Enlarging the conversation with the first full moon of the decade:
My Sister’s Table, Thanksgiving 2019.
My Sister’s Table is a string of words that has accompanied me, tucked in my pocket as a reminder, a personal touchstone, of the capacity I find in women to hold the larger conversation, beyond the illusion of “sides.”
It arose out of a tender, painful conversation that took place between my sister and me, well over a dozen years ago, just after the re-election of Bush. That November, instead of heading across the border from Vermont into Canada, I headed south into the belly of the beast, the very state accused of rigging the election against Gore (he, who would have prioritized stewardship of the planet upon which we all rely.)
I arrived in Tampa during the Wal-Mart Superstore explosion which seemed to run right alongside the mainstreaming of Evangelicalism. In this alternative reality, men were still head of the household, and…
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