Leandra Medine's Blog, page 18

How to Show Up for Your People, and Yourself, Right Now

My copy of The Art of Showing Up by Rachel Wilkerson Miller has no less than 30 Post-it notes inside it, each marking a page that somehow felt even more important than the last. The book, which came out in May, is about friendship in the age of flakiness, and has quickly become the reference point I return to anytime I’m searching for the best way to look after the people around me. But the book covers more than making and keeping friends. It guides you through supporting people through miscarriage, addiction, incarceration, coming out, and so much more. It also presents the idea that to properly look after your people, you first have to look after yourself… then explains exactly how to do just that.

The Art of Showing Up is filled with what I’ve personally come to know as “Rachel advice”—guidance that’s practical, thoughtful, and—above all else—inclusive. Rachel is my former editor and current good friend, and when I was trying to pick my favorite part of the book to run as an excerpt on Man Repeller (an impossible task) she suggested that we jump on the phone and talk instead. Below, we talk through some of her ideas about what showing up and self-care look like in 2020.

On Showing Up for the People You Love

Gyan: We’ve spent a lot of time talking—and writing—about friendship and self-care with each other in the last few years, but it feels like none of these things have been quite as important as they are right now.

Rachel: Yes, totally.

Gyan: How have you adjusted the way you show up for people in 2020 compared to how you did in the past?

Rachel: Well, one of the biggest things right now is that you can no longer show up for people in person. You can’t meet your coworkers for a drink when they get laid off or even just send a care package as easily as you might have last year. But I’m also feeling like I’ve had so many friends who are long-distance that I actually feel pretty equipped for this. I know you are as well [as an Australian living in the US]. We’ve already had to be fairly creative and do things from afar, and I think that’s actually why we’re adapting so well.

Gyan: All of our friends might as well be long-distance friends right now.

“Even saying, ‘Let’s get on a call later this week and gossip,’ can make it more fun and exciting.”

Rachel: I think showing up is also about being more mindful of the current moment, which means considering that people might have lost their jobs or be otherwise worried about money. Or people might be really overwhelmed and emotionally taxed because of the emotional load of living through a pandemic. I’ve spent the last few years so focused on friendship that this hasn’t actually felt like a huge adjustment.

Gyan: That’s actually what I was thinking when I was reading the section of your book about good group hangouts. All of the tips in that chapter—from being thoughtful about your invite lists to taking notes during conversations—are also things that are so easily adapted from IRL hangouts to online hangouts. Aside from those things, have you been doing anything else to make online hangouts feel more special?

Rachel: Having themes or activities planned make Zoom or FaceTime calls feel more special and more fun, in the same way that having a theme party can be fun in person. Even if you’re just having dinner with your friends, and it’s not the time for a theme, just saying, “This is the subject of this hangout” can keep things focused. Even saying, “Let’s get on a call later this week and gossip,” can make it more fun and exciting.

Gyan: My most memorable video calls during quarantine—which have actually all been with our group of friends—have had a set agenda. Or at the very least, have had someone say through the week, “Okay, let’s put a pin in this conversation and we’ll all talk about it properly on Saturday.” It’s so nice.

Rachel: Yes, totally. It helps!

Gyan: Another thing I wanted to talk about from the book is the idea of “friend levels.” Can we talk about that a little?

Rachel: So, this concept comes from the book Frientimacy by Shasta Nelson. She talks about the levels of vulnerability that exist within friendships, and the way that the amount of time you’ve known someone can influence how vulnerable you can be with them. So, if you’ve known somebody a really long time, there’s going to be more vulnerability in that friendship—we all know that instinctively, but it’s helpful to remember. And if you haven’t known somebody for as long it’s probably not as appropriate to be super vulnerable with them. It doesn’t mean you can’t be honest, but just that that level of vulnerability will look different.

So, if you’re at a Level Three and then you go straight to a Level Ten with your vulnerability, it’s probably going to feel like a mismatch to that person and maybe even to you later on.

Gyan: I’ve found the concept of those friendship levels really comforting this year. In the last three months, I’ve realized how many people I used to see really casually, almost for the sake of going to dinner and exploring NYC together. At the start of the pandemic I thought, Maybe those people aren’t actually my friends at all because we aren’t talking a ton. But I’m slowly realizing that they’re just on a different level.

Rachel: I don’t think it’s a bad thing to have acquaintances or friendships that are reliant on proximity. It doesn’t mean those friendships aren’t meaningful. I think, right now, people are taking a look at their friendships and thinking, “What is this person’s role in my life? What is my role in theirs?”

Instead of spreading yourself super thin and trying to set up a Google Hangout with everyone you know, it might make sense to focus on the two or three people you feel a really strong connection with and try to build those relationships up and make them deeper and stronger through this.

Gyan: Can we also talk about Ring Theory, which you also wrote about in your book. It feels particularly important right now.

Rachel: Definitely. So, Ring Theory first showed up in the Los Angeles Times and the idea is to imagine concentric circles. So, there’s a small circle and then a bigger one around it and a bigger one around that. The person who’s going through a rough time is at the center of the ring and then there’s people who are at each of those circles extending out.

So, if I’m going through a rough time, my partner is going to be the next person in the next ring because she’s closest to me. My mom would also be in that closest ring. And then, from there outwards are more distant friends or coworkers—just people who are not as close to the center of the thing that is happening.

One example for right now could be, if someone’s really stressed about everything that’s happening with police brutality they shouldn’t have to turn that inward to the people at the center of the ring. They should be able to dump it out to people who are more removed from it. In this case it would be to other white people or other allies. That’s what dump out, comfort in means.

Gyan: What would you say the best friends in your circle are doing right now in terms of showing up for you?

Rachel: My friend Sally, who you know, is a great ally. She’s talking to white people, she’s donating, she’s uplifting Black voices, and making sure she’s really focused on that at the political level. She’s also doing a lot for me personally. A couple of weeks ago, she took it upon herself to just look at a wishlist I’d made of everything I wanted on Animal Crossing and started tracking down everything for me. I think she’s on these side websites or Reddit. She hasn’t told me how she’s doing any of it exactly, which is part of the magic.

She didn’t say, “I’m doing this because of all the things that are happening right now.” She just saw a thing she could do for me that she knew would cheer me up in this really small way. Playing Animal Crossing is an escape for me, and her doing this essentially gave me an extra thing to do as a coping and self-care mechanism. It’s fun and it’s sweet and thoughtful, and just very unique. That’s not advice that everybody would want at this moment but she’s the kind of person who knows me well, trusts our friendship, and trusts her instincts to notice.

On Showing Up for Yourself

Gyan: In the chapter “Showing Up for Yourself When Shit Gets Hard” you talk about accepting that normal doesn’t really exist anymore as a way to deal with bad times. I know that you wrote this book before the pandemic, but that sentiment feels so relevant to right now.

Rachel: Acknowledging that things aren’t normal gives you the freedom to reimagine and reset your expectations. It gives you a chance to take a really realistic look at what’s happening, but also to envision a different future. It allows you to re-calibrate your sense of etiquette, your sense of duty to others, your sense of duty to yourself. I think it relieves a lot of pressure.

Gyan: I was talking to another friend (who recently lost someone close to her) yesterday who was saying that she didn’t have the energy to work out, or meditate, or do morning pages—all her usual methods of self-care. And I quoted something that you’ve written about before, and also in your book, that’s along the lines of: “Well, did you have a shower today? Did you eat breakfast? Is your house clean enough that it’s hygienic?” And she said, “Yeah, I’m doing all those things.” And I was like, “Well, maybe that’s just enough for now.”

Rachel: That’s it, yeah. It’s really hard to admit that you can’t do the things you used to do. And it’s weird because we’ll hold these ideas in our heads—and I’ve totally done this before—where you’re like, “I know things are bad right now, but I should still be able to do the exact same things as always. And only feel bad about this a tiny bit of the time.” But that’s not how it works.

It’s weird to have that realization of, like, “Oh, I see it’s not just painful in theory it’s painful in practice.” Of course you’re not going to be your normal self right now because things are not normal, or you’re not normal, or the world’s not normal. Recognizing that has always helped me feel better.

Gyan: I think that one of the issues with the way self-care and wellness have been marketed to us is that they often start with this assumption that you’re starting your journey at 100%—that anything you do in the name of self-care is improving upon that baseline, as a bonus. But who’s at 100% right now? Whether you’re Black, or you’re a person of color or queer or trans, or you’ve lost your job, or someone you love has passed away, or you or someone you know has been arrested—there are all of these things happening right now now that have taken everyone down so many additional pegs that the recent concepts of self-care don’t really apply.

Rachel: I felt that since the beginning of the pandemic when everybody was like, “What’s your hobby going to be and what are you going to learn?” I love self improvement—I love it, I love it all the time. But there’s no room for self-improvement right now, we’re in survival mode!

Gyan: Totally! How are you feeling about the fact that it’s kind of a timely moment for your book to come out?

Rachel: I feel sad that the book is so useful right now because I don’t want anyone to need this book, particularly the sections about showing up when shit gets hard. But, I feel glad that I can be useful right now. I tried to write it in a way that it would be broadly applicable in tons of different situations. It’s nice to know that when people are going through a hard time you have something to offer them.

Rachel Wilkerson Miller is VICE’s Deputy Editor, Life and author of The Art of Showing Up: How to Be There for Yourself and Your People. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram.

Photo of Rachel by Elena Mudd.

The post How to Show Up for Your People, and Yourself, Right Now appeared first on Man Repeller.

Lihte Has Big (and Practical) Ideas for the Future of Fashion

In this series, Man Repeller shines a light on standout independent, Black-owned fashion labels we think you should know about (and shop from!). And in turn, they’re passing the baton and spotlighting a handful of organizations and businesses they know and love. Today we have Paul-Simon Djite, co-founder of Lihte.

The brand:

Lihte, an online platform connecting brands with stylists and editors, allowing them to select samples and make a request in under 10 minutes.

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We miss the magic of shoots, and our amazing stylist friends like @reginadetails Thank you for featuring @isabelbonner__studio in this beautiful @voguechina shoot

A Love Letter to My Mailman, and the Incomparable Camaraderie Between Black Strangers

Every day, between 2 and 4 p.m., the mailman strolls around my neighborhood and the very knowledge of his closeness makes me feel like I am 13 again. My whole body becomes a tiny whirlwind, my insides spin with mild embarrassment and gladness. Somehow, he always seems to approach my apartment when I am most visible—as I accidentally throw the recycling into the garbage bin or dance wildly to Thundercat’s “Dragonball Durag” or fight off mosquitos during a midday porch break. Maybe it’s that I subconsciously want to be seen and make myself noticeable when I sense his arrival. Either way, our interactions, though expected, always feel coincidental and surprising, as if I’m meeting him for the first time every day.

It’s also possible that I’m just inventing this intimacy to make meaning, to cope. Because of quarantine, he is the only Black person I see non-digitally on a regular basis. It’s been weeks since I’ve embraced someone who looks like me. My roommates are white, my neighbors are white, a majority of the people in Austin, where I have lived for a year, are white. The prevalent whiteness of my surroundings only intensifies the acute adoration I have for him and other Black strangers I have witnessed during this period of social distancing. But even before the pandemic, I felt fond of him. Each day, he greets me with a familiar kindness, like that of a close friend. His walk, always skip-like. His demeanor, always refreshing.

What started as an ordinary interaction became a fascinating point of connection.

At first, my relationship with him was an inside joke with friends. I’d tell them that the mailman delivering my body oil was the closest thing I had to physical intimacy. On walks with my neighbor, I’d dramatically pronounce him the love of my life and pretend to swoon. But after a few weeks, the joke evolved into something more serious: I couldn’t stop thinking about seeing him. What started as an ordinary interaction became a fascinating point of connection.

The very nature of the mailman’s job embodies what I consider to be the most romantic aspect of strangerhood—although we do not know anything about each other, we are reminded of our interconnection in the small, seemingly arbitrary ways that our lives intersect. For a few moments every day, the mailman holds my most intimate items: the overpriced panties I impulsively purchase, the student loan bills I never open, the letters from friends that I open quickly with delight, the cadmium yellow bed sheets I cry on when I feel small, the Ruby Woo lipstick I swipe on when I want to feel like the hottest girl in the world.

When he delivers my mail, all he sees are slightly bent envelopes and cardboard boxes, but inside the packaging are the personal artifacts that make up my rituals and routines, the things that contribute to who I am. This is not to say that bills and material items are my identity, but they are undeniably a fragment of it. And it feels significant and wondrous that a Black man who I barely know is a part of this fragment. He probably doesn’t have this romanticized perception of his role in my life. At the end of the day, I’m just one of the many people to whom he delivers mail. Still, I feel a tenderness that I need right now.

It feels cathartic to join together digitally, giving each other the space for rage and heartache.

The murder and assault of Black people in America is not a new occurrence, of course. Our country was structured upon the blood of Black and Brown lives. Suffering, especially that of the Black community, is a part of the foundation of American history. We feel and see this history systemically and individually on a regular basis. All Black people can tell stories about racist encounters we’ve experienced throughout our lives. Some of these experiences are subtle, like racial gaslighting or invalidation, while other experiences are overtly abusive and life-threatening, like being killed by police.

Whether it’s micro- or macro-aggressive, racism is always traumatic and haunting. It shouldn’t have taken the deaths of Breonna and Tony and Ahmaud and George (and countless others) for non-Black people to realize this. Black bodies shouldn’t have to be slaughtered for society to make necessary changes. Sometimes, it feels as if white people need sacrifices for our livelihood to be considered and respected. Why must our blood be spilled? Why aren’t our words enough? Online, my Black friends and I exchange our frustrations via typo-ed tweets and DMs. It feels cathartic to join together digitally, giving each other the space for rage and heartache. However, eventually, I’m forced to put down my iPhone and reckon with the fact that I am alone, physically separated from the people who understand my pain the most.

Recently, while on a bike ride, I thought about a Black college acquaintance who was tackled, frisked, and arrested for cycling without a bike light. Though this incident wasn’t fatal, I considered that something similar could happen to me and I may not be as lucky to survive. I had taken the bike ride to soothe my anxieties, but these thoughts only heightened them. As I rode around downtown, past vacant bus stops and bushes of Texas sage, my brown skin illuminated by golden hour, I worried whether I would be America’s next unnecessary sacrifice in this fight for racial justice. I imagined the digital memorials my friends and family would craft in honor and defense of my life. I imagined the swarm of ignorant individuals who might plaster them with invalidating comments like #alllivesmatter. I visualized the life that I so badly desire to live being taken from me. As I thought through these horrific things, a police officer drove past and waved. The moment felt so ironic. I could only sigh in response.

His kin-like warmth suggests that he knows I’m not really asking about the rising June heat.

Sometimes, I wonder if the mailman feels scared as he works—his Black body so visible as he approaches homes throughout my very white neighborhood. I’ve thought to ask him, but instead, I bring up superficial things like the weather. His kin-like warmth suggests that he knows I’m not really asking about the rising June heat. Amidst this national chaos, how could I be? The threat to Black life is the main thing on my mind and I assume that this is true for him too. We’ve never openly discussed this, but somehow our small talk feels as comforting as the difficult conversations about racial politics that I have with my companions during long FaceTime calls.

I adore him, I do. And I have reason to believe this adoration is at least somewhat mutual. There is always an instant camaraderie when Black strangers encounter each other, even if the exchange is brief and minimal. It’s felt in the head nods, in the grins, in the reciprocated hair compliments. As this country continues to neglect, violate, and assault us, it’s necessary to offer this kind of softness to each other, to share comfort through body language, to validate our collective weariness with just a few words. Compassion is the only thing we have.

Before quarantine, tragic events were more often processed communally. We could be together without masks and screens and moody wi-fi. We could weep in each other’s arms and share meals in each other’s homes. We could momentarily trade our grief for Saturday night sweat and flashy disco light. Now our togetherness, though undeniably strong, is compromised by COVID-19. Even the marches and protests are marked with a sense of pandemic anxiety.

It is incredibly overwhelming to grapple with this pain at distance from each other, to try to get by without the tangible presence of a brown-skinned body. In the midst of tragedy, all I want is to be engulfed by the soulfulness of Black folks, to be in a chorus of Black groanings and laughter. But, for now, every afternoon, I look out my open window and wave at the mailman, grinning wide as he tells me to stay safe.

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How to Shop for Fruit Like You Know What You’re Doing

In times of stress, people are often encouraged to close their eyes and “transport” themselves to a “pristine beach” or “fond memory.” But my happy place is… the produce section of the grocery store. I fantasize about walking to my local market, stuffing my canvas bags with as many fruits and vegetables as I can carry (and afford), and laying out my bounty on my kitchen table like a stunning Renaissance still-life. The fantasy unfolds as I stand back and take it all in: a turquoise pint of raspberries nestled in kale’s shade. Kumquats hobnobbing with celery. Radishes. Grapes. Fat-bottomed figs. A sumptuous sumo orange lookin’ like an absolute snack. I’m horny for wholesomeness, what can I say.

When it comes to the reality of grocery shopping, you know what really bruises the aforementioned fantasy of mine? Attempting to evaluate fruit ripeness based on vague tips and myths I’ve picked up from friends and sketchy corners of the internet. Am I supposed to sniff a peach or give it a gentle squeeze? Do I really have to knock on a watermelon to gauge its juiciness? Luckily, Andrew Heinecke—greengrocer for Bi-Rite Market, a San Francisco-based grocery store known for its ultra-fresh produce—was happy to answer my (and likely your) burning questions. Here’s what he told me about picking fruit that’s at its peak.

Watermelon

For the sweetest slice, Heinecke says to choose whatever watermelon feels the heaviest for its size, and has the most sugar spots. The sugar spots are those brown “pollination points” that look like reptile skin. (Is that gross? Sorry.)

Cantaloupe

When picking out a cantaloupe (or any similar melon, like honeydew, crenshaw, charentais, galia, etc.), check for a sweet fragrance, and like watermelon, grab the heaviest for its size.

Pineapple

Same goes for pineapple: sweet smell, weight-to-size ratio. But Heinecke also suggests lightly tugging on the leaves at the center-top of the crown, which “should loosen and pop off fairly easily when ripe.”

Peaches

“Smell for sweetness, never squeeze!” Heinecke says. Look for a regular shape, and—you guessed it—feel the weight for the size. These rules apply to all stone fruit, like apricots and plums.

Avocados

Heinecke says that squeezing an avocado will damage it—similar to stone fruit—so try hugging it gently with your palm. When it’s ripe, there should be a little give. “For Hass avocados, you can also wiggle the nub at the top and if it comes right off and there’s bright green underneath, you have a winner,” Heinecke says.

Mango

“Here’s where you can give a gentle squeeze with the palms of your hands, using your fingertips to increase pressure. There should be a slight give.”

Lemons

Heinecke says to look for glossy skin and simple firmness.

Apples

“Apples should be richly colored for their specific varieties, with no bruises or wrinkles.”

Pears

“Pears are tricky because so many of them are delicious throughout much of their entire life at a store. A very general guideline for finding a ripened pear in its prime is to check the stem end very gently for softness. A tiny bit of give is fine.”

Grapefruit

“These are best when firm-to-almost-bursting, and richly colored.”

Cherries

Again, you’re after rich color and firmness. “Different varieties have different coloration, so it helps to get a little info on the varieties in your store.”

Lastly, Heinecke suggests developing a relationship with your local greengrocer, whether you shop at a grocery store or farmer’s market. “Look for a shop that emphasizes organic, responsible, farm-direct offerings. Organic and responsible aren’t always the same thing,” he says. “Talk to them about seasonality, quality, and flavor. Ask about healthy farming, sourcing, and pricing. By showing them that you value the most commonly discussed agricultural topics, you’re letting them know that you’re serious about getting their best offerings.” You can also expect to be given a few samples and exclusive treats, he adds.

And on that note, I’m heading to the market with every tote bag I can find in my house.

The post How to Shop for Fruit Like You Know What You’re Doing appeared first on Man Repeller.

In the Market for a Statement Swimsuit? Look No Further Than Fe Noel

In this series, Man Repeller shines a light on independent, Black-owned fashion labels we think you should know about (and shop from!). And in turn, they’re passing the baton and spotlighting a handful of labels they know and love. Today we have Fe Noel, founder and designer of Fe Noel.

The brand:

Fe Noel, an eponymous womenswear label inspired by the founder’s Grenadian heritage.

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“Sheer is like a tease for me, not showing everything all at once. It’s sensual” – xxFe

A post shared by Fe Noel (@fenoel) on Jun 17, 2020 at 3:34pm PDT

If we drew a 3-adjective Venn diagram, Fe Noel would sit in the center of:

Gauzy, punchy, inventive

Fantasy scenario:

You are floating on one of those inflatable air sofas in the middle of a lake, constantly fielding compliments on your puff-sleeved bodysuit from nearby swimmers. The days are long, the water is sparkling around you, and the sun won’t set behind the trees until nine at night. After a half hour of sunbathing, you paddle back to the rocky shoreline with your hands. You dry off and root around in your tote bag for your cover-up while squinting into the sun. You can’t remember whether you packed the sheer hoodie robe or that other striped one you love so much. Turns out you packed both.

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Grace giving us all the feels in Cartagena #fenoelwoman

A post shared by Fe Noel (@fenoel) on May 26, 2019 at 12:14pm PDT

Black entrepreneurship in Fe’s words:

“Being a Black business owner right now means power. It means the ability to communicate who I am to the world. In the fashion industry, we are gravely under- and mis-represented. I have the ability to represent us in a beautiful and authentic way, and that’s powerful to me.”

I. Fanm Mon, II. Veggies Natural Juice Bar in Brooklyn, NY, III. Coiffed 220, IV. Ditto Africa.

Want more? Check out MR Market Strategist Elizabeth Tamkin’s database of more than 600 Black-owned brands, along with some of her personal shopping recommendations. If you have a suggestion that you think should be added, please share it in the comments.

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Meet Opal Lee, the 93-Year-Old Who’s Making Sure Juneteenth Finally Gets Its Due

Opal Lee has been campaigning to make Juneteenth a national holiday for years. Photographer Antonio Chicaia visited her yesterday to take her picture, and talk about her history with the upcoming holiday and her plans for this year.

I’m Opal Lee. I’m a 93 year old. I’ll be 94 in October. My parents brought me to Fort Worth from Marshall, Texas in 1937, when I was 9 or 10.

We had big Juneteenth celebrations in Marshall when I was growing up. We’d go to the fairground. It was like Christmas or Thanksgiving to be able to go on the 19th of June to celebrate freedom. I didn’t know much about freedom when we came to Fort Worth.

Starting around 1974, I went to Juneteenth celebrations in a tiny little place called Sycamore Park between Vickery Street and Rosedale Street—30,000 people, 10,000 people a day for three days. That was a glorious time. Our historical society had some educational material that we took to Sycamore Park. I don’t think many people noticed it, though. They were having such a good time.

I have three boys and a girl. The girl’s the oldest. She’s about 76 now. Her brothers are two years younger—74, 72. I lost a child. All my boys served in Vietnam at the same time. They all came home, but I will always believe my youngest son came into contact with Agent Orange. He was paralyzed before he died. He never got a VA benefit. He was honorably discharged, never got any medical attention from the VA or anything. Nothing. But water under the bridge.

I taught for 10 years. I love teaching. I tell you, I taught so long I was beginning to act like them kids. Then they give me another job. They said: “You’d be better at doing the social work.” They called it “visiting teacher,” but I didn’t have to teach nobody. I had to find out what was wrong and keep them in school.

I started out walking 1,400 miles from Fort Worth to Washington, DC. I did two and a half miles in the morning and two and a half in the evening, to signify that slaves didn’t know they were free for two and a half years after the emancipation. I walked the two and a half miles morning and evening from Fort Worth to Arlington to Grand Prairie to Dallas to Box Springs and Joppa.

I was invited all over the United States. I went to Shreveport and I went to Texarkana and Little Rock, Fort Smith, Denver, Colorado, Colorado Springs, Madison, Wisconsin, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I went to Atlanta and to North or South Carolina. I’ve been to Virginia. I’ve been to over 20 cities so far. Austin, Texas, all these places, making people aware, some who never knew anything about Juneteenth. I’m delighted that Juneteenth is getting some momentum.

This year, for Juneteenth, we’ve already done a flag raising, and we’ve had our breakfast of prayer. Now, you’re not to confuse our breakfast of prayer with a prayer breakfast, where you sit down and eat a lot of food. We are planning a caravan that will start downtown at the Convention Center on Commerce. We’ll go to Lancaster all the way to Will Rogers Auditorium, and that will be two and a half miles, to symbolize that slaves didn’t know they were free for two and a half years after the Emancipation. I’m going to do the walking and everybody else is going to be in their car. Then, when they turn around, they’ll come back, and we’ll have some food trucks, and people can order, get their food, all that kind of good stuff.

What I’m seeing in the protests right now is that it’s not just black people or white people, it’s all kinds of people coming together. And this is what I dream for Juneteenth—that all kinds of people will come together, that we will celebrate freedom from the 19th of June to the 4th of July. If we put our collective stuff together, we can make this the greatest country on Earth.

To learn more about Juneteenth, start with this New York Times article. Go here to sign Opal’s petition to make Juneteenth a national holiday.

As told to Antonio Chicaia.

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“Black Photographers Are Important Here—And This Moment Is Very Precious to Us”

I’m originally from Birmingham, Alabama, but I’ve been based in Atlanta since 2014. Back home, the market for photographers is smaller, and it was saturated with white male photographers. I didn’t identify with anyone there, when it came to commercial and editorial work. That’s why I decided to move to Atlanta—to find a different community, to work with photographers who were other races, not just white.

Now, I usually shoot editorial work—often for USA Today, the New York Times and NPR. I’ve also done projects about the Gullah Geechee culture, who are located on the coast of South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida. I’ve done projects about the Negro Baseball League, and I’ve been to New Orleans to take pictures of the Mardi Gras Indians. My personal work has been centered around Black life and how we celebrate it.

This photo was taken while on vacation in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. On the trip, I started chatting with people in the neighborhood and someone mentioned Super Sunday, which is when the Mardi Gras Indians wear their beautiful suits and have a parade through the city. The magnificent suits are hand-sewn with feathers, beads, rhinestones, and sequins. Kids to adults enjoy this moment of pageantry as they strut down the street with crowds from block to block. It’s one of New Orleans’ most treasured experiences that everyone should have at least once in their lives.

I’ve been shooting the protests in Atlanta since the afternoon of May 29th. Black photographers are important here. There’s a sense of compassion [in those images] because you, as the photographer, might have experienced something that the other person has experienced as well. We’re not reaching for any goal other than to preserve our culture. And this moment is very precious to us. We don’t want anybody to skew the narrative about our reasons for being at a protest. Having our visual voice in place makes this moment more impactful.

Before I left the first day of protests, I was walking in the middle of the street when strife between the police and protesters began. I noticed this young woman in the middle of the street and her stance was so strong, which made me take her photo quickly.

I listen before I photograph. I’m a former public speaking instructor—I would teach my students to listen before you talk, because if you don’t, you can miss the most important aspect of a person or an event. When I go to a protest, I’m listening to what’s going on around me—I’m listening to the chants, I’m listening to the music that’s being played. I usually like to stay in the back of a crowd—1, because it’s more dispersed and 2, just for safety precautions. When you’re walking in the back of the group, you’re able to talk to people a little bit more. Being humble enough to listen to someone else’s story is very important—you find out that you have similar joys, similar pains.

We all walked to the Georgia State Capitol during the first day of protests in Atlanta on May 29th, when we learned of George Floyd’s murder. Protesters also stood in solidarity for Tony McDade, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery.

There’s a distinct difference between listening and hearing, because you can hear me all day, but you have to have the intent to listen. And it has to be genuine. It has to come from a place of humility, rather than [someone] coming to a protest to photograph for the potential awards. I don’t care about that stuff. In this moment, there are photographers—basically white photographers—who are not listening, who are only looking for the glory of the photo rather than pursuing the mission that’s at hand. That mission, of course, is to eradicate racism, to eradicate white supremacy, to remove all of these things that have been on the backs of Black folks for centuries.

Mr. Nathan Knight, president of the Dekalb (GA) SCLC, stood on a monument in downtown Atlanta during the protests. He shared his experience during the Civil Rights Movement, which is a constant reminder of the injustices Black people are still fighting for.

Being able to be in the midst of other Black photographers, Black female photographers, Black non-binary photographers—that’s history in itself. How many of us can actively say that we’ve seen this many Black photographers documenting an issue that is about us? Even when you think about the civil rights movement, Black photographers were few and far between.This past Saturday, I went to three different protests. The one that resonated with me most was the one that dealt with Black trans lives. That definitely goes under the radar in this movement—along with Black women’s lives. Not only am I Black, but I’m Black, queer, and a woman, and every situation I go into, I bring my full identity. We’re trying to fight for everybody, not just one particular group. We have to understand that Black men’s lives, Black women’s lives, Black Trans lives, Black LGBTQIA lives: They all matter.

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Seems Like It’s a Wild Time to Be in the Bike Biz?

Itching for any excuse to pop outside and get some exercise, I’ve found that the ultimate silver lining of these past months has been acquainting myself with Citi Bike, New York’s bicycle-share system, and the city’s bike routes. Masked, gloved, and helmeted, I’m reminded what incredible lengths I will go to in order to avoid the dread-inducing practice of running.

Out on my regular loop, I’ve heard whispers about how the pandemic has impacting bicycle shops and have been curious to learn more about what, exactly, that has felt like for some of my favorite bike-makers. So, I got in touch with the people behind tokyobike, Terry Bicycles, and LINUS, to find out what kind of wild ride 2020 has been for them so far.

Adam McDermott, Founder of LINUS

Linus is a bicycle brand with a sensibility that is equal parts 60s French design and contemporary California.

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The perfect time to discover the gardens & green spaces in your own backyard.

Colorful Bags With Big Buckles: EDAS Is What You’ll Want to Wear to Your Future Friend Dinner

In this series, Man Repeller shines a light on standout independent, Black-owned fashion labels we think you should know about (and shop from!). And in turn, they’re passing the baton and spotlighting a handful of labels they know and love. Today we have Sade Mims, founder and designer of the accessory brand EDAS.

The brand:

EDAS, an accessories label (with a few clothing items mixed in!) that launched in 2015

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Liz for EDAS SS18 “their”. – Shot by: @avi_avion Hair by: @mmsmithco Styled by: @meccajw Makeup by: @chelsea.dannielle

A post shared by EDAS (@__edas) on Apr 16, 2020 at 10:31am PDT

The designer:

Sade Mims

If we drew a 3-adjective Venn diagram, EDAS would sit in the center of:

Earthy, sculptural, restrained

Fantasy scenario:

Walking to meet your friends for dinner wearing one of EDAS’ sold-out Delentals (a kind of asymmetrical black leather apron) over an oversized white button-down, jeans, squiggly scene-stealing Prime earrings in your lobes, and the Yshaia bag in the crook of your elbow. Walking fast, listening to a podcast. You all meet outside the restaurant and decide to wait for a table outside. You debate whether there are really two kinds of people in this world: those who scope out the menu online ahead of time, and those who let it wash over them once they sit down to eat.

Black entrepreneurship in Sade’s words:

“I have a responsibility to use my platform to authentically tell the Black story and to hire and collaborate with Black creatives—it’s imperative. I knew that was my duty in 2015, and I most certainly know that it’s even more crucial now. What we’re seeing is a revolution, but this type of uprising has been the reality for Black people for quite a while, so I’m really excited to see this unification happening on a global level.”

I. KKerele, II. Dermasaa, III. Kenneth Ize.

Check out MR Market Strategist Elizabeth Tamkin’s database of more than 550 Black-owned brands, along with some of her personal shopping recommendations. If you have a suggestion that you think should be added, please share it in the comments.

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Stay-at-Home Dads Share What It’s Really Like

In the lead up to Father’s Day, we’d like to revisit a Man Repeller piece about dads and the many different roles they can play. This story was originally published in 2019.

According to Pew Research, the number of stay-at-home dads in America is on the rise: 7% of American fathers choose to stay at home, which accounts for 17% of all stay-at-home parents (up from 10% in 1989). Depending on your view, those numbers will either be heartening (more dads subverting gender norms and choosing to place their partners’ careers ahead of their own!), heartbreaking (fewer than one in four primary caregivers are men!), or just plain befuddling (why do we even track these things/why do we still adhere to outdated notions of gender roles/why is childcare in America so expensive/wait, there are MEN who stay at home with their children?).

I talked to three stay-at-home dads about their decision to stay home, and how they have reconfigured their understanding of success to do it. Below are their stories.

Conor, 34

As with many serious things in life, I laid the groundwork for being a stay-at-home dad by joking about it. But after my daughter was born, it became very important to me to be with her. My wife and I talked about our general desire to have a parent be her primary caregiver, but it was always with the understanding that it was my preference to fulfill that role, and not my wife’s.

In the lead-up to the decision, we were in a good position to keep both our jobs. My wife had a great job that she loved and I worked at a fun fabrication firm. We had childcare miraculously lined up through sheer determination and some luck. But as much as I trusted the folks we found, the added stress and expense of managing logistics in a day largely spent without her didn’t seem worth it. Fortunately for us, it turned out it was actually more feasible from a financial perspective for me to leave the workforce. This was a narrower view than we might have taken considering some of the potholes we’ve experience since we made this decision (like balancing home responsibilities, post-work free time, etc). I don’t think we would have made a different decision, but we might have talked more about what it would mean for one of us to not be “working.”

Early on, the biggest challenge was simply getting her to drink from a bottle. I have vivid memories of both of us crying in an armchair until one of us fell asleep on a throw pillow. But in the long run, trying to grow my limited pool of patience and actually learning more about the healthy management of my emotions has been hard. My kid is my mirror, especially as she has learned to speak and express herself more clearly. When I’m a bonehead or my voice is harsh, it is instantly apparent. And now she’ll even say things like, “Dad, it’s aaaalright. Cool your jets,” when I sound annoyed (she’s three-and-a-half). So I have serious motivation to learn to regulate and try to be a better example for her.

On a day-to-day level, just moving through the day with a fun and exploratory sense of adventure and everyone falling asleep peacefully and well-fed is a success.

I’ve always struggled with the idea of what it means for me to be successful. For me, this conjures up a sense of professional accomplishment, recognition, culminating in copious remuneration, so I can travel and be super classy. I have repeatedly made decisions that have moved me away from those things. So there is a tension between what I’ve grown accustomed to believing success to be and what I derive a sense of meaning from. It was my priority to be present as a parent versus being employed. So for me, I feel like I’ve been more of a “success” as a parent than if I had simply gone to work at a job to continue to earn money.

On a day-to-day level, just moving through the day with a fun and exploratory sense of adventure and everyone falling asleep peacefully and well-fed is a success. If I manage to clear some brush or work on a house project, then it’s a real win. When my “working” life gave me a good feeling, it would happen at the end of a long project, or maybe when I was putting the finish on a beautiful table top. But as nice as those things felt, it’s not like I would take my phone out later to look at pictures of these projects or table tops to cheer myself up.

I think I’m working more towards a sense of satisfaction than success. I’m grateful to be able to be with my daughter as she grows. But this is my choice for me and our family, you know? Lots of people raise other human beings in all kinds of ways, I’m doing it this way. And we’ll see how it turns out.

There is one moment I remember really starkly, when another stay-at-home dad and I were strolling with our kiddos, when we were stopped by an older lady. She cooed at the kids and then looked up and asked if we were married. We both explained that our wives were out working and that we were the caretakers for these small humans. She looked at us and said, “That’s great, just great. My husband — he wouldn’t pick up a toothpick if it fell on the floor, the sonofabitch. But he’s dead now. It’s OK. God bless.”

Otis, 55

The decision for me to stay at home was based on the best opportunity for our family. After having our son Oscar, my wife had gone back to producing TV while I continued to run my own sports memorabilia business. Oscar was always in our care as we arranged our work schedules to accommodate this.

When Oscar was still young, however, my wife got an offer to produce a show in Indianapolis. For the next three months she lived in a hotel room while I cared for our son and ran my business. We ended up having to get a part-time sitter, since I was still trying to work. But soon after, the network asked her to do a show in Vegas. Her career was picking up steam rapidly and we wanted to be together all the time, so the decision was pretty simple. I sold my business, we put our house on Airbnb, packed our stuff, and haven’t looked back.

I never really understood it when people would ask me about “success.” I never bothered with thinking about it and would fight it each time I heard it, which was too often.

The biggest challenge for me in this role is trying to stay busy and try new things. It’s very easy to park a child in front of a TV and read your phone. Fortunately for us, as we moved from city to city we had nothing but new opportunities at each new stop. That has kept things fresh. The biggest joy is the ability to be with my son. He’s seven now, and primarily homeschooled — he has probably spent more time with me than I spent with my either of parents. Obviously it can get a little testy at times, but it’s worth every bit of that to be able to watch him grow daily right before my eyes.

As far as success goes, I am not a traditional capitalist. My capital was me initially and now it’s my family. I never really understood it when people would ask me about “success.” I never bothered with thinking about it and would fight it each time I heard it, which was too often. I simply did things, took each day at time and did my best not to force anything. This line of thinking was not popular with my parents. I am a huge fan of the late Colonel Bruce Hampton, whose mantra was to “collapse into yourself.” When I heard this it was the first time I could articulate how I wanted to live. It’s about not trying so hard or, really, not trying at all. It’s based on letting things just happen. It’s not pre-producing a movie of your life in your head.

That line of thinking comes with a guarantee of failure. Unfortunately we’ve been wired to fear failure, when in essence, it’s one of the best opportunities to learn about yourself. This is not easy to do, but the less you care about others’ ambitions for you, I think the opportunities can be endless. That philosophy has helped me move through five different careers, become a dad at 48, and who knows what else?

But yeah, I’ve had to defend my choice to stay at home! It certainly raises eyebrows and causes heads to shake. Being a stay-at-home dad requires being a team player, ignoring sexist stereotypes, putting most of your ego, some hobbies and interests aside for a bit, and seeing the big picture. I’m cool with being “Oscar’s Dad.”

Andy, 32

I’ve been a stay-at-home dad for just over a year, taking care of my 15-month-old daughter. My wife has been on a solid career track since before we met. I’m a visual artist and have had random, mostly administrative day jobs, but in the last few years have been able to supplement my income doing freelance work related to my visual art practice. It seemed like a no-brainer for me to be home with our daughter and for my wife to continue her path in her career — it made more sense financially for me to take on full-time childcare rather than pay someone else to do it.

A big challenge is dealing with other people’s expectations of what a stay-at-home parent should be. I’m lucky to live in a community with a lot of parent/child meetups during the work week. Some mothers treat me like a novelty, tell me it’s “so great” that I get to be home with my daughter, things I don’t know if they would say to another mother. My first mom friend who asked me for parenting advice almost made me cry, feeling validation in my abilities as a parent from a social perspective. I also get a lot of doors held for me, pats on the back, compliments about being a good dad, giving mom the day off, etc. My wife doesn’t enjoy this treatment from strangers when she’s out alone with our daughter.

A lot of people, before the baby was born, asked me if I was sure I wanted to do this. My mother would ask me if I was sure I wanted to do this, if I realized what I was getting myself into.

In terms of success from a parenting perspective, it’s just, like, taking care of my daughter all day and going to bed feeling like I did okay, like she had a good day and ate all her food and took a good nap. From a personal or creative perspective, it’s taking advantage of the mental freedom to continue to grow my creative practice as an artist, and using my limited free time productively. I’ve had some small successes in my art practice in the last year that have felt very special. To have that as an outlet and to be able to actually get things accomplished always feels like a meaningful victory.

A lot of people, before the baby was born, asked me if I was sure I wanted to do this. My mother would ask me if I was sure I wanted to do this, if I realized what I was getting myself into. Now, people ask me how it really is being a stay-at-home parent, and I tell them that it can be hard and definitely tiring and frustrating, but it’s never stressful. I feel lucky to be in this situation. My wife’s job stresses her out, and she’s going to leave it one day, while I get to raise our child to be a (hopefully) good person.

I have a very “normal” relationship with my own dad. He worked, isn’t super emotionally giving, but certainly not a bad parent. To know that my daughter is going to be so much closer to me than I am with my own dad makes me really happy. People always say they want to learn from their parents “mistakes” in raising them, and I feel like so far I’m doing that. That feels really cool.

Illustrations by Ana Leovy. 

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