"Maybe a relationship is just two idiots who don’t know a damn thing except the fact that they’re willing to figure it out together."
When I was younger, my family was dirt poor. I was what they call a latchkey kid. We lived in a low income area where mostly black and some immigrant families resided, an area known for its problems with crime and delinquent youth. An area that led me to insist my dad to smoke so that I can ride my tricycle up and down the sidewalk for those five minutes while he was burning one.
If it’s one of the many things being raised like this taught me, it’s that nothing should ever be taken for granted.
I remember my favorite stretch of the week was from Friday evening to Saturday afternoon. My mom got off of work a little earlier on Fridays. Every Friday she’d pick me up to go to my grandparents’ house, where she’d get money to go to the grocery shop for them since they couldn’t drive and didn’t have a car anyway. And every Friday before dropping those groceries off, we’d make a stop to pick up a box of fried chicken for my grandparents - it was my grandmother’s ultimate weakness. My grandmother and I were by no means close. She was someone that I feared because of this wooden cane that she’d swat at you if you weren’t paying attention. She passed early on, so I never had the chance of getting to really know her. But without fail, every Friday when we’d drop off the groceries and chicken, she’d give me a drumstick wrapped in a napkin for the ride home.
Saturday mornings varied because my mom would be out with my older sisters running errands for our family. Saturday morning was the only morning my dad didn’t have to be at one of his three jobs, so we’d spend all morning cleaning the house and listening to his old records. He wasn’t, and still isn’t, much of a cook, so our breakfast/lunch together would consist of steamed white rice in cold water with either slices of Spam or a single slice of Kraft American cheese. It sounds weird, I know, but these are flavors that are so distinct in memory to me that I crave it time to time and to this day, will always have one “backup” can of Spam in the pantry.
Sometimes on these Saturday mornings, my mom would finish up early and sometimes when they could afford it, she’d buy us food on the way home. It was always the McDonald’s big breakfast platter with the hotcakes. I always used to wonder why they’d give you three hotcakes and only one sausage patty because it made sense to me that there should be even quantities.
I don’t eat fast food as much anymore, but then again I guess I never really did. I considered fried chicken or a breakfast from McDonald’s as a treat. But I’ve been up since 3am this morning and I couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting something warm. Something nostalgic. And all it took was a hotcake platter from McDonald’s at 6am for me to feel as content as I do right now. This coffee and cigarette are helping, too.
"There’s no point to a guy yelling, “Hey sexy baby” at me out of the passenger window of a car as it speeds past. Even if I was into creepy misogynists and wanted to give him my number, I couldn’t. The car didn’t even slow down. But that’s okay, because he wasn’t actually hitting on me. The point wasn’t to proposition me or chat me up. The only point was to remind me, and all women, that our bodies are his to stare at, assess, comment on, even touch. “Hey sexy baby” is the first part of a sentence that finishes, “this is your daily message from the patriarchy, reminding you that your body is public property”."
Thinking about music geometrically
Lea Seydoux, Catherine Deneuve, Marion Cotillard, Kristen Stewart, Lupita Nyong’o and Mia Wasikowska - 2014 Cannes Portraits photographed by Benoit Peverelli