Anyone close to me knows that I would rather get a cavity filled than drive a car. I would hike through the lush coastal forests of southern France, then journey in a vehicle in my home state of Florida. I’m an avid traveler who revels in exploring the anomaly of an abandoned factory in a mill town or a spotty sea creature surrounded by several tons of metal. But my earthly desires have subsided for a more significant cause: to investigate abortion access in Florida.
As someone born and raised in Miami, driving through the state allows me to work through the many contradictions of the place I once called home. Although I have not lived in Florida since I was eighteen, understanding the ways that like-minded people continue to uphold pregnant people's bodily autonomy is important to me. I want to comprehend how pro-choice activists, medical staff, and lawyers continue to fight against a repressive government that has rescinded women’s rights, gay rights, and transgender rights over the past decade.
Abortion access is the central theme driving my research trip, but the journey has become about so much more. I am learning about the relentless and negative impact on the lives of immigrants through Orwellian-style initiatives such as the Florida migrant “relocation” program, Bright Horizons. (When an immigrant rights advocate first told me about this, I was so enraged and thought about the “relocation” initiatives of Nazi Germany and proposals by the AfD far-right party.) I have gotten commentary from people about how the liberal gun laws leave a layer of folk thinking: will this argument with a stranger be my last? One person confessed that she spent $8 on six eggs at the grocery store. (This is not merely an anecdote but a national problem.) At a certain point, I cannot help but think that the cruel cultural war agenda by the Florida governor and senate is not only a distraction but a continuation of making life miserable for most Floridians. But I digress.
Adventurous, frank, and dry-witted, I often throw some people off because I fail to exhibit the spirit of the quintessential Florida person. (If you don’t know, you should find out which Florida person you are.) My quirky touchstones can be inviting for some but impudent for others. But in a way, it’s not about me, but rather, about the people I gravitate to. In his seminal text, On the Road, Jack Kerouac said:
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Like Kerouac, I am a sucker for the mad and the deviant. However, I wondered in college when I first read the novel and now, as I travel through Florida, who these road trips were meant for. In 1957, the year that Kerouac’s book was published, Jim Crow laws, defacto racial segregation, were still the law of the land in the United States. Kerouac and his literary comrades were trying to challenge the status quo. However, given the little they did to challenge a system that worked in their favor directly, their counterculture felt more rhetorical than real.
Great road trips come from the communities: the ensemble of characters instinctively reveals a place's complex and subversive sides. Weary of being enthusiastic, they disclose their criticism through irony or sarcasm. The human is vital because it shows they still want to entertain and engage with visitors.
After a week of traveling through Florida by car, I have come to see the state's softer sides: the birds that reside here for refuge, the breathtaking oak trees that shelter a farmer’s Gainesville home, or sunbathing one morning in my friend’s backyard in Tallahassee. Driving through Florida has been more challenging than I thought, primarily because of the long stretches where I have to remain alert and laconic on the flat open road.
Some News
I am now a Contributing Writer for Frieze Magazine. Sitting with gratitude, there are many things I look forward to with this new position. It will allow me to write more for a publication that has allowed me to profile Ellen Gallagher and Paul Purgas. I’ve also spoken with MacArthur genius Carolyn Lazard and Haitian artist Jean-Ulrick Désert. Despite the volatility and unpredictability of media workers, I am learning to be grateful for the few publications that value my work. I sincerely appreciate my Frieze editors—Vanessa, Angel, Chloe, Terrence, and Marko-who have all been phenomenal.
Earlier this month, I published a book review of Cristina Henríquez’s latest novel, The Great Divide, for the Washington Post. The text explores the violence, squalor, and adventure that everyday people experienced as they endured the heat and clung to their dreams. In the text, I write:
This is about the intimate lives of people who are often forgotten, dismissed and willing to sacrifice body and soul to provide a better life for their loved ones.
For many people who grew up in the United States during the 1980s, 1990s, and early 2000s, we were told that if we love our work, then it will love us back. This dictum has proven false for those who continue to be underpaid and overexploited—even in occupations that intellectually fulfill us. That is the subject of my conversation with journalist Sarah Jaffe, author of Work Won’t Love You Back. During this interview, which you can read on the Silver Press blog, we discuss how reproductive and productive labor undermines people’s contributions and how people are re-imagining other possibilities for social change.
Some Recommendations
E. Tammy Kim’s “A Drug Decriminalization Fight Erupts in Oregon” hits close to home. You might be confused, but here’s the deal. I lived in Portland, Oregon, for five years during the early 2000s. In Portland, I lived in multiple communal housing collectives, went to punk shows, and fell in love. Living in Oregon was also the first time that I witnessed the suffering of working-class white Americans in the flesh. During one summer, I worked at Reed College’s art slide library and lived in southeastern Portland, around the corner from one of my lovers. Although we were the only two Black people in the neighborhood, over the summer, we gradually discovered that we were far more privileged than our white neighbors. Many of them struggle with drug addiction and were subject to police raids and meth lab explosions in their basements. That experience, along with others, was part of the reason I eventually volunteered for the needle exchange mobile clinic for the Multnomah County Health Department and the harm reduction health center Outside In. Those experiences and more have taught me firsthand that one needs broad-based programs to provide unhoused people and drug users with safe and non-judgmental spaces. Policing is not only dangerous for them, but it excises their dignity. In my opinion, Kim’s article unpacks the shallowness of some liberals who fail to see the full spectrum of the addicts’ humanity.
Melina Moe’s “There Is No Point in My Being Other Than Honest with You: On Toni Morrison’s Rejection Letters” was initially sent to me by my friend and scholar, Dr. Duane Jethro. Without him knowing it, this was a timely piece for me. In the past two months, I have been rejected by the New York Public Library Cullman Fellowship, MacDowell Fellowship, Yaddo Residency, and every German-based fellowship I applied to. Editors from The New York Times, The Atlantic, and Esquire have told them they hope my pitches and articles will find a better home. In case you were wondering, they have not. But most publications do not even bother to answer my query: The Paris Review, The Yale Review, basically any Anglophone publication with “Review” in the title, for many Black writers with a working-class background can attest to being subjected to a litany of rejection. It’s humbling at best but can tear away at the spirit. At times, I can’t help but wonder if the rejection is purely based on a lack of interest or if some of my articles do not impose the racial identity or questions that some editors would like me to perform. I guess I will never know.
Rozina Ali’s interview on The Longform Podcast was phenomenal. If you don’t know, I want to tell you that Rozina is a talented writer who has written thought-provoking investigative pieces for the New York Times Magazine about the so-called war on terror, Islamophobia in the United States, and so much more. We first met many years ago when we both lived in Cairo, so seeing the fruits of her labor come to life is exciting.
Closing Thoughts
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