Blood is one of the most potent words in the language. We refer to it to talk about family and temperament, about race, about violence and war and disease. But the strongest metaphor is not really a metaphor at all. Blood is life.
It’s rude and annoying to pay for a concert ticket and spend the time yakking, disturbing people who also, by the way, paid for a concert ticket.
So one day, I looked at the Sudoku, which had on baggy khakis and a pocket protector and a lot of numbers and looked really boring.
We drove home across the tinder-dry West with the smoke of forest fires behind us. Shortly after we got back, the Caldor Fire started about 30 miles from the cabin.
I grew up, like many Americans – probably most Americans – surrounded only by members of my own race. Not until after college did I count Black folks as neighbors, co-workers, friends.
I consider myself a pretty dedicated recycler. I would no more throw a plastic bottle or a can in the trash than toss it in the woods. I lug food scraps from the kitchen to the compost heap even in the winter, and I try to find appropriate places to give away items I no longer use.
How am I in my cozy position instead of theirs? Because I’m as lucky as someone who finds money on the sidewalk. I’m white and I’m American. I was born on the right side of the growing wealth gap. My parents had good values. College was cheap.
I’m too old and married for dating apps, but I’ve just dived into something that feels similar. I’ve been wanting to find a meaningful volunteer job, and I’ve been spending some quality time on www.cincinnaticares.org, the local website that helps match up volunteers with nonprofits.
Snarky political memes on Facebook, squirrel obstacle races and the guy on TikTok skating to Fleetwood Mac have all helped me in little ways to get through the pandemic. Other social media content, has of course, infuriated me. And there was one meme that popped up on my feed during the first few months that struck terror in my heart.
