To Be Young, Fabulous, and Mormon

I've never been too much of a party guy. I like to go out approximately once a month to remind myself that I'm still in my twenties and because my gym shorts have gotten too dirty to wear around the house. It's a nice reminder that I have other clothes not meant for sleeping or work. But all in all, bars and clubs are not where I thrive because in DC, it's a whole bunch of overworked twenty somethings that like to dance along to a sped up version of Sam Smith's "Stay With Me," while buying copious amount of overpriced drinks. They're sad and tired and horny, and that makes me uncomfortable. I pray for them every night I get home from going out.
However, I do love a good house party. It's nice because rarely ever is it too loud and you can bring your own libations and drink directly out of the wine bottle. It gives you an opportunity to actually speak to the people around you, which is a lost art with my generation (which probably explains why bars and clubs are so popular). In college, I was in a fraternity, and I tried desperately to turn our parties into classier affairs with themes and decorations, but the closest we ever got was a theme called "Mythical Creatures and Substitute Teachers," which devolved into college students grinding about each other wearing thick rimmed glasses and fairy wings. Before DC, a house party ultimately meant that there would be a lot of Bassnectar and tequila shots. I just turned on a Bassnectar song to refresh my memory, and I literally got alcohol poisoning.

Literally a picture taken at my house last year. Or
from Brothers and Sisters. Whatever.

So last year, when I moved in with Mormons (long story, short: Craigslist is a sneaky bitch), I considered the idea of the house party obsolete. They were older, and I had long forgotten my hopes of a refined, well-planned soiree. I would live with the Mormons, and from time to time, I hoped that maybe we would gather to watch a rerun of Seinfeld and talk about how crazy those Jews in New York are. But it turned out to be more isolating than I could ever imagine. In the first couple weeks, I was invited to a small dinner party on our back porch, and it was gorgeous with white Christmas lights strewn about the tree that hung over the patio. There was conversation and laughs and it was incredible. It was like sitting on the set of Brothers and Sisters, except everyone was painfully conservative and the closest we came to even mentioning sex was when I accidentally grazed my friend's boob reaching for the green beans.
After that lone dinner party, I was essentially banished to live a life of solitude. I will always wonder if it's because they saw that infamous boob graze. After a couple of months went by though, I slowly began to befriend the other guy who lived upstairs. He, too, was Mormon, but he liked to bend the rules a bit--I found this out after I discovered that he lifted by wine glasses for a date that he went on. After I discovered his secret about drinking and presumably fornicating, he slowly brought me into the Mormon fold. I mean, I would scarcely be allowed to enter a Temple or do anything that involved the Mormon religion, but he did watch Survivor with me on occasion, and he spoke to me when he came in the house, and that was enough for me, ya know?
Another month went by, and suddenly an event invite popped up on Facebook. My roommate David had invited me to "AN AUTUMN AFFAIR." It was handily the most elegant event title that I had ever received an as I opened up the event page, there was a slew of information about a baking competition and musical acts and a "rustic fall dinner." There was even a hashtag for the event--I died. When I came back to life, I called my friend Liz and said, "We officially have an in to fancy DC life. Come to this party with me." She immediately agreed and we spent the next two weeks coordinating outfits. A couple days after I accepted the event, the host of the party "liked" that I was going, and like a high school girl, I called Liz and said, "He liked that we're going! God, we're so in, I can't even handle it."
But as the day of the event came closer, I began to wonder if we should even be going to the party. It was at someone's house we had never met, and it was way above my social class. It was clear that there would be no Bassnectar or grinding to be had. This was everything that I dreamed of, but everything I feared at the same time. And for the event to be so high scale, it also said that it was "BYOB friendly," which opened up a whole plethora of questions about the evening. Should I bring wine or liquor? Definitely not liquor because that requires some kind of mixer, unless you want to come off as a full-fledged alcoholic. Beer? Maybe, but nothing that comes from the low-class end of the beer aisle. It would have to be something craft, or seasonal at least. Eventually I settled on wine because, duh.

What in the world even is this?

David offered to drive Liz and me to the party with him, which is good, because we probably would have not been able to find the place otherwise. We parked on the street and walked around the back of a gorgeous two story house, and there it was in all its glory. Paper lanterns filled with candles lined the sidewalk that led up to a huge burlap banner that had "AN AUTUMN AFFAIR" written in cursive with fall-colored accents. Liz leaned over to me and whispered, "What is this even?" and we scampered inside. It was every white girl's fantasy--as if Serena van der Woodsen literally vomited out perfection into someone's backyard. There were pumpkins and corn stalks and a HAND BUILT STAGE made out of distressed barn wood. In the back were pots of chili and soup and pans full of fall-themed desserts. It was everything that I had read about in books and seen in television shows, but nothing I thought actually existed in real life. At the beverage station (because that's a thing that people do, I guess), we were told we could put our drinks down. That's the moment when I started to doubt the party that we were at. There was a small ice bucket tucked neatly under the table with two bottles of wine and a bottle of apple schnapps and about four beers. As for the table itself, it had water and Diet Coke for days, but not a drop of alcohol out in the open. I shrugged it off and figured more people would bring libations as the party got more full.
I didn't notice the table for a while though because Liz and I were making our way through the party--around the bonfire to the table of chili and fancy cheeses and baked goods. Everything matched and had name cards, in case you weren't sure exactly what kind of upper-middle class cuisine you were about to eat. The disposable flatware and plates were the nice kind--the type of stuff that my family might have tried to wash and reuse if no one were looking. It was a world that I didn't quite understand, but I wanted to be part of it. We were careful about what we said and who we spoke to, already hoping that if we were on our best behavior, we might be considered for next year's invitation list, but there were simply things we weren't prepared for. Liz and I stopped to talk to a couple and they seemed to like us. I told them about my job in marketing and Liz talked about working in public relations, and then they asked,

Oh, are you two married?
Oh.. no, we're not married.
So, you're dating?
Nope. We're just really good friends.

They stopped for a minute and just kind of looked at us, "Oh, well that's nice, too," and then the conversation was over. I looked over at Liz, confused as to what we had done. We live in DC, so everyone is all "all the women, who independent, throw ya hands up at me," but this time, it was almost like... not being married to Liz was somehow wrong. I was about three glasses of wine in, and Liz wasn't far behind, and that's when we noticed. The party seemed to be split into parties of two, all of the commingling with other duos, and the biggest difference was that not a single person had anything other than a Diet Coke in their hand...

Hand. Built. Stage.

My second family back home is Mormon, so this wasn't my first rodeo. I started putting all of the pieces together. The elaborate spread of food that an entire army couldn't eat, a party theme that emphasized the accents of the season, party favors that had an especially strong reliance on DIY projects, background music that leaned heavily toward the folk and indie genres, and most of all... Diet Coke. Diet Coke all over the damn place. This was not a regular party. This was a Mormon festival, and I hated myself for not being able to tell sooner. I mean... there were candles in MASON JARS. Everything screamed that this was put together by a Millennial Latter-Day Saint follower, but I was too encapsulated by the presentation. It was more over the top than anything I had seen before, and as soon as I told Liz, we ran in search for David. We needed shelter. We needed direction! We were lost lambs in a pack of... well, lambs.
But as we ran up to the porch, he appeared. Not David, but the host of the party. We hadn't been introduced yet, but it was clear that he had planned it. He was a vision in plaid and thick-rimmed glasses, encapsulated in a ray of light making him appear as Joseph Smith, Martha Stewart, and Carson from Queer Eye from the Straight Guy, simultaneously. Yes, that is correct--my suspicions were correct: this was more than just a Mormon party. This party was designed by the most powerful of creative forces--a gay Mormon. He welcomed us and asked us if we had a drink. It seemed like a trick question, so we just kind of stared at him. There were no right answers anymore. He just kind of looked at us and said, "Well, the beverage table is over there." I looked back over and there was no more alcohol than before. There might have been more Diet Coke, but definitely no more alcohol. Diet soda everywhere, but not a drop to drink.
Seeing that we were confused by the notion that we could continue to drink, he ushered us over to the beverage table and made us a drink that we later named "fallmosas." He mixed apple cider with champagne and said, "I have some people you might like hanging out with." He walked us back over to the porch, and then around a corner tucked away from the rest of the party. There stood three gay guys and a woman who clearly loved Merlot. It was obvious that we had been relegated to the sinner's corner of the party, but it was okay, because these people seemed to understand the importance of "the sauce." We exchanged notes on how we had come to arrive there. One of the guys had found the host of the party on Grindr and then invited a couple other friends along. The wine lady knew him through some kind of Romney campaign effort. I told them the story of how I was living in the Mormons, and they all waited with bated breath, wondering what interesting facts I would reveal.
But the truth is, there wasn't a lot to reveal at that point. I was only a month in or so, and nothing about my roommates was interesting because they were Mormon. The best stories I had about them were simply because they were just really strange people in general. Liz and I watched the rest of the party unfold from afar, tucked safely in our corner of shame. We both knew that this would be the last time we'd ever be invited to a party this nice, unless one of us threw one ourselves... which essentially meant if Liz threw it, because there's no way I could stay invested in an event long enough to pull off all of the stops this party had.
For the rest of fall, we reminisced about the party and attempted to recreate the fallmosas well into November. We admired the domesticity needed to put together such an event and would sometimes wonder how someone could have enough time to plan something like that out. While there are hardworking gay Mormons out there building distressed barnwood stages and planning out elaborate fall meals, I'm blogging about them and/or eating Nutella directly out of the jar while watching The Help. I suppose we all have our place in this world.
I have long sense moved out of the Mormon house. David moved to Colorado and has been spotted exploring the mountains of Brazil (no, seriously. He just posted a picture next to Christ the Redeemer, like it wasn't a big deal. If you ever read this, you're one of my favorite people I've ever met--you are missed). After that, I was banished away to live three months in my upstairs room alone with only a Roku and a bottle of hot sauce. I eventually received a text explaining that I would not be invited back once the lease was up. But that party will live in infamy. As for my own party planning aspirations, I will just leave that to the experts. Some people are meant to construct a party that balances the seemingly complex combination of gingham and burlap, and some people are meant to just admire it.

An Open Letter to the Cello Player on 7th and E Street

This is the letter that I've written for the cello player on 7th and E Street. I would have delivered it, if I actually meant any of it and/or I was an absolutely crazy person. Unfortunately, neither apply in this situation. However, I did want to share with you the pain of heartbreak, unrequited love, and the pang of spending entirely too much money on gourmet cupcakes.

Hey you.

I don’t know your name—just simply “Cello Player Who Sits at 7^th and E Every Afternoon.” I wanted to write this to you because, well, it’s time I explain myself. Okay, it’s time that I explain us. You see, we met for the first time almost a week ago. It will actually be a week tomorrow. #HappyAnniversary! I passed you on the street and there you were, playing your cello. I’m pretty sure you were playing “Secrets” by One Republic. It’s one of my favorites—oh, you too? How ironic. Anyway, I immediately thought, “Sigh. This might be the person. You know, the person.” But alas, I came back to my office. I didn’t say anything until I asked my friend Maeve what I should do to which she said, “WWTD.” I’m assuming you don’t understand what that means—What Would Taylor Do? Yes, Taylor Swift. Because you play cello, I’m sure that sounds incredibly bass base to you; I apologize.

But I followed through, and I went back downstairs. I wanted to say something or impress you, but I didn’t know how, so I bought cupcakes. I took one for myself because, lesbihonest, it’s cupcakes. Then I took the other one, opened up the box, said, “Great cello playing. Hope you like cupcakes. –Justin” and then put my number. A friend pointed out that I gave you singular cupcake so technically the plurality might have led you to believe that someone else took the second cupcake, but “Hope you like cupcake” seemed weird. I did what felt right. You stole my heart, so I stole your extra cupcake.

Anyway, I gave it to you and you smiled because (a) liked me, (b) really like cupcakes, or (c) have nice manners. I hoped for a text or a call, but alas, that didn’t happen either. I was left behind, like a bow with worn out hairs. And let me tell you, you were my first and my last One Cupcake Stand. I know that I was kind of aggressive, but that’s just the city we live in. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love flies by you going 400 miles an hour, so if you don’t watch out, love will pass you by. You played your harmonious melodies and drew me in and then left me out in the cold. (Quite literally—it’s been frigid in DC lately.) You are a cello tease.

I’m not saying anything would have happened. But I can tell you what could have. I had a whole slew of puns like “Cello there, how are you?” and “Bach dirty to me,” but we’ll never get to use those, will we? I imagined it going really well and then one day, we’d spend our lives together. We’d lounge around after a long day. You’d get up and fix some type of drink and then play something simple on a stringed instrument, and then I would… watch. Because that’s pretty much the limitation of my skill set—looking at things… and cooking. Oh, and last night I found out that I can do a really good version of Forrest Whitaker’s eyes, but that’s neither here nor there. I had a life planned. A world that could have belonged to us, but it was over before it started.

I consider crying sometimes when I think about it—the situation, your cello, that cupcake… life, really. But I don’t because as Amy Winehouse once said, “My tears dry on their own.” But my biggest issue is that you continue to return to the corner of the street that I work on. You sit there, smugly, playing some classical piece and you see me walk by for my tri-daily trip to CVS to pick up an assortment of necessities. You don’t even say a word. I am Adam Sandler in a remake of 50 First Dates, except it’s not 50 First Dates. It’s 50 First Break-Ups. And then I think of that cupcake. Do you know how much white people pay for cupcakes? That was like, nearly $4.00. That’s the price of 2 cakes in 1962. For all intents and purposes, let’s look at it that way. I bought you two 1962 cakes, and you didn’t even care. Sometimes I wonder if you even ate it. You probably are gluten-free. God, you would be gluten free.

You might have even ruined the cello, no, ALL string instruments for me. And that sucks because I really love string instruments. You took Vitamin String Quartet from me, and that’s almost harder because everything they do is fantastic. They’ve literally covered every song in existence. For God’s sake they did “The Best of Nickelback” and “The Best of Nickelback 2.” I didn’t even know there was enough Nickelback to make a “Best Of” album, let alone, two. And you know what? I probably even enjoyed them. That’s how amazing they are, and that’s the amount of damage you’ve done. The only thing I want to thank you for is taking a little more Nickelback out of my life. For that, I am truly grateful.

It all makes sense now. I may not be the kind of guy you’re into. I’m commercial and fun and witty and mainstream. You sit on the corner playing your cello and you’re interesting and shit. It’s whatever. But you remember—it was mainstream music that brought us together, and it was your inability to love that tore us apart. As I close, I quote Taylor one more time, “I should have said no. I should have gone home. I should have thought twice before I put down a mortgage on two freaking cupcakes.”

In Christ,

Justin

Live Blog: Group Project

Group projects are the pits, you know? Someone is always doing the majority of the work, while at least two other people are sitting around not doing anything. One person is begrudgingly holding back the desire to kill the one proactive person and the two bodies of dead weight, and well, it's just gets complicated. Teamwork is apparently one of the cornerstones to life, and if that's any signification of how the rest of life is going to go, then... well... we're all screwed.
Graduate school is especially hard because you think you're smarter than everyone else, including the people that you have class with. The Georgetown air doesn't help because that makes you feel even more elitist. It's tough. So, that makes group projects harder than they've ever been before. The first week we collaborated together, one girl felt entirely left out, and the entire group got frigid cold with akwardness. Yikes! The second week, I felt like everyone ignored my ideas, and then I left class without speaking to anyone. Double Yikes! Now, as a class, we're discussing the final idea that we will present as a class, and it's getting heated. I'm coming to you live:

9:20pm: Emerald Mini Dress talked to me before class about how she felt shunned from her group and bullied out of the idea she actually created--she just started speaking, and I was pretty sure she was going to go Sarah Palin rogue on us. Crisis averted.

9:23pm: Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat looks like she might be constipated. We have officially found the bully in question.

9:26pm: I have officially started transforming my scribbled notes into this blog. You're welcome.

9:32pm: The professor and I are in a throat clearing battle. If I'm being honest, he's wiping the floor with me.

9:33pm: I'm seeing an alliance forming among Emerald Mini Dress, The Pastel Aryan, and Established Coffee Drinker.

9:35pm: Everyone agrees that "life in motion" is cliche and worthless. I think someone is escorting the girl who mentioned it out of the class room. This is a classroom of distinguished public relations professionals--no room here for cliche.

9:37pm: Millenial zing! 3 people laugh. I come up with a formidable idea and no one likes it. No one really knows what's going on, but everyone feels like they're right... how very Washington D.C. The professor seems potentially unimpressed with all ideas that are being given. Or maybe he just wants to go home. I understand your feels, bro.

9:41pm: My classroom crush just gave me props. #swoon #SMITTENBARF

9:43pm: The Pastel Aryan is going into something about maps and stuff, but all I want to see is Emerald Mini Dress and Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat engage in fisticuffs in front of the class. I, personally, would put money on Emerald Mini Dress based on her audacity to wear an emerald mini dress alone. Only one chair separates them... God, the tension is unreal, y'all.

9:45pm: Established Coffee Drinker/classroom crush just explained why we should never support Comcast, even though they're kind of great. Whatever you say, Established Coffee Drinker. #PRKISSES

9:48pm: Photosesh.

9:49pm: UPDATE: It appears that Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat is drumming up an alliance against Emerald Mini Dress. It's becoming less and less like Survivor and potentially like West Side Story. I'm eating it up.

9:50pm: Beth Jarvis has a fantastic new haircut! Snaps for Beth Jarvis y'all!

9:52pm: I came up with a cool idea, and The Pastel Aryan was NOT having it, so I came up with a new slogan for the car company we're representing, "If you don't have a car, you don't deserve a car." It got moderate to high laughter. I feel accomplished. In other news, if a real West Side Story type rumble breaks out, I'm going to push him in the middle. #GangViolence

9:55pm: Kob's Moving Castle is speaking. No, seriously. That's his Facebook name.

10:00pm When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Becky comes to me.

10:02pm: So, I just dropped a truth bomb and said that I didn't understand what anyone was saying or where we were headed, which in my mind, sounded elitist and powerful, but it actually translated into something more like, "I'm not paying attention--will someone give me a recap?" So, they did, and I guess I lost. Touché, class.

10:05pm: Krystal has literally turned her back to the class. She's looking for snacks, I believe, but in the process, she's really giving off that "screw you guys, I'm going home" vibe. I suppose that happens sometimes.

10:07pm: Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat has officially fallen into her Resting Bitch Face (RBF). She's over it, and you know what? Maybe I'm over it, too. If I were a Survivor swing vote or the one wielding the knife in this rumble, I'm not sure who I would side with. OOOH GIRL, I was wrong. This is not Survivor or West Side Story. There are notes being passed with intermittent giggles. This is Mean Girls. Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat will here on forward simply be referred to as Regina.

10:11pm: Somehow, we've turned from conversation about cars to ping pong, particularly beating your boss at ping pong. I think it's kind of like revenge porn, except less illegal. #RevengePong

10:14pm: The Pastel Aryan totes just blasted Emerald Mini Dress. Though she doesn't have many supporters, I don't think we would vote her out first. She's playing a solid social game of not talking when people interrupt her.

10:16pm: EMERALD GREEN DRESS JUST TOOK ONE OF THE TWO POSITIONS TO LEAD THE CLASS PRESENTATION ON ALL THESE IDEAS!! TOLD YOU GUYS!! #SURVIVOR

10:17pm: Regina looks like she is literally about to plant a picture of herself in The Burn Book, make copies, throw it around the school, and get Coach Carr suspended.

10:20pm: Class is over. I just referenced Sophisticated Coffee Drinker aloud without knowing I was only 2 feet away. #SMITTENBARF and NOT in the good way.

So, there you have it. That's the quick and dirty of what happens when you put 20-40 somethings in a room and tell them to be collaborative and creative. We all get buck nasty, and then I take notes on it and decide to turn it into blog form. Maybe we should all work on our social skills a bit more. Maybe Emerald Mini Dress just needs to realize that hoop earrings were Regina's thing after all and let her take all the glory whether she deserves it or not. Or maybe... just maybe, I need to start taking notes in class over pertinent topics instead of you know, the sociology of Georgetown students.

Pumpkin Spice, Miley, and the Trouble with White People

White people must have lost their minds today. It's been so hot outside and now, out of no where (or rather the residual effects of the underwhelming Hurrican Karen), the temperature has suddenly dropped. This anti-spike in temperature is surely going to signal a turn toward fall. The leaves will be falling soon and hoards of Caucasians will be heading to the pumpkin farm or the corn maze, adorned with scarves (though it's not cold enough) and pumpkin spiced lattes (though they're overpriced), and mmmmm, it will just be wonderful. It's what we do every year around this time, because, well we're a predictable race. Similar to bears, fall time is the last hoorah before white people go inside for the winter, only to emerge again to Instagram everything about spring. We run to craft stores and collect as many holiday-themed collectibles that we can and then we craft our asses of. Hobby Lobbys and Michael's across the nation feel our wrath as we leave their stores in shambles to craft and craft and craft, and that's where the problem comes in.
As of late, there has been some public conversation surrounding cultural misappropriation: let me explain what that is. It's when one race (white people) take something from another race and then claim it as their own without actually claiming it as their own. I first started noticing the term when white people in office spaces across America would simultaneously burst into Grand mal seizures while "The Harlem Shake" would play in the background. Black people responded by going on MSNBC and instructing white people how to actually do the Harlem Shake, which for the record, requires you to keep the Grand mal seizure specifically in your legs. A couple months later, white people misappropriated "twerking," a la Miley Cyrus. Again, we were doing it wrong. I'm still not exactly sure what twerking is... I believe the jury is still out on that one.
But let me clarify: saying that white people are stealing the Harlem Shake or twerking is like watching a thief rob a bank and then drop all the money before they get out the door. White people aren't stealing anything. And I would hardly say it's cultural misappropriation. I took a lot of creative writing classes in college and people would come in all the time with terrible strings of words that they would call poetry. I guess I could say that they were misappropriating poetry, but instead, I just liked to tell them in workshop that they were doing it wrong. Misappropriation is not where we should be focusing our efforts, guys. Focusing on things like that is like when Congress was freaking out about gay marriage as our economy was going down the drain. Bigger fish, y'all. Bigger fish.
I'm guilty of it, too. I'm sitting here on my eggshell colored couch, watching The Walking Dead, while working on a blog. The whiteness is getting out of control. There's a pumpkin sitting on the island in my kitchen that I plan on carving tomorrow. I'm a 23 year old man. The answer does not lie in making sure that cultural traditions are kept separate from one another... it comes in stamping out all this whiteness everywhere. I come from a home full of guns and deer heads and camouflage, so obviously my journey away from whitehood has been quite a process. However, I like to believe that I move toward becoming less and less white every day. I've always had the privilege of having a "racially aware sensei" for most of my life, guiding me through the ups and downs of what it means to be fighting a life of whiteness. It started in middle school with my friend Kierra, continued along into college where Sean took over, and finally led to post-grad where Krystal has graciously taken care of me... and that's where the story leads to: Krystal, me, and a racially charged glass of alcohol.
For my 23rd birthday, I invited all of the friends I had made in DC at the time (approximately 2.7) out for dinner and drinks. Only 1.7 of them showed up, but that wouldn't stop me from celebrating my 23rd year of life. The only issue with this birthday is that I had never been "out for my birthday" before, and I was pleasantly surprised that people tend to buy you drinks on your birthdays. My drink of choice has turned out to be a long island tea, which was apparently my dad's drink of choice when he was trollin for honeys at Buster Mugg's back in the 80s. Like father... sort of like son. Anyway, that's what people kept bringing me all night. Eventually, I was right at the point of not being able to keep any more drinks down (because birthdays are hard, get off my back), and I was sitting with Krystal and her boyfriend, Skip. My old roommate, Andrew, came over with another long island tea and offered it to me... and it was at that point that all my feelings about whiteness came bubbling over. You could say that the spirit of black America had entered my body, but that is probably a little bit presumptuous and a lotta bit racist. I'll just tell you what was said:
"I told you no," said Justin.
"But it's your birthday drinking," said Andrew
"Why are you trying to keep us down? You're always trying to keep us down," said Justin
"Who?" said Andrew
"Us," motioning to himself, Krystal, and Skip, "Us black people," said Justin
To Krystal, "You know I'm not racist, right?" said Andrew
Krystal gave the side eye.
The conversation did not stop there, as I spent at least another ten minutes explaining how Andrew was constantly trying to bring down the African American race, while calling on no other specific example other than the fact that he tried to bring me what must have been my tenth long island tea of the night, but inside, I felt like I was finally conquering the issue we've all been facing. It's not that he was taking anything from me, self-appointed representative of the African Americans. It's that he was trying to force his whiteness on me... and overall, on us. That's when it hit me. The problem with race in America does not exist because of lack of integration... the problem exists because white people are just trying to cross too many lines.
It came to my attention even more as I was checking out at Trader Joes with an organic pumpkin, some cranberry apple butter, pumpkin ravioli, and a bouquet of marigolds. I was the problem. Look at me whiting up Arlington even more than it already is. For those of you who don't know, Arlington is one of the whitest places in America. It's full of bicycles, mom and pop shops, people who are excited to take public transportation, and mostly coffee. What we need is to invite a couple of diverse friends over... no strike that. First, we need to make our traditionally white places seem less unsafe to our diverse friends, then invite them into our world. So white people, I leave you with this: leave your carts in the aisle. The organic food will be waiting when you get back. Walk out of that Trader Joe's and go wade in the water. Wade in the water, children.