(Disclaimer: the below is based on hasty notes taken by a non-professional. Please do not rely exclusively on this information!)
The Boston Public Health Commission holds Narcan trainings twice a month in the AHOPE space on Albany Street. I wish I knew the name of the dynamite person who led the training last night and who obviously eats, sleeps and dreams opioid overdose prevention (with some attendant secondary trauma). But RB and I arrived a few minutes late and they were already in full swing. Anyway, about naloxone, brand name Narcan.
I knew Stephen Brophy for about fifteen years, but I only knew him well in the past three or four. It was my great pleasure to have coffee with him several times a month at Pavement and later in his apartment at our co-op. He was my neighbor, my friend, my mentor in radical politics, and my advisor in love and life. So I want to tell you a little about my experience of this extraordinary person. Read more
This is what has befallen the Little Free Library
near my house since it was erected by the Mass Historical Society
about two months ago.
- Its glass door was broken.
- Its replacement Plexiglas door was broken.
- Its replacement cellophane door was ripped from the staples.
- A large quantity of water was dumped into the library, damaging its floor as well as the books inside.
Who does this to a little free library? Who?
(a) Drunken Red Sox fans?
I consulted T, who replied, “I’m thinking either someone who hates libraries, or someone who hates free things. An illiterate capitalist.”
Me: A nice segue into the title of this post.
T: It could be someone who hates little things too.
“White people are like, oh, I had a good day. They think that’s it, they had a good day. They don’t understand they had a prescribed
good day. You had a prescribed good day and we had a prescribed bad day. We wake up and we know we’re going to have a bad day. We know somebody’s going to yell at us, somebody’s going to call us a name or look at us funny.”
Learn more about The City School and its Summer Leadership Program here.
Ever been smacked in the head by your own whiteness, assuming you are white?
I’m in the supermarket waiting to buy a pound of salmon when I realize someone is trying to get my attention. “Ma’am? Ma’am?” she says to me. She is a brown-skinned woman with her hair in a ponytail. “I was just admiring your”—here I assume she’s going to say “coat,” as I am wearing a truly awesome garnet-colored vintage bouclé coat—“backpack.”
The thing about my backpack is until recently it said “Black Lives Matter,” discreetly, in Sharpied letters on gray canvas. Last week I got a paint pen and operated on the letters until they were much more noticeable. Aha! I think. “Oh, thanks!” I say. Read more
On Friday I took a pleasant walk down Garden Street in Cambridge to the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics
. I was there to facilitate a discussion about whiteness with students and professors at the Banneker Institute
, a summer research program for students of color led by Professor John Johnson
. I arrived ready to lay down knowledge. But, of course, I was the one in the room who learned the most. Read more
We chanted this yesterday as we marched down Dartmouth Street
. We did other chants too, but this one made the most sense to me. Even though everybody in the street probably had a pretty good idea why the police shot Mike Brown, it was powerful to hear so many voices raised in a question that seemed shot through with anguish.
Here are some other things I heard. Read more
At a Fenway literary evening
in April, I read with my publisher Letta
and another writer-neighbor, Alison Barnet. I had never met Alison in person before, though I knew her name. She seems quiet at first but has fiery opinions
. I took home a copy of her book, South End Character: Speaking Out On Neighborhood Change
, and was delighted with its deft mix of the graceful and acerbic. Here she is reflecting on public transit: Read more
I. Me versus the Y
Man, the problems I’ve had with the YMCA. So often I’d show up to swim and find the pool closed for this emergency repair or that, and insufficient signage to let me know before I changed into my suit and swim cap (the swim cap looks particularly stupid). There was that time they ended towel service, and the time they decided to close the women’s locker room for cleaning during the exact hour every day that I would be there, and what about the time a photographer came to record the old pool before it was demolished, and swimmers weren’t notified, and she snapped at me for getting her camera wet when I came over to inquire what she was doing? And what about the scale that doesn’t work and the showers that dribble rather than shower and the swimsuit extractor thing that’s always broken? Oh, it gets me so mad. I fly into a rage, in fact. In fact, a disproportionate rage. Every time.
This came home to me while I was talking to the aquatics director a few weeks ago. I was bitching about the situation at my home branch, which has been under construction for some years, and she shrugged and said, “An urban Y.” Something small unlocked inside me. I went and showered and got back into my clothes, and the whole time I was thinking: it’s my white privilege. That’s what makes me so angry. That’s why I have so much rage when I can’t get what I would consider to be adequate customer service at the Boston YMCA. It’s because on a deep level I expect the Boston YMCA to be like a health club in Cherry Hill, New Jersey (where I grew up, and certainly never went to a health club). I expect the world, at every turn, to give me the attention, the consideration, and—frankly—the service that I was always encouraged to expect. Read more
In my last post
I had fun with the Boston media I love to hate, but I completely forgot Boston’s excellent Black-owned and -edited newspaper, the Bay State Banner
. And yes, I do attribute this to my own racism—here’s a paper I read every week and respect, but it happened to slip my mind while I was composing a lament for the state of the local press. Read more