How A Little Old White Lady Celebrates Her First Juneteenth
By finally answering a burning question from the Trump era.
It was like any other day of the Trump administration. I don’t recall the specific date, except it occurred during the quarantine.
I remember that detail distinctly because when the bile in my throat finally subsided enough for me to tear through my apartment in search of some craft supplies (I couldn’t leave my apartment to purchase some pretty construction paper and sparkles), the only material I could find for my window sign was the refrigerated wrapper for the meats and dairy products that came with my Imperfect Foods delivery. I’d subscribed once I realized I was trapped in my digs for the duration of the pandemic and needed food to sustain me.
The cause of this burst of artistic fervor? I’ll forgive you if you don’t remember the Orange Man declaring Black Lives Matter a terrorist organization. His racist rants were a daily occurrence, each one bleeding into the next.
I’d learned after several years of his administration that if I were to survive without a blown artery from regular bouts of outrage, I’d have to learn to let them roll off my back — after dashing off a letter or two to my representatives in Congress, of course.
