The first time I marched with Black Lives Matter, some friends were concerned. It was after Alton Sterling and Philando Castille were murdered by police in 2016. And literally the day after Dallas. Safety concerns were real. But safety concerns for black people have been real in this country since its inception. I could not... Continue Reading →
I don't know everything. Hell, I don't know most things. But here's one thing I'm sure of: if you are a white person getting down to the hard, soul-searching work of becoming anti-racist, you're going to need a life raft. Because there's a tidal wave of rage, grief, regret, and full-blown horror headed your way.... Continue Reading →
At 7 years old, my daughter, has already attended seven civil rights marches (if you count the five Pride parades she’s attended—and I do. Oh, I do.). I don’t come from a long line of activists. In fact, my parents always seem (not so secretly) appalled that I let Jane march through the streets holding signs, chanting, and generally being a rabble-rouser. But here’s the thing: Jane was born into activism.