Working Class Life Hacks #2

Dear Working Class Life Hacks,

I’m a subhuman piece of shit and I don’t know what month it is. Also, I forgot to get presents for Kwanzaaaa/X-Mas/Chanookahz. Can you help me?

Rust & Remembrance: Jacob’s Ladder, Part 2

Thrilled just then, to have a deck beneath my feet again and on a ship that was headed for the ocean sea, I wished above all to simply keep going. Past Hampton Roads, past the Capes and out onto the wide Atlantic to God-knows-where-and-who-the-hell-cares.

Bootstraps: What is Wasted/ Asha Doré

Disabilities present differently inside of each body. Disabilities also interact with a person’s race, class, culture, family expectations, and gender.

Black, I: Them Things

Growing up black, you learn real quick the things you just don’t speak about. My auntie and them voices was one of them things…

Ridge & Holler: The Lifetime of a Lightnin’ Bug

Listen honey, it’s nothin’ personal. It’s not that I don’t like you. It’s just that I don’t trust you. I don’t trust a lot of people. And especially not outsiders looking through a lens…

Rust & Remembrance: Jacob’s Ladder, Part 1

Marine diesel oil is the color of burnt sienna and emits an odor that smells like fermented soil, all earthy and rich, harsh but intoxicating. Work around tankers a while and you pick up a nose for it, like some insufferable wine buff. You become an aficionado of distillates.

Felony Record: Ban the Box

I’ve run the job search gauntlet before and having a record makes it even more difficult to change employers. Staying at my current job, no matter my happiness level, means not having to start over in proving my value and capability. Of the things holding me back, foremost is my fear of the box.

Bootstraps: Single Mother/ Courtney Gutierrez

I answer emails and nurse and write treatment goals and rock the baby and meet over the phone and jiggle a pacifier and enter data and bounce a vibrating chair with my feet and all the time I am buzzing, buzzing, buzzing inside.

Black, I: The Truth About Slavery

I was in the ninth grade, the only black girl in a classroom of white peers, when I learned the truth about slavery. At the time, I thought I knew all there was to know. No fault of my mother’s; she just didn’t have the heart to tell me the whole truth…