I’m Back, Bitches!

Okay, that was probably a bit too strong of a re-entry, but after nearly six full months of silence, I’m excited to be back writing. Not that I haven’t been writing. I’ve been writing a ton … Just not here on my personal blog where I get to curse and swear and speak my mind, boldly and unapologetically, just the way I like it.

As you know, it’s been a minute since I last posted on this site. Back in the spring, after we first went into quarantine, I started a six-part miniseries that I lovingly called, #myquarantinedlife. I regularly posted about my keen observations and honest feelings, tossing in a healthy dose of optimism with my usual brand of sarcasm. But by the time we reached the end of May, pandemic fatigue started seeping in. I decided to end the series because (1) it was starting to feel too much like Groundhog Day and I was beginning to repeat myself, and (2) I foolishly thought that maybe, just maybe, the worst had passed and we would be “let out” sooner rather than later. Boy, was I wrong! It’s now the end of November and we are still living #myquarantinedlife. Insert your descriptive expletive of choice here. I know you feel me on this, which is why I’m letting you pick your own, appropriate curse words … You’re welcome.

When the #myquarantinedlife miniseries ended back in June, the plan was to return to my regularly scheduled programming of witty insights and midlife musings to both entertain and educate you, but then … LIFE! In addition to dealing with the uncertainty of the pandemic and the chaos of having all of my people home with me all of the time (something that is not good for an introverted, anxious, HSP like me), I started a new job writing for a small, new local magazine. As a start-up publication, I knew there’d be a learning curve, but it was greater than anticipated, as was the workload. And then, Ahmaud Arbery was stalked and assassinated … George Floyd was tortured and killed … Christian Cooper was harassed and wrongly accused … Breonna Taylor was mistakenly identified and executed … Elijah McClain was misunderstood and murdered … One after another after another. All in a matter of weeks. It was all just too much. I broke, and decided to stop writing sassy, sarcastic commentary about everyday silliness for a while. It just didn’t feel right.

What did feel right was throwing myself into learning everything I could about the levels of racism in America and how to be an activist, not just an ally. More specifically, how to be an antiracist. I devoured books, articles, podcasts, movies, and shows to learn more about systemic racism, housing segregation, education inequities, microaggressions, tone policing, cultural appropriation, intersectionality, and most importantly, my own white fragility and implicit biases. As a white woman, I inherently have white privilege. Despite being married to a Black man, having Black in-laws, and raising two biracial teenage sons (who, by the way, the outside world views and treats as Black, regardless of their full genetic makeup), I don’t get a pass, nor do I want one. 

For most of my readers, these events are just distant news stories, but for me, it’s personal. For me, this hits too close to home. Ahmaud could have easily been my older son, who every day this summer would go out for a run and I silently held my breath, waiting for him to return. George could have easily been my husband, who I worry about even when he drives the short distance to Wawa for gas or to school to pick up our youngest from basketball practice. Christian could have easily been my brother-in-law, who likes to hike and spend time in the NYC parks alone as a way to recharge and connect with nature. Breonna could have easily been my sister-in-law, who works nights as a NYC nurse while studying for her masters degree, caring for her elderly mother, and raising both an infant and teenager. And Elijah could have easily been my nephew or even my youngest son, both who are as sweet and innocent as they come and move to their own rhythms. All these Black people who were tortured because of the color of their skin could have easily been my Black people. 

So, like it or not, you’ll be getting more posts from me about this subject. (I’m adding a new category to search — Currently called, Race Relations.) It may not be what you typically come here to read, but it’s important and needs to be discussed. And don’t worry, I’ll still mix in posts about managing teenage hormones during menopause, aging parents, female relationships, health and wellness amidst mysterious aches and pains, and all the midlife nonsense that plagues our daily lives. Like my scattered brain, my posts will be all over the place — per usual.

Until next time, #staywoke. (Mom and Dad, you can ask one of your grandsons what that means.)

-LJDT