For what it’s worth, I live in NYC and, during the Before Times, would pass by Trump Tower on 5th Ave with regularity.
I distinctly remember having to stop at the SE corner of 57th and 5th standing right beside Eric Trump who was carrying a green NakedJuice, & I tried to contain
...my disgust that he was part of the First Family of our country. He was in a tan suit. It was awful to stand near him.
It’s been awful to walk past that building since late 2016, & the police presence and road blocks around it have been such a metaphor for the utter disruption
...of all our lives, “disruption” being the least of it. “Destruction” describes it better.
I have walked past a hulking Sean Hannity, a block over from Trump Tower, on 6th Ave, on his way to Fox News, yelling on his mobile, wearing mirrored sunglasses & uncontrolled ferocity.
All of which is to say that the painting of BLACK LIVES MATTER in front of that building, in that part of midtown Manhattan is a glorious thing.
It represents the best of America: not just audacious freedom of speech but words that declare what’s right, true, & inalienable.
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My son, 9, is crying right now because a kid at the pool keeps telling my son that he’s a girl.
My son—who grew his hair past his shoulders during the pandemic—has had people mistake him for a girl probably 500 times in the past year.
My son has always identified as a boy & has also always loved pink clothes & bright sparkly clothes. He’s known for his pink suit and floral sneakers.
He doesn’t feel like it’s an insult to be called a girl; he says it drives him crazy that people have gender stereotypes that
…mean they assume he’s a girl because has longish hair and sometimes wears a lavender face mask.
Usually he stays quiet when people greet me and my son and daughter with, “Hi ladies” or call my kids “your daughters.” But I see his eyes cloud with disappointment
Today I had the honor to escorting my 104.5 year-old friend Ruth to vote.
She was born before women had the right to vote.
Her 1st vote was for FDR.
Her dad died of the flu during the pandemic of 1918, when she was 2.
This is her voting story today.
Here she is with her walker, crossing Broadway towards Lincoln Center where she’s lived since the Nixon administration.
A voting official led the way (along with my son.)
Raise your hand if you’ve had a miscarriage or been a partner to someone who has had a miscarriage 🖐
Sharing grief makes us human
If you don’t have unequivocal compassion, you are less than what it means to be human
In my stage solo show, I talk about my miscarriages.
The audience is silent except for a few people crying. Every show. Sometimes there’s a small audible gasp. I have seen couples reach out to grab each other’s hands.
It is a communion.
Your stories are generous and heart-aching.
Thank you for sharing them with each other.
I’m so profoundly sorry for your losses, every single one.
🙏