Two days after quitting both of my nonlucrative, remote, part-time jobs, I virtually attended the 80th Strange Family Reunion. Yet another silver lining from the coronavirus. The plague sank me financially, hence the two jobs, which kept me underemployed. Yet this global event allowed me to attend our family reunion two years in a row because all it cost me was time.

I met relatives I didn’t know existed and heard stories of ancestors I never knew. Thanks to technology, I’ve captured several narratives from the second generation of freeborn Stranges of whom my mother is one of the remaining of 12. I even took the opportunity to invite them all to participate in a podcast interview, which I launched last year, Strange Family Folklore.

Throughout the virtual program, I kept directing certain parts because I knew I’d eventually have to edit the video for posterity’s sake. I pointed out at the end of Sunday’s hourlong virtual church service, sermoned by one of my cousins, that next year when we’re all together in real life, our tradeoff will be not having a record of the program from start to finish like we’ve done in the past two years.

That prompted one of my sisters to suggest that “someone” could still record impromptu interviews with family reunion attendants, which motivated my other sister to volunteer her to do so. I felt that one coming on. Just like I knew yours truly would probably edit it.

Before I get too ahead of myself, though, I’ll focus on editing this year’s reunion. Since this will be my third Zoom recorded editing project, I’m hoping that it’ll be the charm. I finally have all the clips, including the ones from the other two breakout rooms. As three other people sent me their clips, I fondly remember how that step used to be the stumbling block.

This time around, I knew exactly what to ask them for and how to retrieve it, regardless of how they sent it to me. I even played the role of IT with one of my sisters. She was stuck in that loop of doing the same thing repeatedly, expecting a different result. She’s not crazy. She just didn’t know another way to send the mp4. Not until I talked her through it.

Fortunately, I’ve upped my technology game. My full-time job is tech heavy, and I’m also taking an evening Data Science class. My worst fears of biting off more than I could chew has not come true. If anything, the more I learn about how to use technology to pursue both work and creative projects, the happier I am.

My navigation through this modern jungle of existence has become more interesting. The light at the end of the tunnel isn’t a locomotive ready to mow me over after all.

Memorial Day weekend found me fretting over impending full time employment. I’d been offered a job, which was contingent on passing a drug test and background check. The only snag? A glitch in the digital platform, followed by a holiday weekend, which meant I had to wait until Tuesday to give my prospective employer a call since no one got back to me by Friday.

The one fun thing I’d planned for the long weekend was doing yoga in a friend’s back yard. She’d completed teacher training and had begun to give one-off classes. I hadn’t managed to attend any of her previous classes since I prefer to exercise in the mornings. Plus, my existence had reoriented itself to doing everything from home despite the fact that I love to have an excuse to be with other double vaxxed people. Memorial Day provided the perfect opportunity to check several boxes.

She led me in an hourlong general yoga flow under a tree. Afterwards, we shared food and a bottle of wine. An exercise I like to call “detox-retox.” I loved reconnecting with her. Not only do we share yoga in common, but also reading, writing, and we’ve both been teachers for years.

I was in such wonderful spirits, ready to pick up where I’d left off in job search hoop jumping. Put the key in the ignition, and there it was: the check engine light. I took a deep breath, put the car in reverse and ruminated about how to juggle another emotional-financial consideration.

I’d begun my job-seeking mad dash over a month ago. Although I’d worked a brief math tutoring gig that gave me a life line into June, I thought I would have secured a more lucrative, stable job by now. I have a new part time job, but it’s not enough to keep me afloat. Besides, that would have been too easy.

Part of my initial optimism was that society had begun to reopen and was anxious to hire. Yet even for lucrative entry level positions (not really an oxymoronic statement given the past year and a half), there are far more steps in between accepting an offer and getting on payroll.

The day after Memorial Day started off as normal: work, yoga, lunch. Then, with the optimism of someone still in control of her life, I dropped by the car dealership to get that check engine light looked at. My jaw dropped when the guy told me that I’d have to leave my car for at least 48 hours since there were about 40 cars ahead of mine. “I can’t do that!”

I didn’t exactly yell at him, but rather in surprise. I’d mistakenly thought I’d have to wait a few hours for them to diagnose what was wrong and then fix it. Of all the weeks that had just dragged by uneventfully, I actually had some shit to do in the next 48 hours.

I nervously drove to get groceries. The following morning, I went to a drugstore to take a drug test. At least that part of my dilemma had been figured out. My prospective employer had remedied a tech glitch, setting me on the next step. Later that evening, I drove to a networking happy hour.

Finally, on the third morning after seeing the check engine light, I dropped my car off. Prior to the pandemic, the car dealership ran its own shuttle service. For society 2.0, they found it more economical to hire a Lyft on behalf of their customers within 12-mile radius. I nearly fell back when I read the description of the car that would pick me up: Black Maserati Ghibli. Holy shit! I’ll take the hit for being “classist” when I say wholeheartedly, “Why is someone who drives a car like that, driving for Lyft?!”

The driver was as attractive as the car.

The driver was as attractive as the car. I told him that I’d had a challenging week, but his car was a bright spot in my otherwise shitty week.

Sure enough, I had my car back by the next afternoon. Wasn’t picked up in a fancy pants Lyft, but by the time my car was ready, I was in the middle of ploughing through all my on-boarding documents for my new full-time job. I was right, things had started picking up after riding in that Maserati.

I’m going to need a full time job to pay for all the repairs.

Before Biden even entered the room, this was the moment I most wanted to see.

For the first time in the history of the US, we have two women seated behind POTUS during his unofficial State of the Union address. Harris and Pelosi, the respective VP and Speaker of the House, masked because they both believe in science and taking care of their fellow human being.

Once Biden entered the room, the visual looked like a modern-day TV show or movie in terms of both skin tone and gender diversity.

If the sight of this trio sent any progressive’s heart aflutter, Biden’s speech brought it home.

If the sight of this trio sent any progressive’s heart aflutter, Biden’s speech brought it home. He wanted to improve infrastructure, healthcare, provide free community college and to pay for it all, make the rich, including corporations, pay their fair share of taxes. Biden emphasized that trickle down economics have been shown not to work.

Speaking of work, he wanted to invest more in women by closing the wage gap. During this shutdown, so many women have lost our jobs in order to take care of loved ones. As the economy reopens, we need to run the “new and improved” version of our economy and not the “back to normal” version.

Lord knows I’m rooting for his plan not only to work, but in a timely fashion. I’m about at the end of my economic rope as I send out a furry of job applications, sorting out the bullshit as I go along. It’s amazing that employers are complaining that they can’t find people to fill their positions. I got an idea: pay a living wage.

An emotional weight I didn’t realize existed, lifted on April 20th. Despite the date being infamous for marijuana, that had nothing to do with it. On this day, a Black man who was murdered on Memorial Day 2020, had finally received a just verdict. For once, a White man, a former cop at that, was held accountable for murdering a Black man whose life mattered.

George Floyd’s murder sparked international outrage and protest against police brutality. Yet the mainstream media didn’t report how the world protested Floyd’s death. In contrast, mainstream media always report how Super Bowl winners are “World Champions” although no other country participates in the competition. So, football is king except for when it kneels during the national anthem to protest police brutality.

I didn’t watch any of the trial. Nonetheless, it was impossible not to read or hear the highlights. TV clips and soundbites. Snippets in tweets. The thoroughness of the prosecutor reminded me of what my relatives have always told me: “You have to work twice as hard to get half as far.”

The standard is to prove someone is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The prosecutor had to do far more than that. He had to overcome centuries of conflicting racist dogma, starting with the big Black man trope where he’s a subhuman beast with superhuman strength to justify, using excessive force. Yet when the big Black man is murdered, which disproves the superhuman strength racist theory, then they use the big Black man’s pre-existing conditions and bad habits for not being able to endure excessive force; therefore, the big Black man’s responsible for his own death.

Scatologists identify animals by their shit. I do the same thing with racism. The dominant narrative has recycled the same racist shit for centuries. The defense attorney didn’t stray from the old playbook. Emphasized how a big Black man posed a threat that only excessive force could neutralize, then focused on how the big Black man’s past drug habit, health status, the crowd, the vehicle exhaust and the fact that he had enough breath to still speak when he stated he couldn’t breathe and called for his mother. Did all he could to convince the jury not to believe their own eyes: a handcuffed man, lying on his stomach on the pavement while a cop knelt on his neck for nearly 10 minutes.

Even one of the defense experts fumbled. He suggested that under the conditions, Floyd should have “rested comfortably.” The prosecutor went pie eyed. I wasn’t surprised though. Unfortunately, there are doctors who believe that Black people don’t experience pain like White people do. So, why shouldn’t this so-called use of force expert?

And yet, for once, none of that racist shit worked. At the end of the day, the jurors unanimously believed that the former cop’s actions led to Floyd’s death.

Very few times do things make me cry, especially tears of joy. That verdict did it. On that day, I celebrated. Just for one luxurious moment. Of course, much more will have to be done to eliminate systemic racism and hate crimes against Blacks. After all, the most dangerous place for a Black person to be is still in the mind of a racist.