My grandfather died during the flu epidemic of 1917 when he was 36 year old. He contracted pneumonia before the advent of life-saving antibiotics, which were not available until 1930. There were no vaccines. The Spanish influenza pandemic struck terror in the hearts of millions as they watched beloved friends and relatives die. The epidemic left a lasting imprint upon the collective memory.

I hadn’t seen her in years. She and I are long-term white privileged, holistic health aficionados as proven by the organic vegetables over-flowing in our carts. Each of us could afford a $5 bunch of broccoli, although I put back the seven dollar eggplant on principle.   

It’s been eleven years since Dr. Margaret Wade-Lewis died after courageous and lengthy battles against multiple bouts of cancer. During these many years since, her daughter, Esi Lewis, always refers to me as “my mother’s besty,” a title I love.

Finding out about the vaccination presents a troublesome and hazardous situation where reality is prognosticated by the power of each party’s intensity of emotions and surety.

Because of a promise I made to myself — inspired by the current polarized political climate, as well as Covid causing so much social separation — to reach out to people different than me.

Why does almost half the U.S. populace still support a person with such heinous character traits? Why did more black people vote for him in 2020 than in 2016 in spite of the rallying cry on the left about police conduct and racism? 

Because mingling our sweat, half naked, in a small space reeking of warm bleach is societally acceptable, sharing intimacies with a stranger seemed alright. My curiosity, which I often blame on this column, led me to interview the gentleman who was sheltering his child from the sun with his hand as she leaned tenderly on his shoulder.

Between the ages of 13 and 20, I was the target of five felonious sexual assaults of varying severity and

Several years ago while cross-country skiing with my 18-year-old daughter, we came upon an icy patch next to a ledge. My prudent daughter removed her skis. I kept mine on, sat on them and proceeded to slide down the hill on my derriere.  My impudent “devil may care” behavior precipitated loud screams of, “Mommy! Mommy! Take off your skis.”