WashingTina

Just when I think the quarantine has taken us to the far reaches of what we can do for ourselves, we reach another level. Back in March, sourdough starters and banana bread were all the rage. You could hardly go on Instagram or Facebook without seeing a lump of taupe-colored dough sitting in a glass bowl. Or a batch of brown bananas begging for their destiny. There were shortages of yeast and flour on par with the dearth of toilet paper we all feared. It even led one woman (I shit you not, her name is Caren White) to write a screed about how the rest of us baking were taking food out of her mouth. (Seriously, you can read an archived version of it here and a later screed walking back her entitlement and trying to justify it here .) As the quarantine progressed, enthusiastic and enterprising folks explored the miracle of dalgona coffee (which, I’m sorry, looks like diarrhea mixed with milk); the wonders of homemade bagels and English muffins; the agony and ecstasy of handmade pasta; th

This week, the Democratic Party of the United States of America nominated a Black, Indian-American, woman as the Vice Presidential candidate. Kamala Harris, in that moment, stepped into a space unoccupied ever before by a woman like herself. The child of two immigrants, Kamala Harris leaned into the dreams of so many Americans in the moment that she accepted the nomination. For herself. For her parents. For Black people. For Indians. For Jamaicans. For immigrants. For women. For America.  And still, as the American Dream has come to signify for any but the most privileged, the experience was a little broken. A little damaged. It wasn’t what any Vice Presidential nominee before her had had. Geraldine Ferraro and Sarah Palin spoke to filled auditoriums. Screaming crowds. Exalting allies. They had the benefit of functioning systems standing behind them. Instead, Kamala, like so many Black women, stepped into an imperfect situation. A broken experience. A situation she was expected to rise

Escapism is important. I consider it a critical act of self care. Whether it’s through reading, surfing social media, or binge-watching something on Netflix, I think it’s necessary to get out of your head and into something else for a little while. For me, one of my favorite forms of escapism is the Dark Crime Drama. Most of the DCDs that I indulge in are usually British or European, and thanks to Netflix, I have more of these at my fingertips than I ever could have hoped for. There’s something about how these non-American dramas do mystery and suspense that I cannot get enough of. And, since I’ve been immersing myself in this genre for the past decade or so, I have made some observations that are never fail. If I may . . . The crime drama usually takes place in some picturesque small town. It could be in Wales or Poland or Finland or Sweden . . . it doesn’t really matter. But the skies are mostly grey, the fields are vibrant green, the gardens are lush, and the people are eccentric (t

My nephew recently learned how to ride a bike. It took him all of eight minutes until he was riding like whatever the cycling equivalent of Tony Hawk is. It’s clear that he is a child prodigy and will be participating in the Tour de France by the age of ten. Which means he does not take after his mother or me.  I think I was 26 when I finally learned to ride  a bike (I’m exaggerating, but only a little). It never really interested me, even though everyone else could do it. I was happy enough to swing on the swingset or read a book instead. Apparently, my ability to procrastinate also extended to childhood milestones. My sister also seemed equally disinterested. But one Christmas we both got bikes and it became clear that we could no longer avoid it and were going to have to figure this out. I was probably 10. Which is old for a kid in the 80s to learn to ride a bike. I mean, Elliott had already flown around his town with ET in his bike basket by that age. I would never have been able

Shenanigans. That’s the best word I can think of to describe the category of activity in which I most like to participate. Most of the time, I can’t help it. It just comes naturally, and I’m powerless against it. I would dare say, at least half the time, shenanigans happen to me instead of my making them happen. I’m fortunate to have married someone who is also pretty much always up for shenanigans. What’s more, over the course of my lifetime, I’ve managed to cultivate a circle of friends who can best be described as shenanigan-inclined. If you asked me how it came to be this way, I couldn’t begin to tell you. All I know is, when presented with a situation that could go down the straight and narrow or turn into something completely ridiculous, my friends almost always take the latter path. And there I am, sprinting along beside them. Take for instance a particular visit to the beach with our friends Elizabeth and Chris (Chreeyas, affectionately). Most of the drive, my husband and I had