Whenever I’ve found someone passed out in a bathroom as a bartender, it’s because they’ve well exceeded their personal limit with alcohol. I also can’t help but think it’s because there’s been too little of something else.
Like most people born just as the Cold War was ending, I learned about nuclear weapons in the past tense.
Home staging is a privileged kind of precariousness.
Every time I tell a customer that we’re not open for browsing, I know I am reminding them of how Covid-19 has disrupted our rhythms and routines, robbed us of numerous small pleasures.
As someone with over ten years in the industry, I still make $4.95/hour—plus tips.
When this pandemic is over, we hope to reopen our doors and offer comfort and sanctuary to our communities—as women of color so often have.
We think of explorers in terms of what they discovered—the Eureka moment, not the search. The search is imperfect and frustrating and owes you nothing.
The more I wrote about women, the more distanced I felt from the figure I saw in the mirror.
It’s not my job to absorb every feeling a man has. In my classroom, I am the one who decides whose feelings get airtime, and how they are shared.
Others began to intrude in what had once been a mom-and-pop operation. The conversion from hobby to profession had been made.