment, I was pissed-speechless. But once I got the feeling back in my brain, I said to my husband and the sleepy, blind, deaf and senile dog cradled against me, “But Blackness isn’t racist.”

Blackness isn’t racist. The act of being culturally Black isn’t racist. Blackness isn’t a stereotype. Blackness is a type but it’s not negative and it’s not stereotypical because Blackness is wide and varying. You know when you see it (Wakanda). You know when you love it (Sinners). But when you don’t love Blackness, you will watch a movie with an all-Black cast and come away from it with the oxymoron of it being both “winning” and “somewhat racist.”

There’s not a watermelon or a single leg of fried chicken or a Mammy pulling on the corset strings of her White mistress or a Black male character sleeping under a tree while on the job or an angry Black woman with her frying pan ready to go upside the head of anyone getting on her last nerve or a Black mother wearing a fur coat while collecting a welfare check or a single Black character depicted as a primate in the movie Cabin in the Sky.

There is a Black woman who works as a laundress (which in the 1940s was one of the only jobs a Black woman could legally have). She loves her church and her God and her wayward husband who’s a womanizer with a gambling problem. You could easily replace this all-Black cast with an all-White one. You could set the story in Oklahoma or Indiana. You could tell the same story but have it be about a White woman who works hard while praying to Jesus that someday her husband might see the error of his ways and come running into the arms of the Savior. Honestly, it’d be an American version of Angela’s Ashes or a 1940s version of Uncut Gems.

The only reason Maltin or anyone would say this movie is “somewhat racist” is because their experience of Blackness has always been code-switched and assimilated, lest White folks be offended.

Black folks have always sang, danced, prayed, worked in their own special vernacular that’s just for them. The movie Sinners (and really any Ryan Coogler movie) features this kind of Blackness. It’s the Blackness that Toni Morrison wrote into her books – a Blackness that is beyond the White gaze. It’s the unapologetic Blackness that Zora Neale Hurston refused to water down and she paid dearly for that refusal.

It’s silly that the movie was banned in the South. It was written by a White man and directed by a White man. Surely these two White movie moguls weren’t going to do anything to damage the idol of Whiteness. There was nothing for southerners to fear – plenty for them to dislike. I suppose what the powers-that-be most disliked was the fact that typical minstrel stereotypes, racist clichés, and overall white-washing of Black culture wasn’t present in the film. For this small wonder, the NAACP gave the movie their blessing when MGM sent members the script before production.

This is reason enough for you to go watch the movie: southerners feared Black folks would love it and didn’t want America to see it – and so for decades America didn’t. MGM buried it in the the back of its vault despite it being well-received by critics and audiences.

Blackness is not racist. So if you feel uncomfortable watching an all-Black cast grinning and dancing in a musical but don’t feel uncomfortable watching an all-White cast in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers or any Judy Garland and Andy Rooney musical, know that the problem is with you. I’m not saying you’re “racist”, but I’m saying maybe you should interrogate why you feel this way when being overly dramatic is typical for any 30s-40s musical. Back then, singing and dancing with bugged-out eyes and plastered-on grins was the par for the course.

I would guess the reason Maltin thought Cabin in the Sky was “somewhat racist” is that he wasn’t used to seeing so much Black joy on full display. I’m sure he wasn’t ever invited to “the BBQ” where he could’ve witnessed Black folks doing the electric slide with the same megawatt grins on their faces. He saw Cabin in the Sky and the joy was foreign and therefore “somewhat racist” to him. Funnily enough, he gave the movie Holiday Inn three and a half stars and never mentioned Bing Crosby performing a whole song and dance in blackface. He gave Gone with the Wind four stars – no mention of Mammy or the lynching. But he wrote this:

If not the greatest movie ever made, certainly one of the greatest examples of storytelling on film…

And he gave Birth of a Nation four stars. Never mentions its blatant racism. He wrote:

The landmark of American motion pictures. Griffith’s epic story of two families during the Civil War and Reconstruction is still fascinating… Griffith’s portrayal of [the] Ku Klux Klan in [a] heroic role has kept this film at the center of controversy…

Note: “the center of controversy” but not “somewhat racist.”

So, dear heart-kin, my one good thing is Cabin in the Sky. It’s charming and delightful and I was overwhelmed with feeling seeing Blackness full-out at a time when Black folks were facing so many atrocities and indignities for just being Black and firmly holding on to the fact that Blackness wasn’t a crime.

Somehow, in the midst of Jim Crow, the Detroit Riots, the Beaumont Race Riots, the Harlem Riots, and the persistent rise of the lynchings of Black bodies, this beautiful gemstone of joy was made. And that’s exactly what White folks didn’t want audiences to see: Black folks praying, singing and dancing without the presence of Whiteness. Naw… they didn’t want audiences to witness our humanity – bold, bug-eyed, and grinning. They didn’t want American audiences to see the evidence of our resilience and talent coming to them from the glorious glow of the silver screen.

ATTENTION: This essay is about my body, but I insist that before reading you should take care to take care of yourself. This essay includes the following themes: body dysmorphia, compulsive exercise, fat phobia, bulimia, anorexia – and all their wicked step sisters and cousins. Also, there’s mention of specific weights and clothing sizes.

My intention is to share and encourage, not trigger your demons or upend your peace. If today is not a day (or this season is not a season) for you to read on… please skip this one.

The first time I felt my absolute fattest was when I was eighteen years old and 123 pounds.

We were all at Sherry’s house, huddled up in her bathroom, and each of us pretty young things—no bigger than a splinter and causing so much radiating pain—took our turn stepping onto the scale.

“You supposed to be one hundred pounds plus your age,” Sherry said. 119, 124, 120, 121, 117, 123 and all of us eighteen years old. We’d failed.

Remember when Oprah told America Black girls didn’t have eating disorders? All of us – the only ones in our respective classrooms. Smart girls taking AP French, AP History, AP English. I’m talking Black American Princess shit.

If we’d been on the guest list of Prince Charming’s ball and if we’d attended and if we’d had the opportunity to dance with the man of the hour and then found out that he was looking for the one girl who’d got away, I guarantee all six of us would’ve gathered in Sherry’s bathroom and severed off each other’s toes in order to fit that glass slipper.

Guess who said this:

My agent gave it to me straight. Nicest thing he ever did... The disgusting thing of Hollywood - I wasn’t getting lots of jobs ‘cause I was too heavy. I was like, ‘What?!’ But my diet was terrible. Milkshakes and French fries with gravy. It was a good thing to start paying attention. It was amazing to see this thing emerge. I never knew I had this body in me.

That was Jennifer Aniston talking about how she got the role of Rachel Greene.

In my friends’ Only Ones Black girl group, I sang the lead. We were in Sherry’s bathroom getting ready to head out to the club and I stood on the scale – nineteen years old now and 119 pounds. Those girls bebopped and doo-wapped and I crooned. I hit all the high notes. I could drop five pounds in five days without sticking my fingers down my throat. Skinnier and skinnier, eating starvation and determination and discipline for breakfast, lunch and dinner – no snacks. I sang and I sang a full fucking falsetto: “All you gotta do is two exercise tapes every day for a week and skip breakfast and lunch and dinner and if you get real hungry drink a glass of water and eat an apple. That’s it!“ One of them asked me, “What about vodka?” Since we were already gearing up for our evening out with a few shots, I sang, “Vodka’s fat-free,” and dropped the mic.

Of course, Proverbs 31 tells us: “Charm is deceitful and beauty passes,” but I remember the leader of my college bible study group preaching to us helpmates-in-training the importance of Proverbs 5:18:

Enjoy the wife you married as a young man! Lovely as an angel, beautiful as a rose—don’t ever quit taking delight in her body. Never take her love for granted!

After reading the verse, he added, “But, y’all ladies gotta do your part and get up in the gym and hop on that treadmill.”

And I said, “Amen!”

I know… I know… such a waste of an “amen.” Such a terrible lie to applaud, as if the heavens give a damn. Have you ever read what creatures supposedly exist in the heavenly host? Covered in eyes. Man with the face of a beast and a half a dozen wings. This holiness—divine, majestic, pure—is monstrous. And this preacher man is more worried about a fat gut and sloppy ass? And I said “Amen” with my full chest and its perky, perfect 36 C breasts. If I’d seen the double Gs my bouncy wonders would one day become and how they’d spread and roll and twist and swing. If I’d seen how they’d become formless as two worn out couch cushions with broken springs, I might’ve caught the whiff of the madness and been at least mildly offended. But at 119 pounds, 36-26-36, how could I have known?

This past Sunday I felt too large for sidewalks and doorways and toilet seats and mattresses and restaurant chairs. I wasn’t. Too big that is. My sofa-cushion-breasts were just fine. I was fine. The sidewalks didn’t crumble beneath me. No one had to knock out a doorway to allow me to enter. Not a single toilet seat or mattress or bistro chair was swallowed by my ass. But self-perception is a mother-of-a-bitch. She knows no kindness and so on Sunday, as my husband and I ate breakfast on the outdoor patio of a popular cafe in downtown Chicago, all I could think about was how much closer I am to an extended-sized life than I am to the standard, straight-sized life I remember. Everyone around us was beautiful, monied, stylish, thin and fit and young. All of them Rachels – classic and white-washed wearing crop tops and yoga pants. All of them regarded me cordially and I’m sure wondered what that thin, tall, good-looking White guy was doing with me. They shoot him apologetic smiles. Sorry for your fat wife. I would’ve never done that to you. You’re worth of the tummy growls and burpees and fives-miles-a-day on the treadmill.

I know this is what they’re thinking. I know it because I used to be the one giving sympathetic pouts to men just like my husband who sat with their fat wives. The Pussycat Dolls Don’t Cha was my anthem. I used to do their workout tape three days a week (this in addition to all that godblessed running I did, every single day, uphill both ways in hot-ass Austin, Texas). I’m not proud of this but I did feel true sympathy for their loss. If only every femme could be blessed with the good fortune of good genes (and a thorough and relentless eating disorder - but let’s not talk about that part). My husband and I ate our breakfast – well, I ate only a quarter of mine (those thinbots were watching!) I couldn’t pay the check fast enough and get my fat-ass home, back where I not only belonged but could be fat in private.

I should take a moment to let you know that I’m struggling to write this essay, struggling with what it is I’m trying to say and how to say it in a way that doesn’t make me seem oblivious to the world’s events (we’re still at war… he’s still president… it’s all awful…) but I’m struggling with trying to help you understand that this is relevant to the current state of affairs because it is! There’s a hundred and ten thousand men just like our president who are ghouls in suits who still get a say in how Jennifer Aniston looks because they hold all (and I mean all) of the dollars. And we believe them. And we jump on the treadmill, flip over tires, binge and purge and starve and take their pills and injections because somewhere deep down we agree with them.

Besides enjoying milkshakes and French fries with gravy, pre-Atkins Jennifer Aniston made a confession: “I ate too many mayonnaise sandwiches. Mayonnaise on white bread –— the most delicious thing in the world.”

I have a hard time believing that she did. I mean I believe she enjoyed a good mayo sandwich every now and again (who doesn’t?) but I doubt she ate too many of them. What I can assure you right now is that she hasn’t enjoyed a single one ever since she said this. I can assure you that even though she never got to enjoy the feel of that soft white bread mashing around in her mouth ever again, she still gained some weight over the years. I can assure you she’s missing that bread. I wonder if sometimes she creeps out of bed in the middle of the night and makes her way to the kitchen and goes into her massive pantry full of jars of raw almonds and chia seeds and pea-protein shakes and sneaks out the one loaf of Wonder Bread she keeps hidden from her clean-food private chef and just pulls out one slice of delicious bread and smells it and rubs it across her face before taking one long lick of it and throwing it in the trash. Can you imagine?

There’s no tidy truth to tie onto the end of this essay. I wish there were but there’s no end to this. Our bodies are political. Rachel Greene’s body was a weapon against Jennifer Aniston and she’s not the only one. Hollywood is full of these stories. Have you taken a good look at the women in the presidential cabinet? Who gets to speak for him? Who gets to stand beside that wart of a man? Who’s doing their part running on treadmills—literal and figurative treadmills—in order to be the girl of his youth? And who’s chopping off their toes to fit into the glass slipper?

The bible says, “Charm is deceitful and beauty passes.” Well, let all the treadmills and botox and lip filler and BBLs and GLP pills and injections say, “Amen!”

Sunday I felt like shit. Today I feel much better. Size plus plus. To quote Ms. Aniston, “I never knew I had this body in me.”

Soon, the lilacs and peonies will bloom into season, and for now (until the earth can take no more of our shenanigans) nothing can change this.

He can have his war, but nothing will change this breath I hold or my thoughts or what I choose to write across this page. Nothing he can do will change this. Nothing. Even if I hold my breath and die, my dying breath, my last thought will belong to me alone.

He can do his worst. Say what he will about what he thinks it means to be this particular shade and hue of melanin deepening my skin. He can spray himself a tequila sunrise, a cup of orange sherbet, a slice of American cheese and I will remain myself – thick, heaving, heavy-bosomed. Nothing he can say will change this. I will be what I will be and he will be orange – a sallow, white-washed, juiceless, Florida tangerine.

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I grew up in church.

By that I mean we were the first ones in and the last ones out – so much so that even on the rare occasion when my family went out of town, we still churched even on Wednesday night because prayer meetings were mandatory for all saints and most especially for all sinners. And even though we weren’t even members but only guests who had to stand when the preacher called for all visitors to stand and be welcomed, we were still the first ones in and the last ones out because, of course, the person who brought us—the aunt, grandmother, cousin, long-lost-friend-of-my-mother’s—whose home we were calling on was, of course, the head of the deacon board, or his wife, or the pastor, or his wife, or the choir director, or his wife, or the head of the usher board, or the welcome committee, and things had to be tended to – mainly communion thimbles washed and offering plates accounted for. So when I say “I grew up in church” I mean those five little words made my world.

I haven’t attended church wholeheartedly in a good eight or nine years. Pre-pandemic, I worked part-time at my church and only went because I had duties to attend to in order to fulfill my part of the job description. But I was only Gertrude-Stein-there, meaning “there was no there there.” And so in the words of Bob Dylan: I was not there, I did not belong there, I did not belong to her… it’s alright.

I have asked myself (and maybe you have asked yourself as well) how there can be so much angst over a space intended to do so much good.

The last church I attended earnestly started worship with a grinning participant taking to the stage to give the strangest welcome: “We here at Jesus Mary & Joseph & The Camel Church want you to come as you are but don’t stay as you are.” This was always followed by many offerings of extra servings of side dishes of church – life groups, running partners, prayer partners, care classes, volunteer opportunities, retreats, bible study classes – a machine gun invitation, a spray of bullets fired directly at my introvert soul. I was certain I was bleeding out, dying right there on the spot.

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Dearest Heart-Kin,

You all deserve more than the letter this current administration is writing on your behalf. Here’s a little post script - an extra note to remind you of some goodwill in the world.

Friends! Are you following the wonderfully weirdly, vulnerable, chaotic and delightfully human Instagram web-series called Revival of the Fittest?

TOP 3 REASONS I’M ADDICTED TO… REVIVAL OF THE FITTEST:

NO. 1: IT’S A NEW YORK STORY
Y’all I love a good ole New York story – by that I mean… Yasss!!!! Come thru Succession… and Sex and the City… and Younger… and Girls… and Living Single… and The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel… and Love Life… and Odd Mom Out… and Billy on the Street… and Modern Love… and Pose… and Mad Men… and The Gilded Age… Yes, and… Thank you, Mam!

But… few of these stories are realistic. None of them are really about real New Yorkers. All of the above are polished and gleaming like the top of the Chrysler Building. None of them are gritty like the Seth Meyers pizza rat. Revival of the Fittest is as authentic and real as that pizza rat – which doesn’t sound very charming – but trust me it is!

NO. 2: IT’S SET IN A RECORD STORE
Okay, so me and the hubs have an ever growing vinyl collection because we are bougie-AF unapologetic GenX nerds whose parents reared us on Similac and vinyl. So we’re both smitten with the setting of the show, Village Revival Records.

Village Revival Records is the equivalent of restaurant in tv show The Bear before it went all fancy, back when it was just a ratty old dive that made the best Italian Beef sandwiches. It’s cramped, piled high, scattered wide and deep which makes it such a friggin’ jaw-dropping sight for any vinyl head.

I’d bet my right pinky the place smells like a mixture of Italian meatballs, falafel and stale coffee. I want to go there! I want to go there! I want to click my heels and go there!!!!

NO. 3: IT’S HUMANITY ON STEROIDS RIDING A UNICORN LASSOING THE MOON
Sometimes we well-read, educated, cultured folks forget that there’s a whole lot of people—in fact most people—who are just regular folks living regular lives who desire simple things like: a couch, a cigarette, a date, a concert ticket, a sandwich, a hammock… It’s so refreshing to know that everyone isn’t all about the hustle. Some folks are just about the stroll. There’s no climbing to the top for them. They just want be good to all who come through their door. It’s so simple. I love the way every single person leans in with such curiosity, eager to hear about someone’s mundane trip to the dentist. The folks in these reels are generous with their stories. All them are open books flapping in the wind, letting the pages ruffle and our finger land wherever it want, letting us read every part of them. It’s all there in the perfect black ink of Brooklyn-Bronx-Uptown-Downtown-Yiddish-Immigrant dialects and accents that swagger around without a single chip to be found on any shoulder.

These are good people. I can tell. Problematic? Sure. What human isn’t? They’re just more honest about their nuances. I think I’m in love with every single one of them.

Revival of the Fittest - one good thing I’m so grateful to my hubs for sharing so that I can now share it with you.

With Love,
Marcie May

Now it’s your turn, goodfellow heart-kins.

Tell me your “One Good Thing” that makes all this worth it.

Share in the comments below…

Hello Again Dearest Heart-Kins,

It’s been a while since we last spoke and the world is all topsy-turvy from the helter-skelter that it was when America decided a felon should get another shot at being our president.

How does one just pick up from where they left off? Well, I’ve never been one to ignore the elephant in any room. I’ve always been the girl pointing, gesturing, jumping up and down on the sofa, shouting, “But how… HOW!!!! Do you not see it?!?!” So, my heart-kinfolks—my heart-kins—let’s cut to the chase: we’re at war.

Of course the folks who pulled the trigger won’t call it war, just like they won’t call gerrymandering “voter suppression”, and just like they won’t call their toupees “wigs” or their hair plugs “hair extensions” or their president “a foolish and demented wannabe demigod who’s anything-but-a-Christian” or “the sexist, racist, rapist, insurrectionist, lying, cheating, cartoon-buffoon-of-a-president” that he is.

But trust and believe the evidence, my darlings – when a country bombs another country, killing little girls who were simply doing their best at school, that is what is called a war. And when said war is waged by thumbing a nose at the proper democratic process, that is what is called a war crime – and We The People of The United States of America are the criminals. And I am outraged to be held hostage in this getaway car that I didn’t know was robbing the liquor store.

We are at war because this country has always believed that war is noble and holy – and peace is something for sissies, snowflakes who would melt in an ice storm.

We are at war because this country loves a war – so long as it’s the one choosing the war and holding all the guns.

We’re at war because we live in a country where war reenactments are an acceptable pastime and the bad guys are recast as heroes and given monuments whenever the country takes one step forward towards a greater and more compassionate and colorful society.

We are at war because the Bible loves a good old in-the-name-of-Jesus war and because these fools who bow to this book (and it’s just a book, y’all) truly believe that Jesus (the main character of their good book) expects a big-ole war to welcome him home, back to this land of the living. They truly believe that this same Jesus who refused to defend himself during his arrest in the garden and even stayed his friend’s sword and even healed his captor’s ear is eagerly waiting for this war. They believe that this same Jesus who said, “Let the children come. Leave them alone. Don’t block them from approaching me. Everything that is good and right and just belongs to them,” is A-OK with the innocent bodies of children being blown to smithereens. They believe their actions are just and they are absolved so long as they are sure to use their sullied hands to leave their ten-percent tithe in the offering plate while offering the children’s mourning families their thoughts and prayers.

And so they do not care about the children who are killed in this “holy” war, not one little bit, because one of their favorite stories in their so-called “good book” is about their Big Sky Daddy sacrificing his innocent, blemish-free, peace-loving son in his own name for the greater good of their salvation. And it makes sense to them because Father Abraham was asked to do the same… sacrifice his son for his own salvation. In that story, their Big Sky Daddy makes his intentions crystal clear when, in the nick of time, he comes into the story and saves the boy, telling Father Abraham, “It’s all good. Your willingness to murder your son proves to me that you have mad respect for me and fear me more than you love him.”

That’s the story.

I have sat in churches seething whenever this passage is the subject of a sermon that’s supposed to teach me how much I need to love a God who is so good and so loving that he would never actually harm us unless he needed to in order to show us who’s in charge and who we truly belong to. Every time a pastor—most always a man—preaches from this passage about the good nature of the Big Sky Daddy, I want to scream “This story is not the story of a good God. This is the story of a petty god torturing a weak ass man, encouraging him traumatize his own child for his pleasure. I wouldn’t want my child to even date a man or kneel to a man who would ever demand that they kill in order to be loved – only for it to be some sick test of their devotion to him. If my kid told me this is what their partner wanted from them, I’d tell them to run. Leave. Don’t look back and fuck that guy!

So, no… they will not weep for a single Iranian child or American son or daughter lost in this war. Their petty God has already told them that their actions are exactly what he needs to feel his ego grow three times bigger in his balls – and their petty, little president is no better than this god who would murder his own son for the greater good… of whom exactly? It’s not all that clear. I, for one, certainly never needed Jesus to take on the blame of my transgressions. I’m a big girl, I can admit my flaws, but only to a God who can also admit theirs.

But because their good book claims I do need a sacrificed Jesus as my scapegoat, well… here we are.

Let’s imagine a different story. Imagine if Abraham had never been asked to sacrifice his son but instead to take him on an overnight father-son camping trip where Abraham was only allowed to ask his son questions about himself, or where he was challenged only to listen, or where he was tasked to honestly and lovingly answer any question his beloved son asked him, or where he was told only to compliment and praise and speak adoring words to his son, or where he was dared not to speak at all but only to watch the sunset and the sky fade to velvet lined with shooting stars. What if that were the story? Would we be at war?

Imagine again, if instead of a government-sanctioned death on a cross, Jesus lived a long and generous life, continuing to pour himself into this students, continuing to love on prostitutes and asking shunned, othered folks their names, casting out their proverbial demons and saving them from deaths of despair.

What if Jesus lived a long and generous life as a bachelor just loving on folks and visiting old friends?

What if his long life finally gave him time to write his own story, his own account of what is was like to be the Lone Chosen One?

What if Jesus came back to reassure us that he was the Jesus on the mount speaking blessings over downtrodden Jews and slinging woes at their oppressors, as he did in The Book of Matthew – not the arrogant prince of war, as he’s painted in The Book of Revelations?

Would we be at war?

Would this slag of a man be our president?

They do not care about the children. They have never cared about the children in this country.

Any time the Bible-thumpers were given a chance to care about the children more than they did their comfort and dollars, they have chosen themselves. They could have freed enslaved Black children but they didn’t. They decided that if a child had just one drop of Black blood in them, they were 100% Black and therefore 100% their property. They decided that if a child’s mother was enslaved, the child would be as well – no matter if the White enslaver was their daddy or the President.

This country is not worried about Iranian children or Palestinian children or American children because these Bible-thumpers who voted for this president do not care about children so long as they can cut a check and hang a photo of a impoverished one on their refrigerator.

Here’s my love note to you, heart-kins: don’t allow anyone to tell you this is not a war, even when (or if) it’s over. Keep count of how many children they kill in the name of Jesus and times that number by a thousand and a thousand again and thousand again for all the children they’re killing because their God is a petty god who needs their constant reverence more than he needs his own son to live a long and good and happy life.

And my dearest heart-kins, you get to decide what stories you choose to hold dear and which you choose to challenge because nobody knows what really happened. You get to decide what you see and believe in their so-called good book based on the reality of the actual world around you. They have decided. They have chosen their narratives. You get to decide too, and choose too. The children of the world are counting on you, on me, to choose kindly.

I’m guessing you’ve all figured out by now 2026 is already a shit year. I wish I could tell you differently but I’m nothing if not a Black woman on a mission to shine a black light on the American Dream. And my god – it’s absolutely filthier than a porno shot in the monkey cages at the zoo. Positively covered in microscopic bodily fluids from something as benign as earwax to more lascivious secretions shot onto the ceiling – and don’t you dare go prim and proper and stop reading. This is the American Dream you curl up with. You need to know about the faint traces of hepatitis B and C covering the beliefs you’ve climbed into bed with.

Yesterday, someone messaged me:

Hi Marcie -- I’m not sure if you will see this but I figured it was worth a try. In a comment to another writer here, I was reflecting on a post you shared some time ago in which you talked about how Black Americans are coming through this time, and this administration, differently than some others of us [white] folks, because you’ve always known you can’t trust our government. Always known it would turn on you. Never known anything else. I was asked to share the link if I could, but after a bit of a deep dive on your page trying to find it, I came here instead.

Well, you dear, thoughtful reader, I said I’d try to find it, but in all honesty I couldn’t bring myself to the task. It was just too depressing to go back and read all those words, words, words and know they changed nothing. But, because you seem so kind and earnest, let me just try to share the sentiment again:

Dear Ruling-Class, Ruling-Race Americans,

I don’t know what to tell you. But my dear friend, Shannan Martin, who is also part of the ruling-class (meaning educated, literate, and living above the poverty line) and also part of the ruling race (White, y’all, she’s White) is writing a lovely book about counterweights which I’m so grateful for because Shannan can help me help you see things as they are from your privileged tower-on-high. I’ve tried but it’s hard to explain color to the blind.

Black Americans have been living these institutional lives in every shade, hue and color. Don’t believe me? Go and read Imani Perry’s fabulous book Black In Blue. We are not happy about the state of affairs but when have Black folks as a whole ever been completely happy? Even Obama could only do what he could (thank you very much Mitch McConnell, I hope you choke on an artichoke) and when he left office, we all felt like how Michelle’s face looked at the 2016 inauguration.

What I’m saying is, we’ve learned to live above the oppression that would love nothing more than to sink us all in the Tallahatchie River. What I’m saying is, they shackled us to the fields and we looked for the North Star. What I’m saying is, they trampled and bludgeoned us as we marched for our freedom and we kept on singing. What I’m saying is, they banned us from higher education so we built our own. What I’m saying is, they told us we were cursed and we still called upon the Lord anyway, hung up pictures of Black Jesus and kept on singing, “Precious Lord, take my hand…” as only we could sing it. Counterweights, my friends. Black folks have been balancing the terrible with the sublime since the White Lion reached these shores. Don’t believe me? Well, what do you call a pot of chitlins if not the terrible made sublime? Also, go pre-order Shannan Martin’s book. It’s gonna be a better companion than anything I can say to you. I have no idea what it is to be surprised at the state of the world as it is. For me and Black America, this is how its always been. To quote Zora Neale Hurston, “…I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.”

The very best thing I can do for you right now, my dear heart-kins, is to work on my writing so that all these words, words, words stick to you like the smell of chitlins in your nostrils. I’ve tried to calculate how many words I’ve written to try to convince you that religion is a terrible guardian and Christianity is its evilest and most entitled spawn. My memoir is at least 60,000+ words and I’ve published at least four hundred and ninety-three essays on Substack and before that at least two-hundred or so history lessons on Patreon and I don’t even wanna think about the number of words I garnered in Instagram posts. That’s a lot of fucking words warning, begging, pleading, teaching, hoping, praying—words words words—and yet, here we are.

Any old hoo, I’m taking a break for now because I’m currently enrolled in a couple of writing courses. Fingers crossed, I’ll come out of them a better scribe than I’m barely managing to be now. I don’t know what to say to y’all. I don’t know which words will help. I feel like I’ve tried them all and all I get are crickets in the comments section. Do you know how annoying the sound of crickets is? I’m not saying I deserve anyone’s time. Actually, I’m saying the complete opposite. I don’t. At least not as I’m writing these days. I want to be the kind of writer you can’t wait to read. I want to deserve your time. I want to be more than a way to feel better about your racist tendencies. I want to feel like you need my words as urgently as you need the next Emily Henry. And that’s a tall task I’ve set before myself. Because y’all, Emily Henry… who doesn’t love her? I’d like to be loved like that.

So, goodbye for now. All payments have been paused until I return in a few weeks after gaining some knowledge and adding some new skills to my toolkit – which right now is pretty dusty and rusty. It’s scary to pause payments because this newsletter is the only money I earn. It’s humbling to be a 56 year old mother whose kid out-earns you with their part-time job. I have to believe I can do better. Right?

Don’t answer that.

Much Love,
Marcie May

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December 22, 2025

Marcie Alvis Walker
200001 Twinkle Lights Avenue
Glad Tidings, Illinois
606-X0X0

Dear Heart-kins and Goodfellows,

No matter how broke I’ve been or how the world around me breaks, I have always celebrated Christmas to the fullest.

Even before I declared myself non-Christian (and maybe even a touch heathen), I always treated Christmas as a filthy, worldly, secular, pagan season. It’s got all the seven deadly sins—pride, envy, wrath, greed, gluttony, sloth, and lust—and that’s just me thinking about the story of the nativity. God takes a virgin who’s already promised to someone else and impregnates her (yikes). That’s pretty prideful. Then Joseph has to overcome his own pride and still marry the poor girl. Plus a greedy, gluttonous, slothful, lustful Herod is full of envy and wrath. When he hears a rumor of a baby being born, he goes on a murderous baby-killing spree. Don’t even get me started thinking of the backstory of those wise men or those shepherds. In short, it’s a gritty story that we’ve gleefully dressed in tinsel, sprinkled with glitter, and topped with a star.

I love Christmas because she belongs to anyone who will have her. She’s a whore of a holiday and I love that about her. She welcomes all lovers including Scrooges and Grinches. There’s a wondrous audacity in the fact that a great number of folks in the world fully embrace a day where its okay to demand gifts from one another while singing salutations just because the Earth has tilted her face from the Sun. Because of her retreat into darkness, we insist on more light. We insist that the world be evergreen, so much so, we will drag a whole-ass tree into our homes and cover it in all things red and green and blue and silver and gold. The obnoxiousness of it makes my toes tingle.

I hope you fill yourself with song – be it carols or trap music or Taylor Swift. I don’t care. If there’s an excuse to sing and dance (and even if there isn’t) I will take it. I hope you gorge yourself with good food and drink. May you eat dessert for breakfast and drink egg nog for dinner and throw away your scale. I hope you live in pjs from now until (at least) the first of January. If your work is done and there’s nothing left to do, by god, rest! Please remember there are generations of ancestors who couldn’t, who worked in the fields and the kitchens while enslavers and their complicit counterparts feasted. Celebrate for the ancestors who couldn’t. Use your fine china or paper plates. Cook or don’t cook if you don’t want to. Whatever you do, don’t call anything “Christmas magic” unless you’re willing to pull back the wizard’s curtain and acknowledge that most magic requires a lot of labor. So thank your Christmas elves.

With that, I wanted to share just a few snippets of my home at Christmas. My hope is that you are inspired to be garish in your joy and felicity because these things matter in times of darkness. The darkness will still be there tomorrow. So celebrate and unwind, rekindle and reawaken, for the day is short and the night is long.

Happy Christmas and A Happier New Year,
Marcie May

From L to R:

1. What An Only Child’s Christmas Haul Looks Like

2. Reclining Blanket Chair

3. Christmas Picture Books I’d Want If I Was a Kid

4. Christmas Salutations Mirror

5. Cozy Reads

6. Decked Halls

1. Dear Father Christmas, Bring Me Another Snow Globe…

2. The Sassy Christmas Mouse Come to Visit

3. The Holly & The Ivy Mantle Mirror

Our Anything Wintry or Christmassy Refrigerator Scrabble Game

(aka “All Our Favorite Quotes from Christmas Movies + Other Wintry Things Refrigerator Scrabble Game)

1. The Grinch Chair (and More Children’s Christmas Books)

2. The Gayest Apparel… A Pink Tree and Feather Wreath

3. Clarice - Rudolph’s Girlfriend

4. Scrooge!

5. Star of Wonder

6. Evie’s Leash Tote’s Ready for Santa

Billie Holiday Decked With Tinsel Bows… (She LOVES Christmas!)

1. Yes! Another Pink Christmas Tree Lest The Kitchen Feel Left Out

2. Snowy Day Peter ❤️

3. A Bunch of Christmas Cookbooks I Love Looking At But Never Used

4. Part of Our Christmas Village

5. The “And To All A Good Night!!!!” Bed Frame

6. Our Christmas DJ

December 10, 2025

Marcie Alvis Walker
32 Degrees Staying Inside Lane
This Is America, IL
606-XOXO

Greetings Merry Revelers and Holly-Stompers and Everyone In-Between,

It’s that time of year again and no matter how you feel about it, we all just gotta get through it. I am definitely a capital “M,” capital “R,” Merry Reveler (as long as all the reveling takes place in my cozy home). I can go toe-to-toe with Dickens’ Fezziwig.

Y’all, I have Christmas trees both big and small. My halls are decking. Our Christmas cake is boozing. The stockings are hanging. The cattle are lowing and the poor baby is sleeping… you get the gist. I’m locked in. And if that’s you too, I bid you a Merry Merry Hap-Hap-Happiest of Seasons. Scroll down and I’ve a Holiday Magic gift list for you.

Now, some of us are not so holly jolly. Ignore my reindeer ears and Santa hat as I say, I get it. The whole season is both a lot and not enough. For you my darling heart-kins, I have a special list of wintry but not Christmas movies for you to hunker down beneath a blanket and wallow the season away.

And, I see you, sweet In-Between-ers. You’re riding the highs and lows the season brings. You love the lights and the magic but the whole affair is overwhelming, stressful, expensive. You’re just grabbing the moments of peppermint joy whenever you can while hoping this year won’t leave you as depleted as the last time. For you, heart-kins, I have a list of wonderful Christmas romances—a few cozy mild ones and a few steamy spicy ones—for you to lose yourself in.

Sigh… No matter how you feel about the holidays, hang in there. We’re gonna make it!

Love and Peace,
Marcie May

A “FEZZIWIG” HOLIDAY MAGIC GIFT LIST

Okay, it’s a Fezziwig gift list so everything on here will be food or spirit related and all of it will be decadent. If it’s too late to send an actual gift – you can always get a gift card for them to order up some tasty tasty treats. (I will warn you when I say these are decadent gifts, I mean decadent as in price point as well.)

PS. Feel free to order any of these just for your own holiday merriment!

TIP TOP COCKTAILS
Friends sent us an 18-pack gift box one Christmas and let me tell you, it was a very jolly season. My favorites were the Bee’s Knees and the Espresso Martini.

DUCK INN CHICAGO HOT DOG KIT
We gave this as a gift last year to friends and we picked one up for ourselves directly from the restaurant for Nyx’s birthday dinner. Delicious! And, I know you’re thinking, “Hot dogs!” These are not just hot dogs. They are James Beard award-winning “duck fat” hot dogs. So… I’d say these hot dogs are an experience!

L.A. BURICK CHOCOLATES
I dare you to find more charming adorable chocolates. We’ve given these twice to friends and both gave us glowing reports of how even the packaging is delightful!

GARRETT’S POPCORN
My sisters stood in a line that wrapped around an entire Magnificent Mile block for Garrett’s Popcorn before ever even having tasted one cheesy/caramel-glazed kernel. As a Chicagoan, I knew the length of the line would live up to the hype. I just shipped a mixed tin to my sister in Mississippi and she called to thank me with her mouth crammed full of Pecan CaramelCrisp.

OJAI PIXIE INFUSED OLIVE OIL
Meghan the Duchess of Sussex recommended this olive oil and we gifted a gorgeous bottle to a friend as a hostess gift. I have no idea how it taste - but I trust Meghan and my friend and I are huge fans. She knew exactly what is was the minute she opened it.

MISTO BOX – CURATED COFFEE SUBSCRIPTION
We gift this to folks who drink decaf but can’t find delicious roasters. They offer regular coffee too – but it’s really hard to find good decaf that doesn’t taste like burnt sludge. Plus, it’s fun to always get a new one in the mail.

JENI’S ICE CREAM
We love Jeni’s Ice Cream and I know you can just get it in most grocery stores. But… there’ is just something about receiving a crate of ice cream at your doorstep. It’s almost as if those calories don’t count.

OMAHA STEAKS
But they do more than steaks!!! I have sent this to so many family members who don’t often get to treat themselves to nice meals. It’s so fun to give a big old box of deliciousness to someone who doesn’t often think to treat themselves. Also, I love adding on the scalloped potatoes or apple tartlets. It’s the bottomless gift box.

LEVAIN COOKIES
Y’all… these cookies are gonna be the death of me. Someone sent us a dozen and OMG!!! Simon and I ate cookies for breakfast while watching Love, Meghan: Holiday Celebration. Trust me, if you had these cookies, you’d do the same.

WHOLE FOODS (OR AN GROCERY STORE THAT DELIVERS) ON THE DOORSTEP
This is one of my favorite things to gift. I will find out if a friend or family member has a Whole Foods near them and surprise them with a grocery delivery. I do themes! It’s fun! I might send all the makings for a charcuterie platter or all the makings for a perfect brunch. They also have premade pizza dough, so you could send all the makings for a pizza night. I’ve done this for people post operation or when their sick. Usually I’ll send Whole Foods premade soups and crackers and juice and something from wellness section. You could send latkes and hams and roast beefs and roast rotisserie chickens. Fun!!!! You could send an assortment of cookies and milks along with a plant or flowers. It’s a grocery store run but all the fun stuff and you don’t have to leave your house.

COZY—TOTALLY OR NEARLY TOTALLY CHRISTMAS-FREE—WINTRY MOVIES FOR HOLLY-STOMPERS

MY MAN GODFREY

I hope to someday write a modern day romance novel based on this meet-cute premise. I’m sure it’s already been done but I’d have my own special take on the “rich girl who thinks she’s met a poor boy who fakes being poor cause he likes her but actually he’s wealthier than her,” trope. Classic.

THE THIN MAN

The iconic Nick and Nora Charles. Ahhh… heart swoon. This movie is worth watching just for the art-deco setting and Myrna Loy’s costuming. Also, there’s one tiny little Christmas party scene but it’s filled with a bunch of gangsters and it’s hilarious.

GRUMPY OLD MEN

I don’t know what it is but I love movies set in midst of a Minnesota winter. Maybe it’s because one of the best friends of over 20 years is from there or maybe it’s because one of dearest new BFFs lives there now. I have know idea, but this movie is genius. I mean it’s got Jack Lemmon and was filmed all throughout Minnesota.

WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

A rendition of one of my favorite picture books. James Gandolfini as Carol will break your heart. Also just as the picture book was controversial, so was the movie. Don’t know why. Adults are stupid.

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO

I’ve fallen asleep to this cozy movie hundreds of times. I have no idea how it ends. But it’s snowy and long and will rock you to sleep.

THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL

Wes Anderson making snowy scenes colorful and magical.

NEW IN TOWN

I love the supporting cast more than I love the leads. Watch beneath the blankets with a nice warm cup of something.

MIRROR MIRROR

Okay, some people hated this movie. I delight in all things Julia Roberts, so it was always gonna get my five stars and two thumbs way up. It also stars Lily Collins before she moved to Paris. Plus, I love the ending dance scene.

FARGO

Sublime. Strange. Funny. Coen Brothers. Minnesota. Cold. Perfect.

THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA: THE LION, THE WITCH, & THE WARDROBE

Best Santa Ever!!!!

THE CUTTING EDGE

I was obsessed with this movie. I thought Moira Kelly was the most clever little minx ever and that she could do better than her male lead. Who was he? Seriously, they couldn’t get Jason Priestly or Scott Wolf? A young Paul Rudd? It would’ve been a way better movie. Anyway, I love it anyway.

ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND

I’ll admit. My husband had to beg me to watch this movie. I didn’t want to watch it because the movie poster looked weird. I thought it’d be way too avant-garde and existential. But I was wrong… it’s super charming but super sad but super charming.

WHERE’D YOU GO, BERNADETTE

I didn’t read the book and maybe it’s better than the movie. But the movie, y’all… oh how I loved this movie and the house it’s set in and also my girl Cate Blanchett is just golden in it - per usual.

BEAUTIFUL GIRLS

Another Minnesota movie! But Uma Thurman is luminous in this movie and Natalie Portman is like a kid. My Minnesota bestie and I ate patè on French baguettes and drank complicated red wine and fell into the nostalgia of small towns and high school reunions.

SNOWPIERCER

The only thing that makes this movie cozy is while you’re watching it, you’ll be so glad that your safe and cozy at home and not on this train! If you like heart-attack inducing action flicks, well, this is your movie.

PADDINGTON

Charming!! And the wallpaper on the wall of staircase is gorgeous.

Let me tell you something, my dearest heart-kins, I tried my hardest to include cozy wintry non-Christmas movies centered around the Black experience and wow!!! Hollywood has a long, long way to go. For example, when I googled the words “magical Black movies,” all I got were articles about the “magical Black negro trope.” Well damn! So we’ve all learned a lesson here: White supremacy is real and stealthy. Next time someone says, “there’s no such thing as racism,” I want you to pretend like you’re changing the subject and follow this script: “Well, let’s change the subject. What are your favorite most cozy movies?” After they answer, follow up with, “How many Black people are cast in leading roles in those movies?”

Any-whoo, here is my list of Black non-wintry movies that aren’t animated and that I think are cozy, warm, and magical, and also, are centered around a full Black experience and not just Black trauma. These movies include love and longing and friendship and family and laughter and tears and all the things that make us human – PLUS, a little sprinkle of magic.

1. STORMY WEATHER

2. SIDEWALK STORIES

3. THE WIZ

4. AMERICAN FICTION

5. THE FORTY YEAR OLD VERSION

6. MOONLIGHT

7. DADDY’S LITTLE GIRLS

8. THE WITCHES

9. A WRINKLE IN TIME

10. THE INCREDIBLE JESSICA JAMES

11. CROOKLYN

12. BLACK PANTHER

CHRISTMAS ROMANCE AUDIOBOOKS TO LISTEN TO WHILE RUNNING AROUND TOWN SHOPPING OR DOING ERRANDS OR WHILE BEING STUCK IN LINE MAILING PACKAGES

Okay in-betweeners. You love Christmas but your stressed out and you’re kinda overwhelmed while listening to your Christmas playlist. Might I suggest you listen to a holiday romance while running all those errands? I know you might be the most well-read, literary mind on the block and so you think romance novels are trash. But they’re not! Today’s romances celebrate bold women asking for what they want in and out of the bedroom. I love a spicy romance but I get it. That might be a bit much for some. So, I’ve included some that are sweet to mild.

Spicy Christmas Scale:

One Little Christmas Tree (closed door scenes)—TO—Five Massive Christmas Trees (wide open door scenes and I mean the door to every room in the house)

GRACE AND HENRY’S HOLIDAY MOVIE MARATHON 🎄

THE CHRISTMAS BOOKSHOP 🎄

MIDNIGHT AT THE CHRISTMAS BOOKSHOP 🎄

ONE DAY IN DECEMBER 🎄🎄

GOOD SPIRITS 🎄🎄🎄

MERRY INKMAS 🎄🎄🎄

ROYAL HOLIDAY 🎄🎄🎄… and a half

THIS COULD BE US 🎄🎄🎄🎄

THE CHRISTMAS TREE FARM 🎄🎄🎄🎄

CAN’T GET ENOUGH 🎄🎄🎄🎄

WRECK THE HALLS 🎄🎄🎄🎄

A MERRY LITTLE MEET CUTE 🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄

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December 10, 2025

Marcie Alvis Walker
32 Degrees Staying Inside Lane
This Is America, IL
606-XOXO

Dear Caregivers and Parents of Neurodivergent, Sensitive, or Other Extraordinary Kiddos,

I have a very special resource for any family or caregivers with neurodivergent, sensitive extraordinary kiddos. I know you’re not a monolith. Every kiddo is different. But I wanted to give you some tools for a peaceful holiday where everyone feels seen and included.

I’m on the board of City Elementary which is a non-profit, neurodiversity-affirming school here in Chicago. This appointment has been the honor and joy of my life. I invited the Head of School, Chris Flint, to have a IG Live with me because Chris is one of the most wonderful and talented educators I’ve met in my life. He has over 30 years of experience in the field of neurodiversity. Let me tell you – I had no idea Chris was not only going take an hour out of his busy schedule but also take time to create downloadable free resources for any family or caregiver who needs it.

Here’s are those resources:

Also, below are three stories about the school and if you can support them so they can make their school accessible to all income levels, that’d be marvelous! Every dollar amount is needed and every gift from your heart is enough and an amazing contribution!

With Love and Gratitude – Happy Holidays!
Marcie May

CITY ELEMENTARY: BRENDAN’S STORY

CITY ELEMENTARY: ZEKE’S STORY

CITY ELEMENTARY: CARSON’S STORY

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CHAPTER ONE

Some of you know what it’s like to grow up in the “Waitlands” – the sidelined, American wastelands where the poor go on living day by day, hoping for good news while they wander in-and-out of the wide, blank waiting rooms of various American institutions. You may not believe this, but there’s one near you: the welfare office, the check advance/currency exchange, the free clinic, the county courtroom, the unemployment office and, of course, the DMV.

When you grow up in the American Waitlands, everyday is like advent. Every living expense is stacked up just like those little advent boxes on a calendar. Every day you wake up and pull the paper door open, never knowing what to expect. Look! It’s the final notice for the car note. Oh wow! The gas bill is due.

No one’s counting down the days more than parents raising children in the Waitlands. They are the O Antiphons of the Waitlands – O Please Sweet Lord Jesus! O What in Heaven’s Name? O My God, Why Now? O Jesus Christ! O Please Can’t I Just Get One Minute to Catch My Breath! O I Just Know They Didn’t! and my mother’s personal favorite O I Wish a Muthafucka Would!

By the time my mother was sentenced and carted off to the county jail to wait for her transfer to the Ohio Reformatory [Prison] for Women, my siblings and I had plenty of training from years and years of living in the Waitlands. That week, we’d take turns sitting down at the county jail waiting to see my mother, waiting for a fairy-light twinkle of good news to pierce the seemingly rock hard eclipse of the advent of this fresh new hell’s looming darkness. But we’d been in these fluorescent haunted halls before. We knew they always hid a door to a secret tunnel with a glowing candle radiating its luminous flame, casting away all shadows. We knew it because we’d born witness to its existence before.

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November 30, 2025

Thanksgiving Day Weekend
Marcie Alvis Walker
32 Lives (& Counting) Lost Lane
This Is America, IL
606-XOXO

Dearest Magic Bean-Buyers,

If you are a dreamer, come in
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you’re a pretender, come sit by the fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

This is the invitation Shel Silverstein extends to readers at the very beginning of his celebrated book of ditties and doodles, Where the Side Walk Ends. The poem is literally called Invitation. Silverstein opens the poem with a cursory buyer-beware, being very specific about whom he’s inviting into the book. Unfortunately, non-dreamers, un-wishers, truth-spoilers, dis-hopefuls, curse-stirrers, and canned bean buyers didn’t even read past the first page, and mistakenly thought everyone was welcomed “to come sit by the fire” and read his flax-golden tales. Being bitter, uninvited usurpers, they accused the book of being the work of the occult and Silverstein of being a pied-piper of profanity and a rebel-rouser and instigator of violence and a drug pusher and an angel of death-by-suicide. It took ten years for these party crashers to even know there was a party going on. The book was published in 1974, but it didn’t receive its first ban until 1986 – right at the peak of Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority Movement. Coincidence? I think not.

But… those party poopers are not you, dearest. Naww, not you. But also, you are not just the dreamer, or the wisher, or the liar, or the hope-er, or the pray-er, or the pretender of Shel Silverstein’s wildest imagination. You are the magic bean buyer! And if I were right there next to you, I’d have to shake your hand, give you a hearty congratulatory slap on the back and buy you a drink.

So, congrats for being such a marvelous human swimming in a world overflowing with less-than-mediocre, cowardly humans (you know it’s the truth, just take a peak at the news – hell, just look around the Thanksgiving table). But also—you majestic magical being you—thank you!

Thank you for buying these beans that I’m selling. It takes a lot of moxie to bet the family cow for a handful of beans, and you’ve done just that. Even more, you climbed the giant bean stalk, not knowing what you would find up there in the clouds. You didn’t even flinch at the Giant’s Fe! Fi! Fo! Fum!. No, not you. You rescued (stole) the Golden Goose, the bag of coins and the yammering, Stockholm-syndro-matic harp. And you didn’t stop there. No, no, not you. You chopped down the beanstalk, sent the friggin’ hoarding (billionaire) Giant to his death, and (!) proved your risk-adverse mother wrong.

And just look at you. You’re still out here. You’ve taken your winnings and bought more magic beans: subscribing to the newsletters, buying the banned books, going to the movies and concerts and museums and plays. You’re adding more kindling to Silverstein’s fanciful fire, inviting more dreamers, wishers, liars, hope-ers, pray-ers, and pretenders to come in, come in!

But most of all, you are placing gold coins into the hands of us sowers of seeds that grow magic beans. For this, from the bottom of my tale-spinning heart, I thank you.

Next Week: Love Story No. 2: Chapter One

Much Gratitude and Love,
Marcie May

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PROLOGUE

The first thing you need to know is there was only the King James Bible. All other translations bore the scarlet letter “B” for “Blasphemy” which in my family was the silent eighth deadly sin. ‘Case you’re not acquainted, let me give you run the down: Women wearing pants to church? Blasphemous. Out at the clubs Saturday night then rolling your ass into the pews Sunday morning? Blasphemous. A pastor driving anything other than a Lincoln or a Cadillac? Blasphemous. Wearing red lipstick any shade brighter than Fashion Fair’s Iconic Garnet? Blasphemous Jezebel Behavior. Going without a slip and/or stockings? Blasphemous Beyond Measure. Eating without first giving thanks unto God? Blasphemous. Running inside my mother’s house making it smell like outside? Blasphemous – but also, “Who raised you?”

Me and my siblings—Debbie, Michelle, Mia, and Dennis—were raised beneath a roof shingled with Ye’s and Thee’s and Thou’s and Verily-I-Say-Unto-You’s. To play with my mother was to play with God. And to play with God was, well, the very definition of “Blasphemous.”

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