I had an interesting conversation with a chef friend from Portland, Oregon. As is unsurprising in our current moment, there are those in Portland’s food community engaged in an intramural game of, “You can’t cancel me if I cancel you first.” 
Sometimes people can hear in advance the knives being sharpened. My friend did, and contacted the key knife sharpener, demanding to know what evidence the sharpener had.
The sharpener mentioned racism, misogyny, an allusion to fat-shaming, and then, with each claim stamped out, resorted to saying the conversation made her feel “unsafe.”
My friend did not counter, you mean as unsafe as someone having the business she’s built over fifteen years potentially atomized overnight? She did not need to. She demanded receipts *before* her scheduled execution, and the executioner caved.
Which is really is no thing but for the bulk of others on the block conceding, hiring PR, submitting to extortion, anything to get the untold numbers of people standing on their necks to get off.
It’s too much to hope they might salvage anything of their businesses or reputations; what kind of wish-casting is that? But maybe a few crumbs, a shred of dignity, a way to pay for the kid’s school, the years of mental health help…
Nope! The answer comes back. These you shall not have. You shall have nothing, less than nothing.
The people whose labor you’ve profited from have been leaking oil from their figurative cars for years and you have the temerity to complain about your car being blown up with you in it? It’s the least you deserve.
Good luck, Portland.
Good luck, Portland.
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